still happen.
“Want me to get some pick-up shots while we wait?”
“Sure, grab some generic shots of planes coming in and taking off while I wait for the girls to arrive.”
The day was finally here: Little old Jane was directing her first big LA shoot with America’s hottest rap star. I felt important, but not the “I’m a pain in the ass” important, just the “I’m doing it, I can handle it, it’s all good” important. As I drifted into my dreamscape of funky new producer with gorgeous, totally loaded boyfriend, I heard my name being paged: “Jane Kaufman to Reception.”
I ran to the front desk, where an older woman with bouffant hair was waiting impatiently. “Jane Kaufman?”
I nodded.
“MC Toke’s plane is landing in 10 minutes,” she said painfully.
“Thank you,” I said, my heart rate jumping. “The limo’s here. Got to run.”
“Oh, Miss?”
But it was too late. Couldn’t keep Lucy waiting. I was already out the door to meet the girls. Seemed my cool and collected persona went out the door with me. My hands began to shake as I self-consciously sucked in my stomach in preparation for America’s sexiest T&A thoroughbreds. I put on my freshest smile and hurried toward the limo, curious to meet Lucy’s team of fem-bot-babes.
The limo driver, decorously exiting the vehicle, placed his hand on the door handle, white gloves firmly in place.
“This is so exciting,” I whispered to him as a shiver ran through my body. “Word of the day—exciting,” I nattered on, seemingly to myself.
“Indeed,” he nodded, remaining stoic.
Lucy slinked out first in signature stilettos, a pink bustier, and ultra low-rise jeans. I was tempted to brush my hand against her rump just to make sure it wasn’t actually paint. Two additional and equally risqué women exited the limo as I held my hand out to shake for a formal hello, then quickly retreated.
No stuffy old-man handshakes here, I thought proudly. I do proper air-kisses! I leaned in to Lucy’s freshly powdered cheek.
“This tin-can is a piece of shit,” Lucy squealed.
“Pardon me?”
“We can’t ride in this limo. We’re models! And I’m the host!” Her arms flailed, Triple-D knockers not budging an inch. “It’s embarrassing. And MC Toke won’t go near it. Are you kidding? He’s a star!”
“Okay, well, um. . . nice to meet you, girls. I’m Jane,” I said politely, hoping to calm them with kindness.
Lucy launched right back into her rant. “Look, Ms. Producer, we need a proper limo. Like now!”
“But I don’t understand,” I said, the sweat starting to bead on my forehead.
“What’s wrong with this one?”
“First, it’s white. You see? Shit-box white. What are we, the construction crew?”
“Yeah,” said the other two models, nodding in unison and cocking their heads sideways.
I turned to the limo. “Sort of retro cool, don’t you think?” I said, afraid they might smother me in a triple D sandwich.
“No, not cool,” she continued. “And, it’s a piece of shit. It sputters uphill.”
Just then an airport security guard tapped me on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Miss. You can’t set up your cameras here.”
“What?! You must be mistaken.”
“This is a private airstrip. You need a permit.”
“But. . . I. . . Wait. I, I, I have a permit. See, right here,” I stuttered, completely flustered. This isn’t happening. I’m always so organized!
Before I could think, my cameraman hurried to my side with his camera/tripod ensemble in tow. “Should I shoot this? Is this part of the story?”
“Jane!” Lucy growled. “What are you going to do about the limo?”
“Eight hundred an hour,” said the security guard, joining the chorus. “Your permit allows you on the airport common grounds. You need another permit to be on this private strip. It’s what the studios pay.”
It was all too much! As if swallowing a marshmallow whole, I felt my throat tighten to pea-size, and my face flush, glowing like a beacon. Then, the lump. The dreaded lump, threatening a wash of tears.
“One more thing,” the guard grumbled to our motley bunch, “you here for MC Toke?”
I nodded pathetically.
“He’s landing now.” He pointed to the sky.
Lord, please hit us with the big one right now. Or a flash flood of Biblical proportions. Something. Anything! Please! I even prayed that I’d been “punked.” Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry, I begged my body, but the thrust toward full-blown blubbering seemed out of my control.
Then, suddenly, as if coming from the clouds, the Love Boat theme rang in the distance, superceding the sound of jet engines. That’s it. I’ve totally lost it!
My cameraman snapped