Hollywood's Secret Baby

The only reason I’m late is because the line at her favorite coffee shop was out the door. But the way she words her accusation almost makes it seem like she cares about my wellbeing. To an outsider, Ms. Watterson might seem genuinely concerned. In fact, I was on a date with a guy named Tyler a few months back when we ran into Ms. Watterson. It was at that huge bookstore up on Fifth. We chatted for no more than thirty seconds, but it was enough to impress my date who exclaimed how lucky I was to have such an awesome boss.

That’s how she gets people. Like one of those fish with the dangly light that attracts unsuspecting victims in range of her needle-like teeth. I’ve worked under her long enough to know that she never attacks directly. No, she’s never so obvious. Even now, she’s already working out how to passive aggressively punish me for being late this morning. Perhaps like last time she’ll pass around a rumor that she heard from a friend that I’m secretly a porn actress on the side, and that’s why I’m always so tired in the morning. When the actual truth is that I never sleep more than five hours a night because I’m always up watching dramas and movies, imagining myself on the screen rather than in its unflattering reflection.

What I need is a break from my dreary reality, which is exactly where I find myself right now.

“Did you tell her the good news?” Lee asks and then looks at me expectantly. “God has really seen fit to bless you today.”

“You know it makes me uncomfortable when you refer to me as ‘god’,” Ms. Watterson says with a sly smile on her face. I laugh at this out of habit. I’ve never found anything she says humorous, but it’s just easier this way.

“You shouldn’t joke like that,” Lee exclaims. “You could be putting your soul in immortal peril.”

Ms. Watterson’s smile reminds me of a snake I once saw at the zoo. Only there’s no thick window keeping me safe from her fangs. “Natalie’s a true reporter. That means she gave up her soul long ago. Which is why there’s no way she would pass up the opportunity I’ve got for her today.”

“A story?” I ask stupidly.

If you ever listen to Ms. Watterson carefully, you would notice that she never asks questions. She will state things and your brain might interpret them as a question, but there is never any rising intonation at the end of her sentences. She is a machine with a self-assured purpose. And whenever she crosses anyone who asks questions with obvious answers, she fails to hide the exasperation she feels at dealing with such a lower life form.

“Yes, a story,” she says as if the words pain her to form. There is no less of that ‘exhausted teacher’ tone in her voice when she asks, “Tell me that you’ve heard of Michael Hurst.”

This is one of her non-questions I can actually answer in the affirmative. But I still screw it up with my Southern politeness. “You mean that tech billionaire’s son?”

“Yes. That ‘tech billionaire’s son’,” she says with disgust at my tawdry choice of words. “His father, the late Benjamin Hurst, left his entire fortune to his only son three years ago. Even before his father’s death, Michael was elusive. What stories we have on him are barely third-hand. All photos of him since the funeral are as grainy as UFO reports. But we finally have a solid lead that puts him in the city.”

“Right now?”

Ms. Watterson actually shakes her head

at this. Looks over at the dozen cubicles where real reporters are busy making calls, typing up stories on their laptops, and combing through print-outs from the morning meeting. “Perhaps I should assign someone else. You seem unable to grasp even the most obvious of facts.”

“No,” I blurt out. “I want it.”

“Your enthusiasm fails to outshine your small-town stupidity, for I haven’t even told you what it is.”

Normally this insult might mean something to me. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been treated as ignorant the moment I open my mouth and my Southern drawl falls out. Ms. Watterson in particular has made my origin a point of nearly every interaction we've ever had. Still, the same curious spirit that saw me move across the country on my own to see if I had it, and the same curiosity that landed me in a news company when Hollywood didn’t accept me with open arms, leads me to inevitably ask, “What’s the assignment?”

“We have a source that works at a night club Michael has apparently been frequenting since his prodigal return. In exchange for a paltry $500, she has agreed to get you inside the club tonight and point you in his direction.”

“So what you’re telling me is that my job is to go to a club tonight?”

“The Violet Rim, yes.”

“Violet what?”

Out comes Ms. Watterson’s exasperation again. “The truth is that you are the only young female staff we have available for such a task. If anyone else were available—and I do mean anyone—you would be relegated to your desk until the wee hours of the morning to make up for your absence this morning. But seeing as my hands are bound, it pains me to tell you that you must leave early today. To prepare.”

“Night clubs don’t usually open until late, right? I think I’ll have plenty of time to get home and change clothes before then.”

Lee interjects here with his overly optimistic persona. “Ms. Watterson has arranged a whole barrage of appointments for you. All paid for by the newspaper. You really should be thanking her for such a wonderful opportunity. And after her, thank God for divining to bring you here in the first place, away from the sin-filled valley that is Hollywood.”

I give Lee a tired smile before asking yet another question, “What sort of appointments?”

Ms. Watterson bares her unnaturally white teeth in what she must assume to be what a human smile looks like. “This is the story of the quarter, possibly even the year. And if we’re to break it, you will have to be absolutely eye-catching. While you would struggle to turn heads in a library, you will be in a club, which means you will need help scrubbing off every last scrap of your country bumpkin self.”

“A true blessing,” Lee parrots once more.

And as much as I want to believe him, anything that comes from Ms. Watterson is bound to be a curse.

***