Chapter 24

At the time, Susan Ellen's current client was an Emmy-winning TV star, known amongst Hollywood insiders to be a total douchebag. (I know that doesn't really narrow down the field, but this is the most I can give.)

She was performing her cellophane treatments on him. She met with him for two hours every night, including weekends. It seemed as if she was also his personal assistant, picking up his dry-cleaning, and, according to her, offering advice on which roles to take.

It's still the first day, mind you, and I'm still organizing all of her bookmarks into categories.

Around 5, Susan Ellen looked at her phone and said, "You need to leave right now."

"Okay."

"Go! Go!"

It was as if she put the clues together in her mind that I was some sort of assassin, forcing me to leave before I would murder her. If only I was…

She threw my purse and my shoes at me.

"I have to go to [D.B. Actor]'s house now. I totally forgot. I need to be there now. How long do you think it would take me to get to the Hollywood Hills?"

Are you kidding me? I'm the new one to LA here and I know at 5 pm to drive from the Palisades to the Hills in rush hour traffic would take an hour and a half.

She looked at me with pleading eyes, wanting me to say something to alleviate her stress.

"Probably about fifteen minutes."

"Okay. Good. You need to leave now. Get out of here."

I speedily walked through her garage, trying to get out of her way as quickly as possible, trying to end this horrible work day as quickly as possible.

Before I walked out her garage, she approached me with her arms open.

"Okay, sweetie, it was nice meeting you."

Holy cow, she wanted to hug me.

She grabbed my body and I patted her on the back.

"Thank you so much, sweetie. You're so beautiful. I love you. I'll see you next week. Bye!"

I darted out of her driveway and walked to my car.

She drove by, honked, and waved to me.

I waved back.

I got into my car and just stared into the yellow fog known as Los Angeles' atmosphere.

As I type this, I still cannot decide what is more shocking to me:

a.) The fact that all of these experiences with Susan Ellen happened to me one day...

Or

b.) Susan Ellen was actually allowed behind the wheel.

Chapter 23: Lunch Time

It was about three hours in to my first day when I realized I hadn't eaten breakfast. I was too much in a rush that morning to even think about lunch.

It was almost as if Susan Ellen read my mind.

"Did you bring lunch with you?"

"No, I didn't. I was wondering if it was all right if I took my half hour to drive somewhere and get-"

"No. I'll make you lunch here." She wanted me to stay like that blind character in Frankenstein.

"Oh, ok."

It was nice. I guess.

She sighed, "But I don't have any food in the house."

She looked into her refrigerator like it was the first time ever opening it. I really don't feel like I'm exaggerating when I tell you that she pushed the refrigerator door before she realized that she needed to pull it open.

"I have sweet potatoes. Do you like sweet potatoes?"

"Uh… okay."

She took out two potatoes and plopped them into her oven. She started fiddling with the knobs on her stove.

"I don't even know how to use this. I never cook."

While she went to go smother her musty puppies, I quickly turned the gas off and turned the oven on before the inferno happened.

We both took a seat at the kitchen table waiting for our potatoes to not catch on fire. Susan Ellen broke my gaze by telling me:

"So, the people at the temp agency said you were interested in losing weight."

"What?"

I remembered the conversation I had with Ted.

Note to self: Never make small talk with stupid people, even if they do compliment you.

"You totally don't need to," she said, "I mean, you could tone up here and there, but you're not as bad off as some other people I know, like my housecleaner."

And just that moment, Susan Ellen's housecleaner entered to head to the garage to put even more sheets into the washer. How many freakin' sheets does this woman have?

Susan Ellen stopped her. "Como…," Susan Ellen began, "Como—oh, how do you say it? Como estis?"

"Fine," the housecleaner answered, in her native Brooklyn accent.

My face was buried in my hand. Susan Ellen whispered to me, "She's really heavy. It affects her health."

I nodded, hoping to God that I wouldn’t shit myself if the housecleaner heard her.

"Anyway, you're fine," she said. "Except for some of the blemishes on her chin. There's products for that, you know."

I touched my chin and didn't realize that my mouth was wide open in amazement that she would point out a complete stranger's zits.

I think she took it as me being defensive.

"I mean, you're pretty," she told me. "No, I really think you're pretty. You are! You have this great hair… but you really need to use conditioner."

Chapter 22

Susan Ellen was bragging about her clients again. She asked about my family and I told her that my brother actually lives in Los Angeles, too.

My brother works for the production company owned by a noteworthy person. She asked so many questions that his boss's name just slipped out.

"Can you call your brother and ask for [his boss's] number? I used to perform my treatments on him and I want to get in touch with him again."

"I don't know…" I answered.

"Just call."

"I'm not sure the temp agency allows this. And I feel really uncomfortable. And my brother has nothing to do with [his boss's] health-life."

"Oh," she answered, "I guess your brother isn't as friendly with [his boss] as I am. We go back ten years."

What the fuck?

Sure, Susan Ellen was a manipulator, I could see that. What made me furious is that she was a bad manipulator.

Plus, I could smell her asserting her pseudo-A-List power by saying she and my brother's boss go way back.

I cracked a smile to begin laughing in her face and respond with, "If you claim to be close to my brother’s boss, then why do you need me to call him?"

This was going to be the easiest cat-and-mouse game I would ever play. It would be like competing against a retard in the Special Olympics.

Then, I realized.

I'm competing against a retard in the Special Olympics.

I can't retort with a comment to show she's being obviously hypocritical. She probably doesn't know.


"That's nice," I said.

She went on to say all the nice things she has done with my brother's boss, obviously putting me in the my place on the Hollywood ladder of success.

I just smiled and nodded, smiled and nodded. I'm going to be someone's bitch for a very long time.