The message was short, even for Stephanie’s style. She was tired of Stacy’s attitude, tired of being accused of sleeping around with the person Stacy thought was her guy. Now it was spilling over into work on the set: It turned out Stacy, as production assistant and some-of-the-time makeup girl for Stephanie, didn’t think it was important to make her look good for the cameras. Leave me out of this, the message concluded, and don’t call me until this is in the rear view mirror. I took out the stylus at the side of my Treo phone and typed as a reply, Okay Carrie, a mutual joke we shared poking fun at the incorrect birth name listed for her on a popular web site.

“Important email?” Doug asked. He took a corner hard trying to maneuver around the half-drunken homeless man in the road who decided no red light could contain him.

“Yes, but no,” I replied as I deleted the mail from my inbox. “Same problems…more women, more problems.” I paused for a moment. “These two have excellent racks, that might be the only difference this time around.”

Doug shook his head in disapproval. “You are like that song - ‘Might as well face it, you’re addicted to love.’ That song is you.”

I smirked. “Well, that is a better option than Dancing Queen.”

Another turn, this time onto Flower. “Shut up you homo,” Doug scoffed in as prissy a Just Jack alto as he could muster.

It had been over six months since I had held a job. While I’d grown accustomed to the open days, I missed the productivity and camaraderie of an office environment. School - wherever that would be - was starting in September so the prospects for finding a place to babysit me temporarily were slim. Fortunately my old work pal Doug had struck out on his own, leaving Chiat/Day to start a scouting and management service for advertising agencies and small production companies. Anybody looking to make use of Los Angeles as a backdrop for their music video or commercial shoot would be wise to mine Doug’s noggin for all its riches. He had the background and smarts to pull it off, and his networking abilities were near legendary. His only problem was his company currently consisted solely of Doug, and the 16 hour work days were starting to drive him crazy.

“Come on,” he pleaded during what amounted to a sales pitch while stopped at a light, “I’m answering phones, playing location scout, production manager, line producer, I’m even giving casting advice. I am running on overload.”

“Uh huh.” I tried to act unimpressed. Doug was the type of person who let any measure of success go to his head. “Hire a secretary.”

“You’re joking, right? Some temp assigned by a random agency who knows nothing about what I do or who I do it with?”

“I didn’t know knowledge of a gay man’s social calendar was a job requirement,” I quipped.

“Don’t be a fuck.” He was the only one I knew who used fuck as a noun without the -ER at the end. “I don’t even want to think about how long it’s been since I’ve been on a proper date.”

“Yeah, and this doesn’t count Goldilocks.” Doug sneered in response. “Besides, I can’t work long term for you. I’m going to school in the fall.”

“So I get six months peace of mind. I can live with that,” Doug responded. Another corner. Doug’s BMW M3 responded with a buckle and a whine. That Stuttgart hussy was like a knife through melted butter.

“I still have to attend two more interviews.” I’d already done my interview locally with the reps from USC’s Marshall School of Business. I still had Stanford and Columbia on the docket.

“Take a day off here and there, I don’t mind.”

“This sounds like such a waste when you could train someone to be around for the next few years.”

“Screw that,” Doug hissed. “I need someone with the background you have and the rapport we have. Look, this is more a favor to me than simply filling your time. Consider it.”

We screamed into the valet lane in front of our restaurant destination. Doug swiftly emerged from his side ahead of the scrawny little valet who looked even more so against the muscle-bound statuesque frame of Doug. With his toned athletic build, Doug would never have to know gaybashing, not looking the way he did, which was a boon for him considering how much of a flippin’ flamer he could be.

I looked up at the marquee. A steakhouse. Doug did like a good steak, unlike most of the gay carniphobes of West Hollywood and Santa Monica who counted their Soy intake with the same reverence they reserved for measuring out HIV medications. I knew Doug was a standup guy and wanted to do right by him, but couldn’t help but feel this arrangement was a band-aid that would hurt when ripped aside in September. But Doug was also a door opener, the kind of person who could make introductions. The kind of person who would be an asset two years from now when trying to land a job. Especially if I chose to stick with advertising, on which I hadn’t yet decided.

“Okay,” I sighed, “I’ll consider it. Now buy me lunch, or else I won’t put out,” I joked.

“Fag!” he shot back.

“Dairy Queen!” I responded.
______________________________________________________________________

Staring out from the studio-cum-office, I had a good vantage point of downtown Los Angeles, of Broadway Street where the shells of old movie palaces once stood, some converted to store fronts, offices, and churches, others walled up from the public save for special occasions like a film festival or red carpet premiere. The taller 30s and 40s-era skyscrapers, tall in their day but now dwarfed by the modern high-rises in the adjacent financial district, were being shelled out one by one and converted into hipster downtown lofts. Doug’s own place was three floors above in the same building, bought when there was no revitalization of the downtown core, and people might have thought you crazy for buying anything here unless it was for storing dead bodies. Below a metro bus pulled away from the curb and a crowd of tiny people quickly dispersed in all directions, some Mexican, some Asian, some Black, some White. For everything Los Angeles was on paper - dirty, congested, alienating, rife with illegal immigrants - the downtown core was the city’s one true demilitarized zone. Nobody was any better than the person they stood next to. It was unlike any other place in the southland.

I picked up the phone and confirmed a location scouting appointment for late in the day, flirted a bit with the woman on the other end of the call, and signed off quickly when Doug returned from the street with our mid-afternoon snack. It had become a tradition during the very fast two months I’d already worked with Doug: A 3PM stoppage to retrieve a couple of carnitas tacos from the street vendor on the corner of Seventh. Doug put his foil-wrapped treat on the desk in front of him and slung mine towards the window where I stood.

“Christ, not cilantro again,” I sighed after peeling back the foil to reveal minced leaves scattered all over the corn tortilla. “You do know how to tell them to hold the cilantro, right? Sin Cilantro. Even I know enough Spanish to order carnitas with the fucking cilantro.”

“Hush. Cilantro is good for the soul,” Doug responded.

I poked around the food, surgically extracting the cilantro while leaving the chopped onion bits intact. “What a faggy thing to say,” I mused.

Doug rolled his eyes.

Between carefully placed bites of my food, I continued. “There’s something I wanted to ask you.”

Doug huffed to indicate he couldn’t even enjoy his carnitas in peace. “Whaa-ut? This isn’t the one where you ask why gay men are all named Bruce or Lance.”

“Or Chip,” I quickly added. “They’ve co-opted that one too.” Another well-placed bite of my food. “That’s not what I wanted to ask.”

“Or why it is we rally around Barbara Streisand and Liza. It’s not that one is it? I told you it’s the show tunes.”

“Duh, like anybody is going to have a difficult time sleuthing that one. No, this is a fashion question.”

Doug spun around to face me, a little surprised by the topic, and little touched. “First off, you’ve made the right choice. You breeders are a disaster when it comes to translating fashion for the common folk, although you pull it off once it in a while.” He waved off the thought with a flamboyant wrist swoosh. “What’s the question?”

“Come over here to the window so you can see,” I instructed. When he was standing over my shoulder, I pointed out a woman walking down the street. “See that girl walking down the street, the blonde with the creme-colored top?”

He nodded. “You mean Miss Hooters with the bad bleach job who looks like every girl you’ve ever fucked? Yeah, I see her.”

“Funny,” I added. “Okay, look at everything below her waist. Shorts made of slacks material with a two inch cuff on the leg, and then she wears serious heels with that? I don’t follow the logic.”

Doug took another look until he was satisfied and backed away from the window. “I’m surprised you never threw that one around the table at that horrid website you write for.”

“We’ve bandied about but never with a definitive summation,” I said.

“Well,” Doug began, “our bodies are our temples - like I have to tell you that in this town - and with all the work women put into the pursuit of a firm and fit body, it’s the vanity that makes them dole out that wardrobe combo. It’s their way of saying ‘look at all the hard work I have put in, and look how toned and shapely these legs are.’ Of course heels do that anyway regardless, but then again heels don’t make every set of legs look good. Some gals are simply hopeless!”

I smiled and returned to my seat. “Okay, Dame Edna, thanks for that.”

Doug took a deep bow like a stage performer. “The pleasure was purely mine. Pearls of wisdom, soak them up while time is of the essence!” He adjusted a sleeve on his shirt and walked over to the file cabinet closest to my desk. “Speaking of blondes you’ve fucked, how’s that one chippy of yours doing?” he asked.

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“You know, blonde gal…you had a thing…and then you didn’t.”

“Not helping. Again, you have to be more specific.”

He smirked. “She doesn’t live around here. She’s one of them fer-ners.”

I looked up. “Oh. That one.”

He feigned anguish. “Oooh. ‘That One.’ Doesn’t sound like things are good with chippy.”

“Carolyn,” I said with proper intonation. “Her name is Care-oh-lin.”

“Yes, and how is Miss Care-oh-lin doing these days?”

“I don’t know. It’s been a bit since we’ve talked.”

Doug walked over to my desk and hit the speaker button on the phone. “Let’s find out then,” he said over the loud dial tone.

I leaned back in my chair. “You want me to call her.”

Doug nodded.

“Right now?” I added.

“Stage fright?” he asked. “Performance anxiety? Wilting in the heat of the moment? You know they make this amazing little blue pill, I’m certain the pharmaceutical who manufactures it was a client of ours at one point…”

“Would you shut up!” I interrupted. I started dialing. “I hope you have a good international calling plan or this is going to cost you.”

“Don’t you worry about that. You have bigger fish to fry,” he responded.

The line began ringing as I thought “don’t be home, don’t be home,” but following a click I heard a cheery “Hallo?” on the other end.

Damn. “Hi, it’s me.”

“Hi! To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

I paused and placed a hand over the microphone while motioning with my head to Doug to get the hell out of here. He emphatically shook his head and signaled with his hands for me to talk.

“To, uh…my big gay boss, who is listening in, by the way.”

“Hello there! Call me Doug,” he boomed. “If you are even a quarter of the sweetheart Reed says you are, he’s got some serious competition in this office.”

“She’s not a fan of the B-52s and Urban Cowboy, Doug. I think you’re assed out.”

Doug threw a pointed finger at me along with the evil eye. “A pox upon your house, Becker! A fucking pox.”

“All work fun aside, your call has good timing,” Carolyn said.

“It does?” both Doug and I said in near unison.

“Do you mind?” I asked and picked up the cradle of the phone, taking Carolyn off the speaker.

“Hey, no fair!” Doug exclaimed.

Turning the conversation back to Carolyn, I continued. “Sorry about that. You were saying something about timing?”

“Indeed. I was going to call you in the next day or two about doing me a favor.” I looked at the changing blinks of lights on the phone console and realized Doug had quietly picked up the line from his desk and was listening in.

I spun around to face him, my expression showing clearly I was not appreciative of his in-office phone tap. “What kind of favor?” I asked Carolyn. Doug raised a provocative eyebrow at the word favor.

“What are you doing two weekends from Saturday?” she asked, her voice as crystal clear as if she were standing beside me.

“Yes, what are you doing two weekends from Saturday, Reed?” Doug breathed into the phone.

“I’m going to New York to interview with Columbia University’s MBA people.” Then, to Doug, I added, “I was going to ask you about taking that Thursday and Friday off.”

A squeal came from Carolyn’s end of the conversation. “Oh my god, oh my god - that’s so perfect.”

“What is?” Doug excitedly asked. Then he quickly added, “never mind, because now you’re going to talk about mushy hetero feelings and stuff. No thank you.” With an abrupt click he hung up.

“My, he’s really a character,” Carolyn commented. “Sounds very high maintenance.”

I laughed. “You don’t even know the half of it.” She sounded good, like a refreshing something that had been missing from my daily grind. She always did maintain a sunny disposition.

“So what’s this big to do?” I continued.

“The Saturday of that same weekend I am displaying some of my work. It’s something we all do as part of our Master’s degree, so we rotate in groups of three and show off our photos for two weeks.”

“Sounds great. Congratulations.”

“It’s nothing really, just the university gallery. Like I said, has to be done in order to pass.”

“What’s the favor?”

She paused and exhaled slowly, like this was the beginning some section she’d previously rehearsed. “Each of us gets an introduction at the premiere . We get our pick of who delivers the introduction, it’s something like two or three minutes. I want you to introduce my work. You’ve seen so many of my photographs and you know how I work. Besides, it’s black tie, and with you in a dapper suit, all cool and commanding…” She wandered for a second. “I think you’d give a damn fine introduction.”

“Wouldn’t you want a peer from your program introducing you? Someone who can talk about all those technical things that make your photos pop?”

“That’s just it, I don’t want that person, Reed. The audience will be made up of families and friends - not industry pros who know every nuance of photography. Having a classmate introduce me would result in the crowd getting lost in all the metaphysical mumbo jumbo photographers like to discuss. You can talk to them about me in language they would understand.” She cleared her throat. “You’re the one I want - um, I mean I want you to properly introduce me.”

I looked over to Doug and he responded by canting his head, poking his tongue out to the side of his mouth, and holding an imaginary hangman’s noose on which he choked. After a few seconds he made a choking sound for added effect.

“Listen,” I began as I cupped the receiver’s microphone for a little privacy, “that would be a tough trip. I travel all day Thursday, interview Friday, shoot up to Toronto on Saturday and then fly back here Sunday? That’s rough.”

“You could totally do it. It’s such a short flight from New York.”

In the background Doug was still making choking noises.

“It’s just soooo easy to jump on a side flight here, and another there. It’s no problem. Oh wait a minute, it is, because I hate flying. I hate it! Remember?”

“I know how you are about planes, but I thought maybe you’d want to see me. ‘Sure Carolyn, I’d love to see you. Of course I could tinker with my schedule a bit because it means that much to you’.” She said in her best gruff male voice.

I ran a hand through my beard and straightened some curly-queue hairs.

“And another thing,” Carolyn continued, “you’ll have to shave off that Grizzly Adams beard of yours. I don’t want people thinking I’ve invited the unibomber to the ceremony.” She paused, expecting a response, and when none came added, “you still have it, don’t you? I knew you hadn’t shaved it off.”

I drummed my fingers on the desk. What would I do? There would be flights to divert, another hotel room to get, and the early Ontario spring with which to contend. I hadn’t forgotten how deceivingly cold the weather could be, especially with the wind gusting in from the lake. And I wasn’t sure if my Mother would be able to take care of herself for four days, let alone do simple things like feed the dog. I promised Carolyn I would call her later in the evening when we could be assured some privacy to figure things out. I hung up and exhaled a deeply.

From behind me Doug spoke up. “So she wants you to come on up to the Great White North.”

“Yes.”

“And you aren’t so sure you want to jump on a plane and rush up there,” he continued.

“Uh huh.”

Doug started juggling three small oranges at his desk, a focusing ritual of his when readying for a client meeting. Between tosses he noticed I was quiet and so he quickly followed up his thought.

“You’re going to do it, aren’t you? You’re going to divert your dumb ass to Canada.”

“I am?” I asked.

“You and her, you’re like crack to each other. Then you try to quit - both of you - and you can’t do it. There’s some temporary fallout and then you’re back scoring a new high off each other.” He leaned back to grab an errant orange while he talked. “It’s rather sickening, frankly. If this is breeder love, I’m damn glad I am what I am.”

Grasping all three oranges in one hand, he shouted, “Here, catch!”

I spun in my seat just in time to deflect the oranges he tossed with my body.

“Reed, something tells me you’ll need to learn how to use them.”