I stripped out of my pajamas into a pair of old-school Sevens, slipped on a pair of Aldo slouch boots with a sensible heel for walking, and a tulip-sleeved t-shirt I’d picked up during my location scout with Toni—she insisted they were all the rage—and made my way up to the promenade, where I’d begun my day. Now I was in search of a fresh LA fusion salad—yes, “salad, extra dressing please!”—and a fresh outlook.
Never mind that I owed about six grand on my Visa, a mere five hundred shy of maxing out, and had over 30 G’s in outstanding student loans. I rightly declared that tonight would be my night. Whatever I wanted. Thirty-dollar salad nicoise? Go for it. Eighteen dollar mango cheesecake from the Viceroy? All mine. A bottle of Duckhorn Vineyard’s 2006 Merlot to smuggle back into my room? Charge it. I suddenly felt carefree.
“Ouch.” I pinched my side. “That hurts.”
As thrilled as I was about my food prospects and my exciting first week in Los Angeles, something wasn’t sitting right. None of the girls answering their phone was the first bit of strangeness, but I tried not to think about that. There was also the fact that the company would only cover my hotel expenses until Sunday, giving me a mere two days, over the weekend, to find and lease an apartment. Never mind that I’d become fully accustomed to the hotel’s crisp linens, the spectacular view, and having a world class Belgian chocolate waiting for me on my pillow every night—amazing how quickly one settles into luxury.
“Hey, Canada!”
I looked around for the voice. Who the hell else is calling me Canada? He sounded vaguely familiar.
“How was your first shoot?”
“Well hello,” I said, picking out my homeless buddy on a park bench beachside of Ocean Avenue, sitting gleefully across from a strip of glam hotels and restaurants.
“It was interesting,” I replied.
“Interesting good or interesting bad?” He adjusted the volume on his ghetto blaster, circa 1982.
“Always good,” I laughed. Something about this guy made me smile.
“Rock on,” he said, smiling warmly. “And hey, watch out for those Hollywood vultures—they eat nice folk for breakfast!”
“I’m tougher than I look,” I said, forcing some bravado. “See?” I flexed my bicep á la Arnold.
“Go, girl!” He winked as he cranked up the volume on his radio, blasting Steppenwolf. “See you around.”
I waved happily and crossed the street. At least I had one good friend in the city.
My next sighting was of beautiful people, by the dozens, who popped in and out of Mercedes sedans and BMW convertibles driven away by valets. I thought I could be one of them, flashing the keys for some fancy German car. Jeez, if both Toni and Rose could own such cars on assistant salaries, why not me? It was finally stamped on my brain: not only did I live in the mecca of all things TV, but I was an actual TV producer with a staff (albeit a small one) and a regular paycheck. For real!
I checked my phone to see if I’d missed a return call or still had it on vibrate. Nope, no calls. Needing to check my phone every minute or so was further proof I was an industry mogul, or so I told myself.
The sky was turning a brilliant psychedelic pink, making the sidewalks glow orange. Faces, each blessed with their very own heaven-made spotlight, took on a golden hue. The street reminded me of a scene from Some Like it Hot, with the retro hotels sitting sweetly on the boulevard and the ocean twinkling out to the horizon. Palm trees shuffled their fronds as the scent of salt air swept me away into full surreal mode. I imagined meeting my very own Mr. Hollywood.
“Hey, babe!” the Clark Gable type would call. “You, me, dinner, and candlelight.”
“Fiddle dee dee, naturally,” I would reply with eyelashes fluttering.
Then I would co-star in his next movie, we would turn up at the Oscars, with me in Valentino and he in Prada, and I would enjoy a cushy ride to the top—driver, personal assistant, et al. Stranger things have happened.
These thoughts, miles away from my day, made me giggle and I nearly began to skip when I noticed a sign jutting out from the corner of a building. Its sharp metal edges caught the slivers of light from the street lamp and made it glisten. It read: Rebecca’s.
I stopped. The street went silent. I thought about the lounge Lucy had mentioned earlier in the