Air. Windows. Big.
I don't know how to describe it.
This room in the Fontenoy was on the eighth floor, faced straight at the smog-hidden buildings of downtown, had one big room, an open kitchen, and a bathroom.
"Everyone in the building has a dog."
"Right. You mentioned that."
"Just as so you know we're dog friendly. Not many buildings in Hollywood are as dog friendly as this building."
"I don't need a dog."
"You gonna stay up here all alone? You need to get you a dog. Or is you one of them playgirls have a new man up in yo' shit every night?"
I pull down my jeans a little bit. The pink-and-white pattern peeks out.
"See these? These are granny panties."
"Oh you got an incontinence problem, too? Don't worry about it, girl—get your freak on. This a freaky town. There somebody for everybody. You like girls or boys?"
"Not really..either. But I fuck guys."
"Why you fuck 'em if you don't like 'em? Mix your own pot, honey! So you gonna become my neighbor?"
He tells me the cost of the apartment. It's three times what I paid for a room in Portland.
"But the view is amazing," he says.
I scratch his dog behind the ears.
"What's your name?"
"Mike. But people call me Big Mike. What's your name?"
"Lauren."
"Lauren, you wanna see our pool? We got a pool."
"No, I don't think so."
"Awww.." says Mike.
And I'm leaning against the windows. Those windows. And it strikes me, I've got $970,000 in the bank. I can fuck this up for a year and still be more than ok.
I turn around and look at the man.
"I see your eyes," he says. "I knew you would like our little castle. Let's go to the office and get you an application."
And walking up the stairs to my apartment—instead of taking the elevator—I saw the peeling paint of the Fontenoy as the refractions of a crystal chandelier, even though there was none. I saw every new resident with their dog or dogs as royalty getting ready for a promenade stroll on the decks of their yachts and beachside hotels—even though we were nowhere near the beach. I wasn't sure if I was a princess or a queen. Maybe somewhere in between, as every woman is to be for life.
When I unlocked my new door for the first time without anyone watching me, I was more like the latter: maven of my castle, I had lucked into probably one of the best views of LA in the city. I stripped naked, stood against the window, then laid on the carpet and masturbated.
Then I went to the bath. And I planned my attack.
I tried to write a script.
I soon discovered this was impossible for me.
One-hundred and twenty pages of slush was possible for me; that same amount of structured, sensible, audience-pleasing joy was not. I needed help.
And I remembered something my dad said to me when I was a little girl—that fucking bastard. It was one of those pieces of advice like always use tools for the purpose for which they were intended or before bedtime isn't the time to work out hard problems and this piece of advice was simply ask for help when you need it.
So I decided to ask for help.
I posted online.
I interviewed at the Border's coffeehouse.
It was mostly homeless people and students looking for a place to sit and free WiFi.
But I set up motherfucking shop. Found a table and set out a sign that said, "LTP Productions." I didn't care how dorky it looked. I needed help and I was gonna get it.
The first guy corrected my sign.
"You can't have that. Two Ps. P..Productions. It doesn't work."
"Thank you," I said.
"You're welcome," this kid said.
"No you don't understand. The interview is over."
"I'm just trying to help out, man. If you don't want to listen—"
"Thank you."
The next applicant asked what "LTP" stood for.
"It stands for Lauren Teacup Pritchett."
"Is that supposed to be your name or something?"
"It is my name."
"You should change it. This is Hollywood. Everyone changes their name."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"No: thank you. The interview is over."
Would you believe it was only the third person who sat at my table who turned out to be my future assistant, friend, advisor, helper, kin?
A woman half my age in a knitted pants suit sits down with a tall mug.
"Did you knit that suit?"
"Yes."
"It's nice."
We look each other over.
"Is there alcohol in that mug?"
"It's a bottle of wine. Is the interview over?"
"No. What's your name?"
"Kristi."
"Why do you want this job, Kristi?"
"I need the money."
"What do you understand the job entails?"
"Uh..I don't know. I skimmed the post. Is that bad?"
"This job entails 24-hour ideation and mental support. I need to be able to bounce ideas off you at three in the morning, if necessary. And, yes, there will be coffee runs. Many, many coffee runs."
"Do I have to do your laundry?"
"God, no."
"That's pretty standard for assistant jobs out here."
"Barbarism."
"Everyone has to get ahead."
"Well I do my own fucking laundry, thank you. I don't prefer to subject people to my bodily fluids. Want to hear a rape joke?"
"Uh..sure."
Kristi takes a swig off her wine.
I lean back in my chair.
"A man walks up to a woman in a bar and says, 'You're going to get laid tonight.' Surprised, the woman asks, 'Really? How do you know? Are you psychic?' The man says, 'No, I'm just stronger than you.' "