Chapter 19/Page 3

Sometimes, the most meaningless things...

The first couple weeks after the holidays went by in a blur, as they always do in the film industry. If I stayed away from my job for too long, it took me a while to remember what I did for a living. The information just didn’t take in a real permanent way. That’s a good thing.

Sometime in late January New Girl reappeared at the executive reception desk.

“Hey! What are you doing here?” I asked, actually a little excited to see her. “I thought you quit.”

“No,” she said. “I was just real sick. They were nice enough to take me back when I got back into town.” Turns out she had some kind of virus and went back to her parents’ house in Florida to recuperate.

Very well. New Girl and I picked up our catty friendship pretty much where we left off. She had more questions about my separation. Really, more than a few girls in the company wanted all the gory details to compare against their own failed love lives.

Cannon’s then new building sported a full scale editing facility, complete with mixing stages and theaters. The company employed several film projectionists to man the screens. New Girl started dating one of the company Projectionists. They made an attractive couple, those two. He was a great guy and she was a great girl.

As winter neared its end, I really did do some soul searching. I got more than a little concerned about my alcohol intake, so I decided to take a break, just to see if I could. I still didn’t feel like an addict, but I’d never put it to the test. It was time. Not going out with the gang after work gave me a helping hand to get started. Spending late nights at the gym instead of in bars took care of the nights. But I knew I couldn’t avoid life. I had to put myself in a tempting situation. A Girl I Hated, because she got a promotion over me, due to a personal relationship (no sex involved, even!) invited me to her party in celebration of whatever. Everyone would be there and everyone would be drunk. It was perfect.

It was really not a lot of fun to watch all my friends at this shindig. As the night wore on they poured more and more booze down their throats. The obnoxious behavior and slurred speech was not pretty.

Juices and sodas would wreck my stomach in mass quantities, so I sipped regular old water all night. L.A. tap water is, uh, challenging. At least The Girl I Hated had, as did most Angelenos, a water cooler in her kitchen, and my needs were covered.

I did my best to socialize, but as the night rolled on, I just got more uncomfortable in the rooms full of drunks. Pushing past all the sweaty bodies in a crowded room is an activity best undertaken drunk, but I persevered, finally making it to the water cooler for one last refill. My cup almost runneth over before I noticed and let go of the spigot. Regaining an upright stance, I found myself face to face with New Girl.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” she said. Articulate devils.

“Having fun?” I asked. She rolled her eyes.

“Where’s...?” I started. She rolled her eyes toward an area across the living room. Her Projectionist had been keeping up with the party Jonses and was laughing a lot at somebody I knew was patently unfunny.

“What are you drinking?” I asked.

“H2O.”

“Me, too.”

“I think we’re the only ones,” she sighed.

“I’ve seen you drink, though, right?”

“I’m trying to take it easy,” she said.

“Me, too. Well, take it easy.”

“You’re not leaving, are you?” There was a bit of desperation and a hint of disappointment in her voice.

“Yeah, I’ve had enough.”

“Me, too.” She looked over at her boyfriend. “I don’t think I’m going to get out of here anytime soon, though.”

I wasn’t a gentleman. I was trying to break my pattern of helping damsels in distress and just couldn’t stand to be there one minute longer. She was on her own.

•••

The party ended and life at work returned. My obsession with exercise turned me into one of a few who climbed the stairs instead of taking the elevators. One particularly energetic day, as I burst through the door to the stairs, I literally ran smack dab into New Girl, who was having a bad day and had ducked into the stairwell for privacy.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” I said as I slammed into her. “There’s usually no one in here.” Then I saw a few tears rolling down her face.

“Are you okay?” Duh.

Our relationship was based in mutual sarcasm and catty jibes toward the world at large, which meant keeping your cool and putting on a brave face in all circumstances. There must have been something very wrong for her to lose her composure like this.

I hadn’t seen anyone in such a vulnerable position for such a long time. Spending so much time licking my own wounds, it took a while to dawn on me she might need a little comfort. I really didn’t want to do it, but I just put my arms around her to let her cry on my shoulder. That simple act of tenderness was all it took to open the floodgates. Her tears poured out down her cheeks and onto my shoulder.

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” I whispered.

“Why does he have to be such an asshole?” she half-asked in between sobs. I had no idea who she was talking about. Could be the Projectionist, could be a company V.P., or it could be her dad for all I knew.

“I don’t know, sometimes people just are,” I said.

“But what kind of excuse is, ‘It’s just the way things are’?” She asked.

“I’m not sure, but a lot of times people think if they tell you the truth, you wouldn't believe them anyway.” Not bad. I only wish I had some idea what the hell I was talking about. She seemed to.

“So you think it’s something else?” She said. I replayed the last few sentences in my mind, which made me look reflective.

“It usually is,” I finally answered. She sniffed and wiped her face. Those few words made me look like some kind of healer. If only I knew what was going on.

“Thanks,” she said, “You know, you’re really a good friend.”

Good friend. Oh, thank god. Usually that phrase coming from a female made me feel a little queasy. This time, it came as a relief. But I hadn't thought of us as good friends -- just office buds. Even I couldn't deny that this moment we just almost shared opened things up between us and pulled us a bit closer together.

“Are you okay now?” I asked. She nodded. “Well,” I continued, “try to take care of yourself. If you need anything...”

“Thanks,” she said before she disappeared through the stairwell door.

I felt good. It was a weird good, but good nonetheless to be concerned about someone else for a change. I had been so self-absorbed for so long it never occurred to me that thinking about someone else’s problem might help me ease my own pain.

I hopped down the stairs with a spring in my step, completely oblivious to the huge mascara stain on my shoulder.

Later that day I found out New Girl was indeed crying over the Projectionist, who had the night before, admitted an attraction to someone else. He thought he was doing the right thing by being honest with her about the situation. I was still on the fence about it. Honesty, that is.

•••

Tick, tick, tick...

There’s not a woman’s biological clock on the planet that beat louder than the time bomb going off in me. Thirty’s coming right around the bend, and I am in a serious panic attack. I haven’t accomplished a single thing I wanted to do in my life and in two months I’m going to trip over a major milestone in my path.

I don’t ask for much in this life; let me be a fairly successful singer/songwriter earning enough consistent money and respect that I can have a comfortable life, that’s all. I promise I’ll give back. I don’t need to change the world, but I’d like to be able to experience some of it. I’d never even left a U.S. border yet. What was I doing wrong?

It was doubtful I could do anything in the time I had left to become famous, short of going on a killing spree. I’ve never won more than five bucks in the lottery, so I wouldn’t count on that. It was a little improbable that I could go back to school and change the course of my life at this point.

Music. See the world. Music. See the world. These thoughts skipped on the turntable of my brain one Sunday as I mindlessly leafed through the L.A. Times. Then I saw it in the travel section: London, $471, round-trip. The answer to at least one of my problems lay right in front of me in black and newsprint. OK, so I wouldn’t be a rock star by the time I turned thirty. At least I could get the fuck out of the country and accomplish one solitary goal in my life before it ends. I could scrape together $471. I could go to London. This is cool. This is almost like doing something. For the first time in a long time I was excited about anything. What a strange sensation.

I began telling people at work about my plans and got some encouraging responses. A woman in my department who had transferred from the U.K. office still kept a home just outside London where I could sleep. That took care of my hotel expenses for at least part of my stay. Christian, who worked in the sound department stopped me in the hallway.

“Dude,” he said, “Want some company in London?”

“What do you have in mind?” I asked.

“I’ve always wanted to go, but I never had anyone to go with.”

That was interesting. It never occurred to me to go WITH someone. I just assumed I was on my own in this world.

“Hell, yes,” I said, “Let’s go together. We’ll make it a big old gay date.”

“You’ll have to be the wife.” We laughed.

Christian got a ticket that put him in London a couple days after me and allowed him to go to Paris to visit an ex-girlfriend after I returned.

This was getting good. I smiled quite a bit. People started treating me differently. I wondered why.

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