Craig’s List was like the thrift store of life. You could find almost anything there—furniture, concert tickets, sex—and all at considerably lower costs. I even saw an ad for free decomposed granite once. It was the world’s hand-me-downs, pitched as absolute must-haves with clever advertisement lingo. One man’s trash, another gardener’s luxury. The caliber of merchandise was questionable, of course, but if you rummaged long enough and hard enough through the crap, you could eventually score a diamond; persistence being key to successful shopping. Also, like a second hand shop, you didn’t necessarily want to broadcast the fact you were shopping there until you found some fancy Gucci handbag for ten bucks, which made everyone gawk in envy. That’s when you slyly mentioned it. Because you weren’t cool if you had to shop at the thrift shop, but you were if you chose to. Same thing with Craig’s List.
When I moved to Los Angeles, Craig’s List became the ultimate resource for my every want and need. I found my apartment there and my neurotic roommate; bought all my furniture there; I even joined a hiking group off the site, which ended up being a bunch of 40-year old accountants, but regardless, I needed a friend. Then, at last, I began the odyssey of searching for employment. I had to find a job, and not just any job, but paid work. Somewhat of a novelty in Hollywood, Land O’ Internships. The nuts and bolts of this city were oiled by a crew of actors/writers/one-of-these-days types, who whored their identities out to anyone willing to throw a quarter in their cups. And I was about to join these prostitutes in the ring.
I wanted to find a position working as a writer or video editor, preferably in a freelance situation, so I began sending my resume out to fifteen or so Craig’s List postings a day, and would hear back maybe from two of them, either by phone or email. I knew it was going to be hit or miss, and that I should be profusely skeptical about all who contacted me, but after constant miss after miss, desperation won out over skepticism. The need to eat was greater than the desire to feel good about yourself, so you had to take a few risks. Or at least, I did.
One day, I received a call about an assistant editor’s position on a reality television series. It would be deferred pay, not surprisingly, but it would also be a chance to work on a documentary-style show featuring “multi-platinum recording artists,” according to the guy on the phone. I thought it was at least worth looking into; if nothing else, maybe I would meet someone famous. When you first came to L.A., this was imperative because every time you called home, someone would ask you about it like it was a sign you were moving up in the world. If the only celebrity you’d run into was Bob Sagat, you were the family flop.
I spoke to a guy named Sean on the phone, and we arranged for a day and time when I would come by his office to interview and take a look at his project. He’d said very little about it so far, other than the fact that he had hours of footage and was looking for fresh eyes and well-tuned skills to assist him along the way. He had a substantial amount of work left, but assured me there was network potential waiting in the wings.
On the morning I was supposed to go, Sean emailed me directions to the studio, which happened to be located in Inglewood. Granted, Inglewood wasn’t known for its preeminent real estate, but production houses usually were placed wherever there was a considerable amount of open space and room to grow. So, fine. He told me I would be meeting with him and his partners, and that I should bring my resume and dress formally.
”Just in case one of our clients are in,” he noted.
I was impressed at his level of professionalism, and wondered what “client” might be around when I arrived. I envisioned big security gates at the entrance; I would be driving in one side and George Clooney would be exiting the other in a red convertible. I’d pull past the guards and nearly run over Mick Jagger, crossing the way with a joint in his right hand and a cup of java in his left.
“Sorry Mick!” I’d yell out my window. “Late for a meeting!”
He’d be startled no less, but not necessarily mad because he was stoned. I’d simply wave it off and continue onward to the guest lot.
My nerves were racing.
To prepare, I showered, put on a new black skirt, blazer, and fancy leather belt, and traded my usual flats for heels. I rarely wear makeup, but opted to line and shadow my eyes, even adding a little peach blush to my tan cheeks. This could be my one shot; my one moment in time, as Whitney Houston said. I didn’t want to blow it with slapdash attire. I left my apartment with enough time to arrive 10-15 minutes early; I’d rather wait on them, than have them wait on me.
After a nearly 45 minute trek from my apartment in Hollywood to the studio in Inglewood, I approached what I presumed was the place. Sean had mentioned there would be a green Jaguar parked out front, which was reassuring since important people drove Jaguars. And he was correct; upon arriving, I noticed the car immediately. In fact, the Jaguar stuck out like a supermodel at the library. It was parked in front of a shoddy cement house with two layers of bars over the windows and doors. There was no parking lot, only meters in the street, and the building was sandwiched between a car wash and a dilapidated lending agency that announced “No Credit Check!” on a scrolling marquee over its door.
No sign of Clooney just yet.
I went to the door and knocked, and a young guy wearing an oversized t-shirt reading “#1 Pimp,” answered. He opened the front door, but kept the screen door closed between us, just in case. He wore glasses, tattered jeans, and his hair looked like it hadn’t been washed, let alone combed, in weeks.
“You here for Sean?” He asked.
I nodded, and he unlocked the gated screen and led me inside. Immediately, I stepped into what appeared to be a makeshift recording studio, where a young woman in a pink sundress stood around a microphone wearing oversized earphones, and warming up her voice. The room was dark; the microphone dangled limply from the ceiling like a deflated erection, and a few cardboard boxes were pressed against the wall.
“He’s in here,” #1 Pimp said, pointing his finger down a dim hallway.
He brought me into another room, equally dark, where MTV played on a dated television in the corner. There was a new Mac laptop sitting on a table in the center of the room with many cords coming out of it, and some form of a recording booth cased in glass against another wall. It contained a small mixer, which was apparently connected to the microphone in the other room. The only thing missing was a boom box for playback.
A short, pasty guy at the computer stood up to greet me. He wore an art smock, unbuttoned to reveal a plethora of chest hair so long that it could’ve been trimmed with scissors.
“Hi, I’m Sean,” he said, smiling pleasantly. He must have been just a few years older than me, though his full beard aged him about ten more. He was skinny, smelled like he’d come out of one of those shops that sold incense and fairy dust, and pointed me to the computer where he’d been working. Another guy in a wife-beater, who resembled Lawrence Fishburne circa Apocalypse Now, sat on a ratty, brown couch watching television with his kid; the kid was probably around eight and played with a handheld video game. I looked at them and offered a hello, but was ignored.
“So this is the project,” Sean explained, sitting down at his desk.
He began to scroll through a sequence in his editing program, divulging clips featuring various rappers such as T.I., Young Joc, Young Dro, and Kanye West. The project was apparently a reality-style show looking at the personal lives of hip hop artists. The clips had been shot in various cities, containing interviews as well as backstage footage, and bits filmed at music video sets. I must admit, I was impressed with the quality of talent, and curious as to how Sean, #1 Pimp, and Lawrence Fishburne had access to them.
“How do you know all these people?” I asked.
“Scully over there, he’s an artist; he knows them,” Sean said, pointing to #1 Pimp, evidently Scully, who nodded at me with a faint smile, as if he were Diddy himself.
“Oh really,” I said to Scully. “You know Kanye?”
“Of course I know Kanye, I know all of them,” he said, “They’re my friends.”
It was remarkable how many friends everyone had in Hollywood. You’d meet someone, shake their hand, and the next time their name was mentioned, you were talking about them like you’d been in the sandbox together. Incidentally, very few of your friends remembered your name, if they even recognized you. I had a better relationship with my drycleaner.
So I remained aporetic.
“I see,” I said, turning back to Sean who sat confidently gazing at his project. “So, what exactly would you like me to do?”
“Well, I’m looking for someone to log all the video on the computer for me, and then maybe help with some of the basic sequences,” he said. “Is this something you’d be interested in?”
Before I could answer, the chanteuse in the other room began to sing, and Scully quickly moved into the glass box to record her ballad. She was pitchy and weak, like Ciara but worse. Sean held his finger to his lips, motioning that I should be quiet. Meanwhile, Lawrence Fishburne lit up a bowl, and began breathing puffs of thick marijuana smoke into the room. This must not have been unusual since his kid didn’t even notice, but I actually started running short of breath. The room was basically a bakeshop with no ventilation. Due to my congestion, they had to do a few takes of the recording.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Sean replied, though I sensed great frustration in the room from everyone else.
When the girl finished her strained melody, Scully came out of the box, sparked some incense, and joined Lawrence on the couch, taking several drags off the pipe then passing it to Sean.
“Let me show you a few more things,” Sean said through ganja exhaust; he referred back to his computer and gave the bowl to Scully without even offering me a hit. I mean, c’mon.
As Sean scrolled through more scenes on his laptop, Scully went to a mini-fridge and began popping open bottles of Heineken then handing them out to everyone in the group, except the kid. This time I was offered a bottle as well, however I chose to decline as that would appear unprofessional, for what it was worth.
“Thanks though,” I said. “Another time.”
I wondered exactly what “clients” Sean had been alluding to earlier for whom my blazer would have been a requisite. I looked more like a rep for child services at this place.
Once the demonstration was complete, I told Sean I’d think about it then quickly wrapped the interview; I said my meter was about to expire.
”Oh shit,” he said. “Right on.”
And that was that.
Again, I turned to Craig’s List for guidance, ideas, and general amusement. Only a few weeks later, I had another interview. This go around, I met with Tom, a journalist, who was looking for a young writer to aid him on both film and print-related projects, which he currently had in the works. He’d written for several major publications as well as for KTLA, a local news station, and also for syndicated programs like Dateline. I felt like this might be my great find. The one everyone would ask me about and I’d brush off ever-so casually, “Oh, you know, just saw it on Craig’s List.”
My Gucci handbag.
Tom and I planned to meet for lunch one day at a sushi restaurant near my apartment. He told me to ask for table 46, or to just say I was with him and they’d know what that meant. A man with pull, I thought to myself. Hot. He also asked me to save him the seat facing the restaurant, which I took as a hint he’d be calling the shots with the waiters. In L.A., this was a sign of stature and respect, especially at a sushi restaurant.
When I arrived to the place, Tom was already there and the dining hall was almost completely empty. It wasn’t fine Japanese cuisine either; rather, it was a Korean restaurant that also served Japanese and Thai foods, all on one giant buffet. It was like eating at an Italian restaurant that offered crepes and pâella. The room was decorated with cheesy Japanese lanterns and had the feel of an oriental diner from the ‘70s. Tom was obese, taking up practically all his side of the booth, and wore glasses so thick I felt like I was looking into magnifying glasses the entire meal.
“Welcome,” he said to me, struggling to lift himself up to shake my hand. He patted the glistening sweat along his hairline with a hankie, and, as he lifted his arm, I noticed additional perspiration patches beneath the pits of his XXXL polo.
We placed our order, and instantly he began to quiz me on my back story, asking me about all the details of my life. It was his personal interview technique, he explained, which set him apart from other journalists, and it was something I could learn from.
“Tell me about yourself, five minutes before you made the decision to come to Los Angeles,” he said.
”Okay,” I replied. “Do you mean when I made my official—”
“Five minutes before,” he said, sipping on a large glass of Dr. Pepper.
“But the thing is, I’ve wanted to come to L.A. my entire life.”
He signed, turning his head down to the chipped parquet floor. “Courtney, I want to know who you were five minutes before you decided to move to Los Angeles,” he repeated. “That’s all.”
What I was trying to explain to him was that I’d made the decision to come out here when I was five years old. It evidently wasn’t the correct answer.
I continued. “Well, first, I received a call—”
“A call from who?” Tom interjected.
“From a company who—”
“What company? Be specific.”
If Tom had actually worked for Dateline, then he must have been a gopher. Barbara Walters never acted like such a jackass, not even when she went to The View.
“I’m about to get to that,” I said, briefly catching a glimpse of my frustrated face in the wall to the left of me, which was covered in mirrors.
He smiled, and ran his fingers through his thinning gray hair. “I’m sorry, I’m just trying to make sure I understand the entire situation.”
Truly a feat, as I had yet to complete a sentence. We moved forward with the discussion, delving into who I was five minutes before I graduated college, five minutes before I graduated high school, and five minutes before I was potty trained. He explained that he wanted to see how I “viewed” life, what details stuck out that would tell him whether or not we’d be a good match.
“Interviewing is all about what you can pick up upon a person by their behavior, what they say, what they’re not saying,” Tom explained. “For example, I suffer from post-traumatic stress. I have to know what’s going on around me at all times or I can’t handle it. You’ll see sometimes, I just get really nervous, really antsy, that’s why I have to sit in this corner so I can see what’s going on in the restaurant at all times.”
Oh, okay. So not a heavyweight after all, just heavy and paranoid. Tom thought he was being stalked by people who were going to stab him with chopsticks from the buffet spread the second he turned his back. I began to notice that his eyes constantly narrowed in on different places around the room, like he was inspecting people for unusual behavior. It was really just the waiters he had to watch out for however, and they would have poisoned his food anyhow. But no worries there; he ate without hesitation.
“What’s your schedule like,” he asked, though at this point I knew there was not a chance in hell this was going to happen. “I work mostly from home.”
“Well, at the moment, I’m pretty open to whatever,” I said.
“Excellent. I’m trying to find ways to get out of the house,” Tom said. “My wife’s a little nuts.”
As anyone would have to be to marry him. Two hundred dollars said Tom’s wife was saying the same thing about him to her lunch date.
“I don’t know what’s happened to her,” he went on. “She gets mad when I’m not productive, she’s always on my case…” He shook his head disdainfully, then started scratching his hair like a dog with a tick. “I try to explain about my projects and she just gets more mad and walks out…”
“That sucks,” I said; it appeared the interview had shifted to a counseling session.
”Yeah…” He drifted off.
There was an awkward silence as he dug a fork into his chicken teriyaki bowl, which he’d ordered “burnt, with absolutely no vegetables,” the only component with any sort of nutritional value whatsoever. What Jane Fonda was for fitness, Tom was for heart attacks. He chewed for a minute then turned his eyes to a table of men in business suits and ties behind us.
“So much goes on here, you know,” he said
”Here, like L.A.?” I asked.
”No here, like Amagi,” he clarified. “Like I wonder what those men are talking about over there?”
I turned back to the guys—the only other people at the restaurant—who were all middle-aged, balding and washing eggrolls down with beer. My guess was stocks.
“You just can never tell what’s the real story,” he added, wiping his soy-glazed lips with a napkin. “That’s the gift I have.”
If only we all were so fortunate.
He finished up his meal and paid the bill. I would have offered, but really, I should have been charging $50 an hour so he was getting a bargain. My gift, I deduced, was psycho-analytics.
L.A. was a disturbing place because you often encountered people like Tom who’d been trying and trying and trying, yet still had accomplished nothing. Few paths in the City of Angels were a guaranteed success, so it was not uncommon to find such souls, long past their youth, who still didn’t get it. A dream rarely died, after all; only the ones who were able to see the reality in it had a chance.
As I watched Tom snag all the dinner mints from the bill sleeve for himself, I wondered if this was going to be me one day. Overweight, eating at cheap, faux-Asian restaurants, and venting to some young college grad I’d met off the internet about how my husband actually wanted me to do something with my life. Indeed, all else had failed. Tom was the face of defeat, of long, lost hope, of one too many burnt chicken teriyaki bowls. And then there was Sean too—my friend—the face of impending failure, skewed sensibility, and one too many bowls. His fate was likely the same.
Back to the drawing board….
