Just Another California Girl, Episode 22

7/30/2019 Just Another California Girl, Episode 22

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The night ended, and everyone in our party survived.



I realize this is the sort of thing that sounds like something

uttered by Sir Edmund Hillary, but you can attribute this quote

to me.

The following morning began like any other at Vanessa‟s –

or, depending on whom you believe, Angela‟s home. When I awoke,

the house was quiet. Vanessa and Alana had already left for

wherever it is they wound up each day until four o‟clock.

Chasfiend82, or John, was up and sitting in the kitchen tapping

away at his cell phone.

“Morning, friend.”

“Hi, John. Fun night last night, wasn‟t it?” I headed over

to the coffee pot where Alana had left a perfectly timed fresh

brew for me and our new guest. “Thought she‟d put you up in a

hotel.”

“Nope. Vanessa said to stay here wherever I felt like

however long I felt like.”

“Where, pray tell, did you sleep?”

“I didn‟t. I‟ve been so excited posting updates about last

night that I haven‟t had a wink.”

“Coffee?”



“Maybe in a minute.” John raised a hand to me as if to

shush me and went back to intently focusing on his cell phone

screen.

That‟s when I noticed a note left for me by the

coffeemaker. This one was written in Alana‟s handwriting.

MAX – DATE W/ME 2 NITE. SURPRISE. PICK U UP AT 3:30

PROMTLY. MY TREAT –A.G.

I decided to work at Vanessa‟s that day. If I left and went

to the library, there is no telling what John McCormack would

get into. Sure enough around 3:30pm, Vanessa and Alana returned.

Alana raced inside, calling to me.

“Hurry – put on a solid color shirt and no jeans or

open-toed shoes. We have a tv shoot to get to.”

A what?

Fast forward to me and Alana racing up the freeway. I

felt like I was being kidnapped. Alana wouldn‟t dish what TV

shoot we were headed to, and I couldn‟t understand how I could

possibly appear on a TV show on such short notice.

Alana swore to me that I would find out all the

details soon enough, but wanted it all to be a wonderful



surprise. We eventually pulled into CBS Studios. That‟s what the

sign read as Alana pulled into the parking garage.

“Get ready to be wowed. And get ready to do some

wowing, too. I‟m going to teach you all you need to know to be a

professional audience member tonight.” She hooked her arm in

mine and began skipping over to a security guard. We waltzed

past a long line of people. Many of them dressed in the same

solid prints Alana had forced me to dress in.

Alana handed the guard an email print out. He made a quick,

formal perusal of her purse and made her walk through a scanner.

Then it was my turn. As I cleared the machine, he called to a

girl who had a walkie-talkie at her waist.

The girl called someone with the walkie-talkie and then

pointed Alana to an elevator. We bypassed the line, to the

astonishment of some line-goers who went „oh‟ and „hey!‟

The next thing I know, I am sitting in an elaborate modern

mirrored, glassed, set in a freezing cold studio on a plastic

bottomed chair. I am in the front row next to Alana and woman

who was getting her hair and makeup fixed up.

Other people, I believe the line-goers, soon filed in

and were escorted to various plastic chairs behind and around

us. The woman getting her hair and makeup fixed up noticed Alana

and gave her a wave and a big smile.



The next thing I remember, under dazzling lights came

the woman‟s voice, “Welcome. To Big Brother!”

Alana caught a camera with a big, broad super-smile and

applauded. I copied her, facing the camera. Then, we were

instructed by a production crewmember to turn our gaze on Julie

Chen. I followed Alana‟s lead, keeping the smile pasted on and

hoping like hell that I didn‟t look too ridiculous. I felt

ridiculous.

Later, in between a commercial break of this live

broadcast, Alana told me I was doing great. I was destined to

succeed in her professional-audience-member footsteps. Being a

professional audience member, she told me, was her great escape

from her stressful, but somewhat boring and sedentary Los

Angeles life. In addition to this, she happened to have a

natural fondness for being in front of a camera.

The next day, I discovered that I was alone in the house.

Chasfiend82 had been given the privilege of going for breakfast

with Alana and Vanessa. I stared at the screen for what seemed

like twenty minutes. It turned out to be over an hour before I

typed in one teeny little letter. I was writing in a vacuum, and

I was in trouble.

The looming deadline had something to do with it. So did

being abandoned by my friends. Or, were they? I was a glorified



houseguest. Ernest had the right idea wanting me to get back

home as soon as possible.

I was still flipping back and forth through Vanessa‟s

diaries for material, but it just wasn‟t inspiring me to keep up

with what I –months earlier- would have thought of as a dream

job.

The problem was Vanessa‟s diaries dropped off after she met

Chas Childs. They became spotty and filled with fluff like

enjoying a rib dinner or a funny episode of her sister‟s show:

“Paul Lynde guest starred – a hooOOoot!”

It was enough to make me decide right then and there to

become an alcoholic. Seriously. Why not? What did I have to

lose?

I took a walk. After traversing about two blocks, I found

myself in a completely different neighborhood. One with traffic,

and cement block apartment buildings lining the street. Gone

were the charming million dollar cottages with postage stamp

yards and seasonal decorations meant to outdo each other.

A sign with an arrow pointed me into a liquor store. I

stood alone in between an aisle of potato chips, pretzels and

air fresheners and a refrigerator case filled with single



servings of all kinds of beer I had yet to aquaint on my

newfound mission in life.

“Need some help?” the guy behind the cash register wanted

to know.

“I‟ve decided I am going to drink myself to death.

Recommendations?”

The guy lifted a hatch in the counter he stood behind, came

over to me and looked at the case of beer and chilled wine.

After a moment, he opened the door and pulled out a large can of

beer.

“This one has clam and tomato juice in it. Good for

hangovers.”

“Haven‟t got one, yet. Maybe, I‟ll just settle for a Pepsi

and a can of Pringles.”

“You bet.”

I failed to become a raging alcoholic at that particular

turn. It just seemed that life in California was, for me,

difficult to get the hang of. There seemed to be no defining

moments in my daily schedule to keep me oriented. The sun came

up, the sun went down.

Writing was partially to blame for my lack of structure.

When you write, you have to be your own boss. That‟s what makes



it tricky. You find it easier to sharpen pencils that don‟t need

sharpening, you want to figure out why the mailman doesn‟t come

the same time every day, and a show like “The Chew” suddenly

fascinates- that sort of thing. I was no stranger to writer‟s

block, but this time around I wasn‟t cramming my sessions in

after a shift at the gallery. A shift that, honestly, kind of

bored me. I dreamt of bigger and better things and my published

work was to be the ticket.

Now that my ticket had been issued, I discovered the pain

of not having to get up at any specific hour to get to any

particular place. No one around me had a set schedule either. It

was terribly confusing. Something about all this freedom was

screwing with my circadian rhythm.

I didn‟t know how people like Vanessa lived with it. They

didn‟t have a nine to five or ten to six shift to worry about,

and never did. I believed I understood why Alana felt so harried

all the time.

She was a twenty-seven year old childless, unmarried

housewife of sorts - a built-in personal assistant to her aunt.

She drank often and I think was the inspiration for my sudden

impulse. She drank every time we went out in fact. I couldn‟t

blame her. I was beginning to understand.



The people in this California world didn‟t mind that all

those open hours during the day could spell disaster to those of

us who were challenged in the area of self-discipline. I began

to think I really needed to follow Ernest‟s advice and get back

to New York. New York - you know, where all the normal people

live? Ha.

If people kept leaving me alone to write, I feared I really

was going to lose it. On that particular day, I think I managed

to write one sentence:

“The competition between Vanessa and her sister, Angela,

was fierce.”

Wonderful. It‟s sometimes awful when your dreams come true.

Then what?







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Just Another California Girl, Episode 22