It's four am. My eyes sting a little, I guess from the water I splashed on my face and the fact that I'm not asleep.
I've been sick for two weeks, now, and I've been told it's not uncommon to be sick for a full month, upon arrival in LA. Something about the air quality. And also it's spring, and even in the land of eternal sunshine, I'm told it's still in vogue to get sick in the spring.
I had dinner last night with three actors, a french horn PhD candidate, and an old friend from high school and college (just visiting). It was a girls' night out, in celebration of Lindy getting a lead in a feature film. We talked about racism in The Biz, segregation, tsunamis, earthquakes, how to lose weight in time for filming, the fundamental insecurity of personality and land in LA, how women get lonely, here, lacking female friends, some of them not knowing how to have friends because they're too busy looking for connections.
My veggie sushi roll came, but I saw no soy sauce. I waited a bit, to see if maybe someone was going to bring it, but no one came.
"Is it gauche to ask for soy sauce, here?" I asked Lindy, only half-joking.
"Gauche!" she laughed. "Here it is, Maddy," she said, passing me a little ceramic pitcher I hadn't seen.
I tried to cough into my cloth napkin, to blow my nose quietly, between pieces of sushi (a dollar a bite), following the conversation of these actors, so smart, so educated, so beautiful, so visibly self-conscious, as they talked about jaw-lines and type-casting.
I am certainly lonely.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Monday, March 19, 2007
March 10th-11th, 2007
I heaved my bike up on my shoulder and trotted down the stairs to the Metro Red Line. I felt serious and official (and secretly a bit silly) with my matching red and black bike shoes, gloves, and pannier, and I could tell by the expressions of the other Metro riders that I must've looked it, too.
The train came soon, and I found an easy spot to sit with my ride. I tried to keep it's dirty greasy bits from touching my nice dress pants while the train rocked from side to side. We rumbled from stop to stop, and soon I was at Union Station, where I switched to the Gold Line for Pasadena. I'd done this trip before, with Mark.
I bungeed my bike to a railing on the gold line train and sat down across from a middle-aged guy in a breezy black and blue shiny button-down tee-shirt. It looked like the right kind of thing to wear in California.
I watched the scenery go by for a while, feeling not quite nervous about my meeting, but maybe just anticipatory.
"You goin' camping or something?" the guy asked me, indicating the large pannier on my bike.
"Yeah, actually, I am." Most of the people who talk to you on the train in Chicago are crazy at best, belligerent at worst. But he seemed all right.
"Nice weather for riding today, huh?" he said.
"Yeah, definitely -- I only rode from Echo Park to the red line, but it was lovely," I said.
We sat in silence as the train started uphill a bit, and I looked out the window, trying to absorb the landscape and let it start feeling familiar. A bit of nervousness crept into my chest. This was my only real TV writing contact, my best shot at getting connected where I need to be connected.
"So how do you like Echo Park?" the guy asked me.
"I like it a lot," I said, glad to have a distraction. "It's a pretty interesting place. It's getting gentrified, but it's still very diverse; it's got a lot of character. And it's a little cheaper than most places around here, seems like," I said.
"Yep, yep," he nodded languidly, somehow comfortably reclined on the uncomfortable seats, long arms resting along the back of the bench. "I live in Pasadena, and it's just ridiculous. It's $1600 for a 1-bedroom, you know? I have to share my place with a roommate. We trade off between the bedroom and the living room," he laughed.
"Yeah, I'm sharing a room in a 4-bedroom house with my boyfriend for the same price that got us a 1-bedroom of our own in Chicago. Like right in the middle of Chicago, close to everything."
"Mmmm hm." There was an easy pause while we both looked out the windows. "So where you going camping?" he asked.
"Well, actually, I don't know. I have a meeting in Pasadena, and then I'm meeting up with my brother. He's in town for a few days for work, in Arcadia, and his group is gonna put my bike in their truck and take me with them wherever. They do desert restoration work."
"Nice, nice. That's nice that you're close with your brother."
"Yeah, definitely," I said, and we talked easily about family, and the way siblings can support one another, and his kids, and California's easy living. It was the third time that someone had mentioned the ridiculous rent prices in the same conversation with how easy it is to live here.
I shook his hand when we got to my stop. "It was nice to meet you," I said, "I hope I run into you again."
By the time I had gathered my stuff together, he'd already started chatting with an older couple that had sat down in my spot.
I disembarked and unrolled my pant leg, smoothed my hair, and looked at my cell phone. I was a few minutes early, so I sat on a bench and let the sun do it's thing. I felt calm and confident. Pretty easy; yes.
I looked around the platform and spotted a man and a woman that looked like they might be my contacts. I walked my bike over by them.
"Are you Daniel?" I said when the man met my eyes.
"Yes!" he said, very friendly, big smile.
"Ah, great! I'm Maddy," I said, shaking his hand.
"Hi Maddy, and this is Lara," he said, introducing me to the pretty blond woman he'd told me he was bringing, whose picture I'd found on IMDB, another writer on the show he executive produces. "Did you bike here?" he asked.
"No, no, I just biked to the train, and took the train here."
"Wait, so... you took the bike on the train?" Lara asked, obviously not ever having had a reason to consider how this might work.
"Yeah, I biked to the red line, in Echo Park, put the bike on the train, and then took that to the gold line, where I also put my bike on the train."
"Wow, so you went to Union Station!" Daniel said.
"Yeah," I said, not sure why that was noteworthy.
"Impressive," Lara said.
"I mean it's not hard," I said, laughing a little.
"Well even so," Daniel said.
I told them how I'd gotten rid of my car in Chicago, a couple years ago, and how I was a somewhat rabid environmentalist, and how LA was proving quite bikeable, so far. We agreed on Thai food, and walked a block or two to a very cute little place on a corner.
"I'm just going to lock up," I said. "I'll meet you inside."
I struggled with my sticky lock for an irritating minute, and then made my way inside, lugging my pannier with me. I stashed it to the side, and took the chair next to Lara, across from Daniel, but tried to pull it out to the side a bit, so I could face both of them.
"So, welcome to LA!" Daniel said. He looked to be in his early 40's, graying a bit, just a bit of a belly, over-sized sweater and jeans. Very approachable, unlike the screenwriter I'd met with, who'd had the little diamond earing and an unnerving gaze and the just-so-perfectly-toussled hair and the designer jeans with a hole in one knee. "How long have you been here?" he asked.
"About 3 weeks, now. Three and a half."
"So tell me everything, I know nothing," he said.
"Like, my work experience, or writing, or?"
"Yeah, yeah, all of it," he said unassumingly.
So I described my relationship with writing as having been cemented at the end of high school, how all the heavy duty math and science I'd done had given me a very precise, logical sense of structure and plot, how I'd studied playwriting in college, and how I'd finally landed on TV writing as the form that made most sense for my dialog-centric, character-centric writing.
He listened well, and then Lara piped in: "I actually Googled you, and I saw you had a play produced."
"Oh! Nice! That's cool that that came up. I should Google myself!" I said. I actually had, but it seemed more charming to let it be her sneaky discovery. So I talked about what a great experience that had been, how fascinating it had been to see what happened when people actually memorized what I'd written, how much I'd learned from the actors about my characters.
And Daniel then started talking about what it was like to write for TV -- the frustrations and rewards of writing in a group, the juggling of network execs and time constraints, hiring practices.
I took out my notebook early on, jotting down notes and occasionally taking bites of the pad kee mao I'd ordered.
"I'm going to write this down, too," Lara said, taking out her notebook.
"What? You don't need to write this down," he said, a little embarassed, a little flattered, genuinely letting her know he thought of her as a pro.
"No, no, it's good stuff to remember," she said. Her IMDB entry had made it seem like she was definitely a TV professional, but still in the early stages, perhaps. I liked that she didn't have too much ego to admit she still could learn from someone experienced as Daniel.
They talked about being pigeonholed into a particular type of writing, and how that could be frustrating.
"Yeah, I handed my agent a spec script for My Name is Earl, and he was like 'Well what the hell am I supposed to do with this??' because he thinks of me as a procedural writer," Lara said.
"Procedural writing is a sort of format you use for mysteries, or crime shows," Daniel explained. I nodded.
"Yeah, like you have to have your hangers at the first scene box, and your twists at the second scene box," she said.
"Sorry, what's a scene box?" I asked.
"Ohhhh, Maddy," she said, laughing and reaching out to pat my shoulder. "So much to learn," she said, looking at Daniel, half friendly, half condescending.
"Well I figured I'd ask," I said, annoyed but not thrown. No point in feeling stupid for not knowing the jargon.
"It's the end of an act, before a commercial, and in procedural writing, you have to hit certain plot elements, and..." and I realized as she was talking that she had actually said "scene breaks," not "box," but the conversation had changed course, and I didn't get to clarify that of course I knew what a scene break was.
Daniel talked some more about how he'd managed to get out of his pigeonhole a bit, and about getting into writing by getting a writers' assistant gig, about learning how to balance your ambition to write with needing to take a back-back-back seat, in that job. About the boys' club aspect of the business, how it might be good to approach women writers for help, he thought. About spec scripts, and how he chooses staff, and personality versus talent, and the social aspects. When he had wound down, I turned to Lara, who, aside from her explanation of scene boxes, had been mostly quiet.
"Is there anything you would add, anything that you feel you had a different experience with?" I asked her.
"Well, I think Daniel's creating a bit of a rosy picture," she said. "I mean, I spent six years as an assistant. It can be really hard to break in. It takes a lot of hard work, and a lot of asking people to do you favors, and doing favors for them, so they get you meetings."
She continued to tell me in vague terms about the difficulties.
"So when you ask people for favors, what do you offer in return?" I asked.
"Well, I was an assistant for a pretty big director for a while, so I would offer to get them meetings with him..."
"So, for someone like me, with no connections, I mean..."
"Well, you can offer to read scripts, or any of the things that you would normally do as favors for people, you know?"
I frowned, just not sure what that would be, in a town where I don't know my way around, have no sense of direction, have very few friends, have no car, and have no income.
"But I mean, Daniel is an incredible connection," she said, seeing that I was feeling a bit confused.
And Daniel jumped in, saying he would get in touch with this person and that person on my behalf, see if he could get me some meetings with other people who could help me out. Lara "wow"ed at some of the names he mentioned he would try to get me in touch with, and I realized that yes indeed, this was a great, great contact.
When the check came, Daniel graciously paid for both of us, and then walked me to the nearest bookstore to help me find a book on showrunning they'd both agreed was useful. He asked an employee where the TV section was, scanned the books with me, and then asked for directions on my behalf, for the bus to Arcadia, over my weak protestations that it was okay, I could ask.
He was clearly someone who likes to be helpful.
We parted ways with a friendly handshake.
"I'll talk to you soon," he said, with a reassuring smile.
"Thank you sooo much for your help already, this has been incredibly informative," I said, and boy did I mean it.
I hopped on my bike and headed for the bus stop.
When it arrived, I loaded my bike onto the front rack. I found a seat, and was soon joined by a guy about my age, as the bus quickly filled to capacity.
"I hate this bus," he said to me.
"Oh yeah?" I said, on guard a bit. He seemed angry, and angry is something to avoid when confined on a crowded bus.
"Yeah, it's always crowded like this. Always."
"Ah, yeah, it does seem like buses in LA are pretty crowded, generally," I said.
"Mm hm," he nodded. "They do it on purpose, cuz they want people to take the train. They want you to be forced to take the train."
"Huh," I said, unconvinced.
"I done some research," he said, turning to give me a brief knowing look. "Just because I'm curious like that, and there used to be all sorts of trains and electric trolley and stuff, but they tore them all down, the oil and the rubber companies. They just tore them down," he said. It was a story I'd heard before -- just an hour before, actually, from Daniel, as we'd walked to the restaurant.
"Yeah, used to be one of the best train systems around, right?" I said.
"Yup," he said. And he told me about how he'd grown up in LA, and how he'd seen it get more and more crowded, more and more people, all fighting to use the same buses, with not enough train lines to make up for it. "Too many damn people," he said. "I hate it. I wanna get out of here, and I'm going to, as soon as I finish my degree. I got a friend in Atlanta that said he can get me a real nice job, not quite what I studied, but it's a good job. But anyway I'm on my way right now to meet up with my brother and go to a book signing for 'The Secret.'"
"Oh, nice! I've heard about that book," I said. Molly had told me about it, and she was finding it helpful. It seemed to be about positive thinking and achieving your ambitions.
"Yeah, some Christians are saying it's bad, that it's not good for Christians, but I like to think for myself, I like to look at things myself, and then I can decide for myself you know? I can see if something is good or if it's not, well then I won't get involved with it."
"Yeah, you have to trust your own sensibilities," I said.
"Right, right, exactly."
And we chatted some more, and he told me when we were about to get to my stop, and as I was getting up he said "Well you are a very fine young woman, you are real fine," he said. I smiled and thanked him, got off the bus, grabbed my bike, and made my way to the botanical garden to the environmental fair. I walked through dense greenery peppered with peacocks that wandered among the trees, calling to one another with screaming squawks.
Peering ahead at a group of white canopies, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Before I could turn, I was attacked by an airborn young man who looked even hairier and darker than usual.
"Yay!!" I said, hugging him tight. He downright giggled, hugging me tight back.
Paul showed me to where his coworkers were sprawled, relaxing in the shade. They were all very well-sunned, sipping from their Camelpaks, their cheeks decorated with face paint from the fair.
Introductions were made, and I forgot their names immediately, but they seemed like nice kids. They put my bike and bag in their truck, and tucked me into the backseat of the very full bus-like SUV they used to get around. We hit the road with the Rolling Stones' You Can't Always Get What You Want on the stereo, and I thought about how I'd loved that song when I was 19, too. I still think it's a great song, but I wondered whether there was something especially relevant about it at that almost fully adult age.
We drove most of the way to the ocean, and made it to the campground after dark. Paul's crew went about setting up camp and making dinner like a well-oiled machine, illustrating clearly that they'd been working together like this for months. Several of them went for quick runs before dinner. There was no booze, no smoking, no weed, and their food was all vegetarian. I was impressed.
Paul and I set up a tent, even though it was only supposed to get down to 60 degrees that night, and he usually just sleeps on a tarp.
He set his alarm for 6:15am, enough time to snooze once, get up, break down the tent, pack up, eat, and be ready to go by 7am, when we were all supposed to go play at the beach for a few hours before they had to go back to the fair.
We chatted and giggled in our sleeping bags for a while. I'd had a cold for the last few days, but I'd been too distracted to notice it much, that day. But as I lay in the tent without pillows to prop my head up, as my head filled to solid with snot, I started to notice. I breathed through my mouth, tried to shove my fleece into more of a pillow, and found myself feeling more and more sick.
We fell silent, and I could hear from his breathing that Paul was asleep. I thought about "scene boxes," and was irritated that I hadn't had a chance to clear up that I know what a damn scene break is. The embarrassing misunderstanding stirred anxiety in my congested chest, and I coughed rawly in the cold night air.
I wiggled around in my sleeping bag, trying to get it to stay put while I flipped over onto my stomach. I took a few deep breaths, and started doing a relaxation exercise I'd learned years ago.
I imagined my body as a series of knots, and started at my feet, visualizing the knots unraveling in my arches, my ankles, my calves, my knees, my thighs, my hips.... And as usual, before I got up to my head I was asleep.
****
Some unclear amount of time later, I started to wake up, my bladder complaining about all the water I'd had with dinner. I struggled to stay asleep for a while, but soon had to brave the cold night to visit the bathroom.
By the time I got back, I was fully awake, my throat sore and irritated. I lay in my sleeping bag, staring sleeplessly at the gray nylon tent. Paul flipped over and smooshed me into the side of the tent. I gave him a feeble elbow, but when he didn't stir, I just pushed him till he slid in his nylon sleeping bag. It must be a family trait, I thought, remembering similar experiences in beds with my sisters.
I sighed, wondering what time it was. I thought again about fucking scene boxes, and Lara patting my goddamn shoulder.
The alarm on Paul's phone went off! Hallelujiah! Saved by the bell.
He groaned and fumbled around to find the off button while his phone made manic barking sounds.
"What the hell, Paul?" I said cheerfully.
He giggled. "I know, but it works," he said.
We packed up our sleeping bags and broke down the tent in the dark.
"Why isn't anyone else up?" I said.
"Bums," Paul said. "Oh, actually, you know what," he stopped stuffing the rolled up rain fly into its bag for a moment. "I bet it's daylight savings. My phone is probably an hour behind."
"Oh, is that tonight?" I said.
"Yeah."
"Oh well," I said. We finished packing up. "Wanna go for a walk while we wait for them to get up?"
"Sure," he said, and we tossed the tent and bags by the truck and took off down the road. "Well this isn't very scenic," he said, commenting on the brightly lit bathrooms.
"Oooo! Look!" I said, in an Australian accent, stopping suddenly and crouching. "A wild recreational vehicle!" I pointed at the fat RV near us.
Paul laughed heartily, much more heartily than the stupid joke had rightly deserved, but we were both glad to be with family.
We bantered in the same sleepy slap-happy tone our dad always used on the way to school in the morning, our giggles getting more and more raucous the more idiotic our jokes were.
After a while we turned back toward camp. Paul took his phone out to check the time.
"What the hell?" he said, stopping.
I turned to look at him. "What?" I said.
"One-thirty??" he said.
"What? How can that be?"
"My phone's been kind of broken," he said.
"I'm sorry, kind of broken?" I said. He giggled. "But I mean, that's the sun rising over there, isn't it?" I pointed to the light coming over the mountains, in the distance.
"I think that might just be LA," he said.
We stopped and asked someone who was awake with a fire (a bad sign) what time it was. 2:30, she said, or 1:30, depending on daylight savings. We thanked her and continued back toward camp.
"Dagnabbit," I said. "I was already awake -- I was so glad it was morning; I totally couldn't sleep."
"I knew it looked dark!" Paul said.
"Aw, man, we already broke down the tent," I said.
"Ugh."
"Well, I guess we could just use the tarp, right?"
"Yeah, that's what I usually do. And I think we've already passed the dewiest part of the night," he said.
So when we got back to the camp, we set out the tarp and took our sleeping bags back out. We snuggled in, laughing at our stupidity, and then pulled the hoods down over our faces. The little hike had burned some energy out of me, and I fell asleep without too much difficulty. I woke occasionally to adjust my hood, or to scoot back onto my sleeping pad, away from the cold ground, but mostly I slept.
When the alarm went off again in the morning, it was light out. I poked my head out of my sleeping bag, and found that I was covered in frozen dew. So much for a low of 60 degrees. Paul emerged from his bag and shook his head like a wet dog.
"Dewiest part of the night my ass!" I squeaked in a harsh rasp, my throat raw and phlegmy.
"What??" he said, laughing at me.
"Dewiest part of the night my ass!" I said again, throwing bits of ice at him from my bag.
"Hahahahahahaha!" he laughed loud.
We packed up once again, had breakfast with his crew, and made our way to the beach.
It was sunny and warm, and we laid our bags out to dry. He got out one of his many frisbees, and we played catch for a couple hours, sometimes with crewmates, but mostly just us. He showed me how to throw backhands and inside-outs, performed his favorite trick throws for me, and generally displayed the boundless energy of a healthy 19 year old.
The sun and exercise pumped me full of endorphins, and my cold became irrelevant as I ran around after the white disk, still wearing my dress pants, rolled up above my knees.
Around 11:00, we loaded into their vehicles again and drove back through town. I thought about how good my bed would feel, and hot tea, and a change of clothes. They dropped me at my house on their way to the fair, and a few of them came in to use the bathroom. I hugged my brother, knowing he'd be back the next weekend, on break, and thanked his friends for having me as their guest. I could see them hesitate, waiting to see if I was going to hug them, too. But I just smiled, too exhausted, and let them leave.
And I took a hot shower and drank some tea and got under my blankets, nice and warm and dry, and I slept and slept, and didn't wake up until just before Mark got home from work at 4:30pm.
"Hey, baby, how're you feeling?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"I'm okay," I croaked feebly, sitting up to hug him, and I laughed because even though my throat stung, my head was filled with glue, my joints ached, and I couldn't breathe through my nose, everything felt just fine.
I heaved my bike up on my shoulder and trotted down the stairs to the Metro Red Line. I felt serious and official (and secretly a bit silly) with my matching red and black bike shoes, gloves, and pannier, and I could tell by the expressions of the other Metro riders that I must've looked it, too.
The train came soon, and I found an easy spot to sit with my ride. I tried to keep it's dirty greasy bits from touching my nice dress pants while the train rocked from side to side. We rumbled from stop to stop, and soon I was at Union Station, where I switched to the Gold Line for Pasadena. I'd done this trip before, with Mark.
I bungeed my bike to a railing on the gold line train and sat down across from a middle-aged guy in a breezy black and blue shiny button-down tee-shirt. It looked like the right kind of thing to wear in California.
I watched the scenery go by for a while, feeling not quite nervous about my meeting, but maybe just anticipatory.
"You goin' camping or something?" the guy asked me, indicating the large pannier on my bike.
"Yeah, actually, I am." Most of the people who talk to you on the train in Chicago are crazy at best, belligerent at worst. But he seemed all right.
"Nice weather for riding today, huh?" he said.
"Yeah, definitely -- I only rode from Echo Park to the red line, but it was lovely," I said.
We sat in silence as the train started uphill a bit, and I looked out the window, trying to absorb the landscape and let it start feeling familiar. A bit of nervousness crept into my chest. This was my only real TV writing contact, my best shot at getting connected where I need to be connected.
"So how do you like Echo Park?" the guy asked me.
"I like it a lot," I said, glad to have a distraction. "It's a pretty interesting place. It's getting gentrified, but it's still very diverse; it's got a lot of character. And it's a little cheaper than most places around here, seems like," I said.
"Yep, yep," he nodded languidly, somehow comfortably reclined on the uncomfortable seats, long arms resting along the back of the bench. "I live in Pasadena, and it's just ridiculous. It's $1600 for a 1-bedroom, you know? I have to share my place with a roommate. We trade off between the bedroom and the living room," he laughed.
"Yeah, I'm sharing a room in a 4-bedroom house with my boyfriend for the same price that got us a 1-bedroom of our own in Chicago. Like right in the middle of Chicago, close to everything."
"Mmmm hm." There was an easy pause while we both looked out the windows. "So where you going camping?" he asked.
"Well, actually, I don't know. I have a meeting in Pasadena, and then I'm meeting up with my brother. He's in town for a few days for work, in Arcadia, and his group is gonna put my bike in their truck and take me with them wherever. They do desert restoration work."
"Nice, nice. That's nice that you're close with your brother."
"Yeah, definitely," I said, and we talked easily about family, and the way siblings can support one another, and his kids, and California's easy living. It was the third time that someone had mentioned the ridiculous rent prices in the same conversation with how easy it is to live here.
I shook his hand when we got to my stop. "It was nice to meet you," I said, "I hope I run into you again."
By the time I had gathered my stuff together, he'd already started chatting with an older couple that had sat down in my spot.
I disembarked and unrolled my pant leg, smoothed my hair, and looked at my cell phone. I was a few minutes early, so I sat on a bench and let the sun do it's thing. I felt calm and confident. Pretty easy; yes.
I looked around the platform and spotted a man and a woman that looked like they might be my contacts. I walked my bike over by them.
"Are you Daniel?" I said when the man met my eyes.
"Yes!" he said, very friendly, big smile.
"Ah, great! I'm Maddy," I said, shaking his hand.
"Hi Maddy, and this is Lara," he said, introducing me to the pretty blond woman he'd told me he was bringing, whose picture I'd found on IMDB, another writer on the show he executive produces. "Did you bike here?" he asked.
"No, no, I just biked to the train, and took the train here."
"Wait, so... you took the bike on the train?" Lara asked, obviously not ever having had a reason to consider how this might work.
"Yeah, I biked to the red line, in Echo Park, put the bike on the train, and then took that to the gold line, where I also put my bike on the train."
"Wow, so you went to Union Station!" Daniel said.
"Yeah," I said, not sure why that was noteworthy.
"Impressive," Lara said.
"I mean it's not hard," I said, laughing a little.
"Well even so," Daniel said.
I told them how I'd gotten rid of my car in Chicago, a couple years ago, and how I was a somewhat rabid environmentalist, and how LA was proving quite bikeable, so far. We agreed on Thai food, and walked a block or two to a very cute little place on a corner.
"I'm just going to lock up," I said. "I'll meet you inside."
I struggled with my sticky lock for an irritating minute, and then made my way inside, lugging my pannier with me. I stashed it to the side, and took the chair next to Lara, across from Daniel, but tried to pull it out to the side a bit, so I could face both of them.
"So, welcome to LA!" Daniel said. He looked to be in his early 40's, graying a bit, just a bit of a belly, over-sized sweater and jeans. Very approachable, unlike the screenwriter I'd met with, who'd had the little diamond earing and an unnerving gaze and the just-so-perfectly-toussled hair and the designer jeans with a hole in one knee. "How long have you been here?" he asked.
"About 3 weeks, now. Three and a half."
"So tell me everything, I know nothing," he said.
"Like, my work experience, or writing, or?"
"Yeah, yeah, all of it," he said unassumingly.
So I described my relationship with writing as having been cemented at the end of high school, how all the heavy duty math and science I'd done had given me a very precise, logical sense of structure and plot, how I'd studied playwriting in college, and how I'd finally landed on TV writing as the form that made most sense for my dialog-centric, character-centric writing.
He listened well, and then Lara piped in: "I actually Googled you, and I saw you had a play produced."
"Oh! Nice! That's cool that that came up. I should Google myself!" I said. I actually had, but it seemed more charming to let it be her sneaky discovery. So I talked about what a great experience that had been, how fascinating it had been to see what happened when people actually memorized what I'd written, how much I'd learned from the actors about my characters.
And Daniel then started talking about what it was like to write for TV -- the frustrations and rewards of writing in a group, the juggling of network execs and time constraints, hiring practices.
I took out my notebook early on, jotting down notes and occasionally taking bites of the pad kee mao I'd ordered.
"I'm going to write this down, too," Lara said, taking out her notebook.
"What? You don't need to write this down," he said, a little embarassed, a little flattered, genuinely letting her know he thought of her as a pro.
"No, no, it's good stuff to remember," she said. Her IMDB entry had made it seem like she was definitely a TV professional, but still in the early stages, perhaps. I liked that she didn't have too much ego to admit she still could learn from someone experienced as Daniel.
They talked about being pigeonholed into a particular type of writing, and how that could be frustrating.
"Yeah, I handed my agent a spec script for My Name is Earl, and he was like 'Well what the hell am I supposed to do with this??' because he thinks of me as a procedural writer," Lara said.
"Procedural writing is a sort of format you use for mysteries, or crime shows," Daniel explained. I nodded.
"Yeah, like you have to have your hangers at the first scene box, and your twists at the second scene box," she said.
"Sorry, what's a scene box?" I asked.
"Ohhhh, Maddy," she said, laughing and reaching out to pat my shoulder. "So much to learn," she said, looking at Daniel, half friendly, half condescending.
"Well I figured I'd ask," I said, annoyed but not thrown. No point in feeling stupid for not knowing the jargon.
"It's the end of an act, before a commercial, and in procedural writing, you have to hit certain plot elements, and..." and I realized as she was talking that she had actually said "scene breaks," not "box," but the conversation had changed course, and I didn't get to clarify that of course I knew what a scene break was.
Daniel talked some more about how he'd managed to get out of his pigeonhole a bit, and about getting into writing by getting a writers' assistant gig, about learning how to balance your ambition to write with needing to take a back-back-back seat, in that job. About the boys' club aspect of the business, how it might be good to approach women writers for help, he thought. About spec scripts, and how he chooses staff, and personality versus talent, and the social aspects. When he had wound down, I turned to Lara, who, aside from her explanation of scene boxes, had been mostly quiet.
"Is there anything you would add, anything that you feel you had a different experience with?" I asked her.
"Well, I think Daniel's creating a bit of a rosy picture," she said. "I mean, I spent six years as an assistant. It can be really hard to break in. It takes a lot of hard work, and a lot of asking people to do you favors, and doing favors for them, so they get you meetings."
She continued to tell me in vague terms about the difficulties.
"So when you ask people for favors, what do you offer in return?" I asked.
"Well, I was an assistant for a pretty big director for a while, so I would offer to get them meetings with him..."
"So, for someone like me, with no connections, I mean..."
"Well, you can offer to read scripts, or any of the things that you would normally do as favors for people, you know?"
I frowned, just not sure what that would be, in a town where I don't know my way around, have no sense of direction, have very few friends, have no car, and have no income.
"But I mean, Daniel is an incredible connection," she said, seeing that I was feeling a bit confused.
And Daniel jumped in, saying he would get in touch with this person and that person on my behalf, see if he could get me some meetings with other people who could help me out. Lara "wow"ed at some of the names he mentioned he would try to get me in touch with, and I realized that yes indeed, this was a great, great contact.
When the check came, Daniel graciously paid for both of us, and then walked me to the nearest bookstore to help me find a book on showrunning they'd both agreed was useful. He asked an employee where the TV section was, scanned the books with me, and then asked for directions on my behalf, for the bus to Arcadia, over my weak protestations that it was okay, I could ask.
He was clearly someone who likes to be helpful.
We parted ways with a friendly handshake.
"I'll talk to you soon," he said, with a reassuring smile.
"Thank you sooo much for your help already, this has been incredibly informative," I said, and boy did I mean it.
I hopped on my bike and headed for the bus stop.
When it arrived, I loaded my bike onto the front rack. I found a seat, and was soon joined by a guy about my age, as the bus quickly filled to capacity.
"I hate this bus," he said to me.
"Oh yeah?" I said, on guard a bit. He seemed angry, and angry is something to avoid when confined on a crowded bus.
"Yeah, it's always crowded like this. Always."
"Ah, yeah, it does seem like buses in LA are pretty crowded, generally," I said.
"Mm hm," he nodded. "They do it on purpose, cuz they want people to take the train. They want you to be forced to take the train."
"Huh," I said, unconvinced.
"I done some research," he said, turning to give me a brief knowing look. "Just because I'm curious like that, and there used to be all sorts of trains and electric trolley and stuff, but they tore them all down, the oil and the rubber companies. They just tore them down," he said. It was a story I'd heard before -- just an hour before, actually, from Daniel, as we'd walked to the restaurant.
"Yeah, used to be one of the best train systems around, right?" I said.
"Yup," he said. And he told me about how he'd grown up in LA, and how he'd seen it get more and more crowded, more and more people, all fighting to use the same buses, with not enough train lines to make up for it. "Too many damn people," he said. "I hate it. I wanna get out of here, and I'm going to, as soon as I finish my degree. I got a friend in Atlanta that said he can get me a real nice job, not quite what I studied, but it's a good job. But anyway I'm on my way right now to meet up with my brother and go to a book signing for 'The Secret.'"
"Oh, nice! I've heard about that book," I said. Molly had told me about it, and she was finding it helpful. It seemed to be about positive thinking and achieving your ambitions.
"Yeah, some Christians are saying it's bad, that it's not good for Christians, but I like to think for myself, I like to look at things myself, and then I can decide for myself you know? I can see if something is good or if it's not, well then I won't get involved with it."
"Yeah, you have to trust your own sensibilities," I said.
"Right, right, exactly."
And we chatted some more, and he told me when we were about to get to my stop, and as I was getting up he said "Well you are a very fine young woman, you are real fine," he said. I smiled and thanked him, got off the bus, grabbed my bike, and made my way to the botanical garden to the environmental fair. I walked through dense greenery peppered with peacocks that wandered among the trees, calling to one another with screaming squawks.
Peering ahead at a group of white canopies, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Before I could turn, I was attacked by an airborn young man who looked even hairier and darker than usual.
"Yay!!" I said, hugging him tight. He downright giggled, hugging me tight back.
Paul showed me to where his coworkers were sprawled, relaxing in the shade. They were all very well-sunned, sipping from their Camelpaks, their cheeks decorated with face paint from the fair.
Introductions were made, and I forgot their names immediately, but they seemed like nice kids. They put my bike and bag in their truck, and tucked me into the backseat of the very full bus-like SUV they used to get around. We hit the road with the Rolling Stones' You Can't Always Get What You Want on the stereo, and I thought about how I'd loved that song when I was 19, too. I still think it's a great song, but I wondered whether there was something especially relevant about it at that almost fully adult age.
We drove most of the way to the ocean, and made it to the campground after dark. Paul's crew went about setting up camp and making dinner like a well-oiled machine, illustrating clearly that they'd been working together like this for months. Several of them went for quick runs before dinner. There was no booze, no smoking, no weed, and their food was all vegetarian. I was impressed.
Paul and I set up a tent, even though it was only supposed to get down to 60 degrees that night, and he usually just sleeps on a tarp.
He set his alarm for 6:15am, enough time to snooze once, get up, break down the tent, pack up, eat, and be ready to go by 7am, when we were all supposed to go play at the beach for a few hours before they had to go back to the fair.
We chatted and giggled in our sleeping bags for a while. I'd had a cold for the last few days, but I'd been too distracted to notice it much, that day. But as I lay in the tent without pillows to prop my head up, as my head filled to solid with snot, I started to notice. I breathed through my mouth, tried to shove my fleece into more of a pillow, and found myself feeling more and more sick.
We fell silent, and I could hear from his breathing that Paul was asleep. I thought about "scene boxes," and was irritated that I hadn't had a chance to clear up that I know what a damn scene break is. The embarrassing misunderstanding stirred anxiety in my congested chest, and I coughed rawly in the cold night air.
I wiggled around in my sleeping bag, trying to get it to stay put while I flipped over onto my stomach. I took a few deep breaths, and started doing a relaxation exercise I'd learned years ago.
I imagined my body as a series of knots, and started at my feet, visualizing the knots unraveling in my arches, my ankles, my calves, my knees, my thighs, my hips.... And as usual, before I got up to my head I was asleep.
****
Some unclear amount of time later, I started to wake up, my bladder complaining about all the water I'd had with dinner. I struggled to stay asleep for a while, but soon had to brave the cold night to visit the bathroom.
By the time I got back, I was fully awake, my throat sore and irritated. I lay in my sleeping bag, staring sleeplessly at the gray nylon tent. Paul flipped over and smooshed me into the side of the tent. I gave him a feeble elbow, but when he didn't stir, I just pushed him till he slid in his nylon sleeping bag. It must be a family trait, I thought, remembering similar experiences in beds with my sisters.
I sighed, wondering what time it was. I thought again about fucking scene boxes, and Lara patting my goddamn shoulder.
The alarm on Paul's phone went off! Hallelujiah! Saved by the bell.
He groaned and fumbled around to find the off button while his phone made manic barking sounds.
"What the hell, Paul?" I said cheerfully.
He giggled. "I know, but it works," he said.
We packed up our sleeping bags and broke down the tent in the dark.
"Why isn't anyone else up?" I said.
"Bums," Paul said. "Oh, actually, you know what," he stopped stuffing the rolled up rain fly into its bag for a moment. "I bet it's daylight savings. My phone is probably an hour behind."
"Oh, is that tonight?" I said.
"Yeah."
"Oh well," I said. We finished packing up. "Wanna go for a walk while we wait for them to get up?"
"Sure," he said, and we tossed the tent and bags by the truck and took off down the road. "Well this isn't very scenic," he said, commenting on the brightly lit bathrooms.
"Oooo! Look!" I said, in an Australian accent, stopping suddenly and crouching. "A wild recreational vehicle!" I pointed at the fat RV near us.
Paul laughed heartily, much more heartily than the stupid joke had rightly deserved, but we were both glad to be with family.
We bantered in the same sleepy slap-happy tone our dad always used on the way to school in the morning, our giggles getting more and more raucous the more idiotic our jokes were.
After a while we turned back toward camp. Paul took his phone out to check the time.
"What the hell?" he said, stopping.
I turned to look at him. "What?" I said.
"One-thirty??" he said.
"What? How can that be?"
"My phone's been kind of broken," he said.
"I'm sorry, kind of broken?" I said. He giggled. "But I mean, that's the sun rising over there, isn't it?" I pointed to the light coming over the mountains, in the distance.
"I think that might just be LA," he said.
We stopped and asked someone who was awake with a fire (a bad sign) what time it was. 2:30, she said, or 1:30, depending on daylight savings. We thanked her and continued back toward camp.
"Dagnabbit," I said. "I was already awake -- I was so glad it was morning; I totally couldn't sleep."
"I knew it looked dark!" Paul said.
"Aw, man, we already broke down the tent," I said.
"Ugh."
"Well, I guess we could just use the tarp, right?"
"Yeah, that's what I usually do. And I think we've already passed the dewiest part of the night," he said.
So when we got back to the camp, we set out the tarp and took our sleeping bags back out. We snuggled in, laughing at our stupidity, and then pulled the hoods down over our faces. The little hike had burned some energy out of me, and I fell asleep without too much difficulty. I woke occasionally to adjust my hood, or to scoot back onto my sleeping pad, away from the cold ground, but mostly I slept.
When the alarm went off again in the morning, it was light out. I poked my head out of my sleeping bag, and found that I was covered in frozen dew. So much for a low of 60 degrees. Paul emerged from his bag and shook his head like a wet dog.
"Dewiest part of the night my ass!" I squeaked in a harsh rasp, my throat raw and phlegmy.
"What??" he said, laughing at me.
"Dewiest part of the night my ass!" I said again, throwing bits of ice at him from my bag.
"Hahahahahahaha!" he laughed loud.
We packed up once again, had breakfast with his crew, and made our way to the beach.
It was sunny and warm, and we laid our bags out to dry. He got out one of his many frisbees, and we played catch for a couple hours, sometimes with crewmates, but mostly just us. He showed me how to throw backhands and inside-outs, performed his favorite trick throws for me, and generally displayed the boundless energy of a healthy 19 year old.
The sun and exercise pumped me full of endorphins, and my cold became irrelevant as I ran around after the white disk, still wearing my dress pants, rolled up above my knees.
Around 11:00, we loaded into their vehicles again and drove back through town. I thought about how good my bed would feel, and hot tea, and a change of clothes. They dropped me at my house on their way to the fair, and a few of them came in to use the bathroom. I hugged my brother, knowing he'd be back the next weekend, on break, and thanked his friends for having me as their guest. I could see them hesitate, waiting to see if I was going to hug them, too. But I just smiled, too exhausted, and let them leave.
And I took a hot shower and drank some tea and got under my blankets, nice and warm and dry, and I slept and slept, and didn't wake up until just before Mark got home from work at 4:30pm.
"Hey, baby, how're you feeling?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"I'm okay," I croaked feebly, sitting up to hug him, and I laughed because even though my throat stung, my head was filled with glue, my joints ached, and I couldn't breathe through my nose, everything felt just fine.
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