Pop Tart

‘Honey, it’s not that I want you to give up on your dreams–I just don’t understand what yours are?’ The way she raised her eyebrows with mock concern normally drove me absolutely crazy, but as I listened to her speak a feeling of relief began to settle over me.

‘Just because we don’t have the same one doesn’t make mine ridiculous,’ I said calmly before turning and walking out of the dining room. Cool winter engulfed me as I made my way up the rickety steps to the apartment over the garage. I had no plan, no idea as to how I was going to make extra money but at that moment I couldn’t have cared less. I had never felt so free in my entire life. Starting immediately, I would pay rent like any other kid my age, and make sure to save enough money for things like car insurance, oil changes, and gas. Well it may have been the end of my social life, which was scarce these days anyway, it certainly wasn’t the end of the world. Since the hourly wage that Sheryl paid me wasn’t enough to cover even half of my newly incurred expenses, I was going to have to take on another job, and quick.

With Sheryl off in Santa Barbara shooting a local fashion spread, the store was in my hands. I was taking full advantage of this, using the time to surf the web for other part-time jobs, when our first customer, a rather big-boned woman, burst through the door around noon doused in shades of pink.

‘Hi,’ I muttered, not looking up from pages of openings on myjobsearcher.com, ‘let me know if I can help you with anything.’ The way she clunked about–the heels of her strappy platform sandals resounding in thuds along the wood floor–roused my attention. Looking up, the annoyance on my face quickly morphed into confusion. Standing just a few feet away, testing shades of cream blush by swiping them on her forearm, was what most certainly was a man in drag. The flutter-sleeve chiffon top with a ruffled bodice and plunging keyhole neckline tightly hugged what was supposed to be a cinch waist. A white cotton miniskirt with pink accents like rhinestones and piping was paired with the incredibly noisy six-inch wooden-heeled sandals to accentuate long, smooth legs. As I caught her eye, she lowered her chin, as if trying to hide the lump in her throat was an instinctual reaction. Then, thinking better of it, she turned and smiled at me, almost shyly at first.

‘Are you finding everything you need?’ I asked, trying to stifle my surprise. She made her way over to the counter, slinging along her pink-and-white purse–which featured a mishmash of designs that included a Christian Dior signature logo, butterflies and flowers, and a bejeweled padlock at the zipper to top it off.

‘I’m Rita,’ she said batting her eyelashes. ‘I need to find a good red lipstick, and a new shade of foundation. Something a little darker, I’m done doing Jayne…I’m on to Hayworth. She’s got Spaniard in her like me, you know?’

Her warm and energetic demeanor rendered me completely comfortable, and I found myself giggling at almost everything she said. Periodically she’d say things like, ‘You can’t rush glamour, honey!’ Or ‘Every woman is a vamp until proven innocent,’ which would make me laugh even harder. We spent what seemed like an hour rifling through various shades of coverup, looking for the best products that would allow Rita to exaggerate her eyes in an attempt to play down at least a healthy portion of her masculine jaw, and me trying to convince her to give up lip liners that were darker than her lipstick. In the end, like any good transvestite would, she stuck to her guns and bought a deep plum shade to match with her classic red.

‘What’s all this?’ Rita peered at my computer screen and then down to a list of names and contact numbers I’d compiled for job openings in everything from retail to government, none of which were too appealing.

‘My parents are done supporting my creative endeavors,’ I told her. ‘So that means I need to find a second job.’

She picked up my notebook, gingerly flipping the pages with her surprisingly feminine hands, before stopping to point out one of my leads. I tried not to stare when I noticed the exact pearlescent white Invicta watch I’d been drooling over for months on her dainty wrist. ‘You’re not going to make the money you need serving up hash browns and waffles, I can tell you that right now.’ She was pointing to a listing for a deli just down the street.

‘It’s in Beverly Hills,’ I argued. ‘The patio there is always busy.’

‘Everyone knows, honey, that the real money is in cocktail waitressing.’ She raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, and flashed a huge grin. ‘Today’s your lucky day, girl.’ Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a business card and smacked it down on the desk in front of me.

‘The Queen Victoria, huh?’ I said picking it up. Beneath the embossed lettering were background images of cross-dressers that appeared as 1950s and Hollywood’s screen legends. In smaller type was what I had guessed to be Rita’s birth name, Jorge Vazquez.

‘That’s right, I’m the manager over there; we could probably use a little help. And a pretty thang like you. You’d do real well.’

‘Yeah–no thanks, I think I’ll pass,’ I smiled, trying not to laugh.

‘I know what you’re thinking, but it really is a lot of fun. Plus…you can keep on doing makeup–some of the best makeup artists count drag queens as muses. Think about it.’ And with that, Jorge, er–Rita, scooped up her purchases and headed out the door.

Not heeding Rita’s warning, I took the waitressing job at the deli down the street. Most days, like today, I started my shift there at 6 AM so that I could finish early enough to accompany Sheryl to bookings, watch over the store, and take the occasional odd job by myself.

It had only been two weeks but I was already hating my new schedule. Not only was I barely making any money, I was completely accident prone. I’d broken five glasses in the span of three days and in one morning alone I had forgotten two orders to boot. By the time I made it over to help Sheryl, I was already in a rotten mood. I could barely stand to listen to her as she shrieked into the phone.

‘Oh my God! Is that not cool, cool, cool?! Totally, totally–we will be there honey and don’t you worry about a thing–it’s on us, no absolutely, don’t worry about a thing!’ I became annoyed. Just listening to her I knew exactly what was happening and I did all I could to stifle my frustration.

I had been working with Sheryl for almost six months by that point and was always surprised, though I should’ve at some point probably gotten used to it, at her sheer excitement for absolutely everything and nothing. Just that morning she doubled over in joy at a most recent purchase: a gift for a friend’s baby shower.

‘And, if you pull on that right there,’ she said, showing me the glossy catalogue in her hand, ‘the diaper bag turns into a backpack! How cool is that!’ I had stopped trying to conceal my boredom months ago after a half-hour rant concerning Candle Belts, which are exactly as they sound–a decorative belt for your candle.

Part of me pitied Sheryl, while my other, more sympathetic half felt bad for feeling bad. She was, by all definitions, a very in-demand makeup artist in Hollywood. From spreads in Los Angeles magazine to booking the occasional job for a daytime drama, she did it all. Though she had very kindly taken me under her wing, I couldn’t help but notice her enthusiasm seemed to compensate for something, something I didn’t know. She had set up shop in one corner of a chic salon on Beverly Drive, though we rarely worked out of there, instead using it more for office space to schedule shoots, take meetings, and market her services than anything else. When people did come in for meetings, I was always blown away by her ability to make eyeliner, makeup brushes, and lip gloss sound so wildly exciting, but was almost certain that the people who left would never come back again. But shockingly enough, most did.

Here’s the thing, Sheryl was a divorced forty-something who left her cheating husband and McMansion in the Calabasas to become a swinging-single career woman in Beverly Hills. This was all, no less, inspired by an episode (her first, for the record) of Sex and the City on TBS. I’ve heard her quote Kim Cattrall from that episode enough to make my ears bleed. Perhaps I was a pessimist, but no one in her right mind could be that excited all the time, and I was just sort of waiting for her to crack…

‘I got you a gig!’ Sheryl shouted in a singsongy voice as she hung up the phone. I braced myself…I knew exactly what she was going to say. ‘Okay, well, don’t get mad at me…I told Nan Dressner we’d–well, you–would do her daughter’s makeup tomorrow morning. She’s walking in the “Women in Hollywood” fashion show. It’s a favor, so we’re not getting paid,’ she said, meaning I wasn’t getting paid. ‘But, oh-my-God Jackie! I mean,’ she continued, ‘the Dressners! They would be great people to know!’

This was typical Sheryl, and this is what I mean about feeling bad for her. She was so desperate to be seen and liked, especially by the society types who lunched at the Polo Lounge, that she always did them favors to ingratiate herself to them. Although when I really thought about it, she adored attention from almost anyone willing to give it to her and was known to flirt with men half her age after no more than a single appletini. The Dressner job, however, was a definite step in the right direction for her as it was one more step up the social ladder. To me, it meant a wasted Saturday afternoon spent with a bratty teenager and her friends and no compensation in sight.

‘Sure,’ I mumbled, feigning rapture with something on my computer screen, which I hoped would mask my annoyance.

‘Fabulous! I would go–but I’ve got a hot date with a hotter man,’ she said before she leaned in closer to me. ‘And I probably won’t get out of bed ‘til noon, if you know what I mean.’ Making a whispering voice without whispering, she said, ‘Ted Painter,’ and then sat there smiling, waiting for my reaction.

‘Oh that’s great–I was supposed to meet friends at one of his restaurants for brunch tomorrow…’ I hinted. Standing up, I grabbed my coat as fast as I could in fear that she might start spouting more–where they were going, how they met, what he was like in bed. Just the thought of Sheryl and the sixty-year-old restaurateur holding hands made me gag.

‘So, I have to go now, bye,’ I said as I practically ran toward the door.

‘Oh–don’t forget, we have a big job on Sunday,’ she called after me.

‘We do?’ I asked, halfway out the door.

‘Come on, you remember, the music video shoot in the Valley,’ she said.

‘Oh right, those dancing, singing boys from that Nickelodeon show, right? The ones with kind of spiky hair?’ I asked nonchalantly.

‘The Emerson Brothers!’ she shrieked.

‘Yeah, them.’ I shrugged. She looked at me like I was crazy, but I wasn’t a twelve-year-old girl and I had no idea who they were.

‘They’re huge, Jackie, they just signed an endorsement deal with Street Cred!’

‘Who is that? A rapper?’ I asked, genuinely confused.

‘Street Cred?!’ she asked incredulously. ‘The energy drink? Well, anyway, we’re not doing their makeup exactly…’

‘Great,’ I thought, sure she was about to tell me we were doing their mother’s makeup for her dinner reservation that night.

Much to my relief, she responded, ‘We’re doing the makeup for this up-and-coming singer named Brooke Parker…a real cutie, she was Miss Teen Florida last year. She was discovered by some kind of talent manager or someone, doing her cute little song and dance in the pageant–anyway, she’s their opening act and she’s shooting her first video. I’ll see you Sunday.’

I was running late as usual the next day and hurried to put the finishing touches on the Dressner daughter’s face while the Hollywood elite took their seats in the ballroom of the Regent Beverly Wilshire–soon to be filled with the amateur designs of local rich kids dabbling in the fashion world on their parents’ dime. I giggled about this to myself as I spotted Delia Lutz, the Queen of Gossip and ruler of her own online domain, deliasdirt.com, sitting just a few seats away. She was snaky, sort of, in a very Page Six sort of way, but was even better because she sank her teeth into local personalities just as hard as international celebrities. And even though Delia could be cruel, I knew that she’d still write up the fashion show favorably since the proceeds were benefiting the Children’s Hospital. She’d call the attendees fashionistas instead of fogies, and describe the clothing with supple adjectives like sleek, flirty, and hip, instead of boring, ugly, and uninspired. As I mused, her gaze unexpectedly met mine, and then the strangest thing happened. Delia cringed, either in a state of embarrassment or horror, or maybe it was a combination of both, and looked away immediately.

‘That’s strange,’ I said to Lauren, my longtime friend who had accompanied me to the show, ‘did you see the way that woman just looked at me?’

‘It’s not that surprising considering she just lit up your boss online,’ Lauren laughed.

‘She what?’ I asked.

‘Don’t tell me you didn’t see it!’ A look, similar to Delia’s, spread across Lauren’s face now. She punched a few keys on her BlackBerry and flipped through a few entries–obviously having read Delia’s Dirt more than once on the go–and handed it over to me. Squinting slightly, I read:

Which well-known restaurateur currently going through a mid-life crisis was left waiting alone at a table in his very own nightclub while his recently separated, social-climbing date (who’s been known to do her fair share of both making out and ‘makeup’ all over town) gave a little ‘hand service’ to a hard-rocking musician in the next room over?

‘This is bad,’ I said to Lauren, ‘I mean, everyone knows that Sheryl’s been seeing Ted Painter…’

‘Who’s the hard-rocking musician?’ Lauren giggled.

‘I’m surprised that you don’t know!’ I laughed though I was still in sheer disbelief, unable to pry my eyes away from the phone. If anyone knew the rock star’s identity, I was sure it’d be Lauren–because Lauren always seemed to know everyone’s business everywhere. From celebrity blogs to the society column in a tiny Beverly Hills newspaper, she was on it. We met freshman year in high school and she was no different then–always relaying the latest dramas that were unfolding in the hallways as she twisted pieces of her unruly, strawberry-tinged hair around her finger. And even though she somehow knew everyone’s secrets, gossip for Lauren had always been more of a spectator sport. She worked at an art gallery and spent most of her time between the door-chimes of incoming customers compulsively hitting ‘refresh’ on every gossip website and blog in existence. Still, like me, she preferred to watch from the safety of the sidelines, managing to never stick out.

By the time the sixth model strutted down the runway in something that can only be described as ‘contemporary culottes’–if there is such a thing–I had become completely oblivious to the over-oooh’d-and-aaah’d crap being flaunted up and down the runway. If Sheryl puts as much energy into her anger as she puts into her enthusiasm, tomorrow was going to be ugly, a sleek and inspired kind of ugly.

My ringing cell phone provided me with a rude awakening early Sunday morning, confirming my worst fear: Sheryl scorned was a force to be reckoned with.

‘Hello?’ I asked groggily.

‘Jackie…it’s Sheryl.’

She was silent for a few seconds and I had momentarily forgotten all about the blind item in the newspaper as I looked sleepily around my garage apartment, which was basically attached to my parents’ house. The sunlight leaking in from the blinds highlighted the disaster that had become my home–littered with unused chopsticks, empty Lean Cuisine containers, and invitations to showers, weddings, and graduation parties (and thank-you letters from showers, weddings, and graduation parties).

‘Hi,’ I said, stepping over a pile of clothes that I meant to bring to the dry cleaner weeks ago.

‘Listen, you’re going solo to the gig today,’ she said slowly and grudgingly.

‘Okay…yeah, sure. Is something wrong?’ I asked, slightly wincing and wishing I could have taken it back the second I asked.

‘I um–well, my right hand is in a splint,’ she said cautiously as if she was contemplating telling the truth. Then, unwavering, she burst out, ‘It was that stupid bitch Lunt or Klutz or whatever. Okay? Here’s what happened…’

‘…It’s fine, you don’t have to explain, I can do the job—’

‘She wrote this thing about me, which totally wasn’t true–okay, so maybe it was kind of true–anyway, now Ted isn’t speaking to me and I’ve been getting weird looks…’

‘Honestly Sheryl, it’s fine. I can handle—’

‘…It’s been awful, and I told myself, “Sheryl, she is not going to get away with this, uh-uh.” And you know what? You’re never going to believe this Jackie…never, never, never…’

‘Okay…’ I said knowing full well that she wasn’t really waiting for my response.

‘I go to Jubilee last night for dinner with my neighbor Dana, who by the way is the only one of my friends speaking to me right now, bless her heart…we go to dinner and you’ll never believe who is sitting next to us! That bitch…Delila or whatever her name is…’

‘Delia,’ I corrected her.

‘Whatever–I recognized her from her stupid website…you know that picture next to her column–she’s got the frizzy hair and looks like she doesn’t pluck her eyebrows…’ she took a breath before continuing, ‘well I saw her and you know, gave her a little piece of my mind and things sort of escalated from there.’

My blood ran cold. I was scared to ask but knew I had to. ‘Escalated?’

Turns out sucking down one too many sugary sweet custom cocktails could not only influence Sheryl to bat her eyelashes at boys with fake I.D.s and give hickeys to her dates in public, but given the right antagonist, she could even throw a punch.

‘You hit her?’ I asked, feeling her embarrassment for her.

‘Well, kinda. I mean, she went on and on about freedom of speech and then she started explaining “blind item” to me in a very condescending way–I know what a blind item is for Christ sakes–but it wasn’t very blind if you ask me, that’s for sure…’

‘What do you mean you kinda hit her?’

‘Well, she was getting all sassy and in my face and she kind of raised up her hand–Dana later told me that she had started to wave her credit card to the waiter, like a “get me the hell outta here” type of thing, but I just reacted instinctively and popped her right in the nose…I was trying to defend myself. But enough about me. Are you okay to go to the gig by yourself today? Can you represent?’

‘Sure. Street Cred,’ I laughed.

‘That’s an energy drink! Remember that! If they ask you if you want one, say yes! Even if you’re not thirsty!’ And with that, she hung up the phone.

I was feeling a bit nervous by the time I reached the eastern end of the San Fernando Valley, where I quickly whipped into the studio’s parking lot. I was my own worst enemy, obsessing over every little thing that could possibly go wrong all morning. Forgetting my makeup case had been one of those recurring nightmare scenarios and, because I had made a point to triple-check its contents beforehand, I was running steadily behind schedule.

Encompassing nearly 100,000 square feet, the studio loomed ahead. Adjacent production offices that looked unused for the past decade only complimented the mottled eighties signage outside, making the facility look depressingly outdated. Once inside, however, its sound stages buzzed with life. Men in T-shirts and dirty jeans, who looked as if they’d been busy preparing the shoot for hours already, lugged cables back and forth and double-checked the PA systems.

‘Hi,’ I smiled, approaching two men who were busy fussing with one of the cameras, ‘I’m looking for Steve Green?’

Not turning away from his work, one of the men simply shrugged before the other piped up, acting as if my question was a huge burden.

‘Don’t know ‘em…you might want to ask someone back there,’ he said waving his hand to a small hallway lined with doors a short distance away. I maneuvered past the production assistants struggling to lug props and set pieces through the narrow space when a tall, slender man practically hissing into his cell phone caught me off guard.

‘What a fucking bitch! I don’t need to explain myself to a Nickelodeon development exec–I can’t even believe I even just spent time on the phone with her…She was like, “blah, blah, blah…” and I’m like…’ The man stopped as he noticed me staring at him and slowly pulled his phone away from his ear and frowned.

‘Hi, I’m Jackie, I’m here for the job…?’ I said, more like a question than a statement.

‘And what job would that be exactly?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow.

‘I’m, um, I’m here to do makeup for, uh…’ I fumbled, grasping for the call sheet in my purse, ‘Brooke! Brooke Parker.’ I smiled at him weakly. Throwing the phone back up to his ear, he barked, ‘I have to call you back.’ He studied his phone for another second, and wrinkled his nose in disgust, presumably disturbed by another message that had just come in. He was a fairly attractive man in his late thirties with evenly tanned skin, though its texture was conspicuously, almost unnaturally, wrinkle-free. He had Tony Curtis hair, expertly shaping a curled coif on his forehead thick with pomade, while his sleep-deprived, wide-set eyes bore heavy, dark lids. He looked up at me suddenly, almost inquisitively, as if he had forgotten that I was still standing there.

‘Now, what exactly are you looking for?’ With his head cocked he acted as if I had just asked him when the next spaceship left for Mars.

‘I’m doing Brooke Parker’s makeup…Sheryl Lane, my boss–she was going to do it but she…well, she can’t,’ I stammered, thinking fast. ‘So she sent me…I’m Jackie,’ I said extending my hand. In lieu of a handshake, he just kind of stared at my awaiting grasp, and then he spoke again.

‘Robert. Robert Bernstein. I’m Brooke’s stylist,’ he said. This took me by surprise, considering his style: a distressed long-sleeve rugby shirt fresh from an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue, cheap-looking blue jeans, and Adidas tennis shoes. I then remembered that, for a makeup artist, I only wore makeup a couple days a week at best, though I’d managed to swipe some mascara on my lashes before taking off this morning.

‘Well, nice to meet you, where should I set up?’

‘The dressing room is down two. The dancers are taken care of, so we need you, obviously, to pay full attention to Brooke. And you’ll do her hair as well I’m assuming?’ he asked bitchily, raising an eyebrow.

‘Yeah–yes, of course. Of course I know how to…’ I stuttered, afraid he’d call someone else if he knew that the extent of my experience actually doing hair was limited to helping Lauren flatten her impossibly curly tresses before dates. But really, how hard could it be? Brushing, teasing, curling–I knew how to do all of that.

‘Great,’ he cut me off, turning on his heel, off to his next drama.

As I located the dressing room, I nearly head-butted a boy bounding out of it. A bit shocked as I was, I jumped back, clutching my set bag as tightly as I could, but he smiled at me. Though I’d never seen their picture, I was able to peg him as one of the Emerson Brothers. From what little I knew about them, compliments of Sheryl, they were a pop sensation trio that had made it big with the ‘tween crowd when their song, ‘Let Your Body Do the Talkin”, appeared on a Nickelodeon sitcom. Now they were traveling the country, much to the delight of twelve-year-old girls everywhere, performing songs like ‘Girlfy,’ and ‘Break-up Box.’ The boy standing directly in front of me appeared to be about eighteen years old and was dressed exceptionally trendy–a shrunken twill blazer over a v-neck T-shirt that accented a black-and-silver lariat necklace, skintight slub denim pants, and argyle-printed Vans–thanks to the styling of Robert, I guessed. He exchanged a knowing look with an older, heavyset Latina woman who was standing next to one of the makeup counters before taking off in the opposite direction.