“I know.” I nod in agreeance. Taking a deep breath, I watch Bellini continue to snap her fingers at humans, demanding her father’s presence. “My grandpa better cherish that damn Pez dispenser.” I take a deep breath, accepting my fate. “Let’s do this.”
Jonathan beams at me and lets out a long, relieved sigh. “Awesome. This will be great, Pay. Just work with her for a few months, get some experience, and hopefully soon we will be able to scrub your record clean. The producer, Wally Rose, is well known for rotating his crews. If you prove you can handle someone like Bellini Chambers, and all the bullshit that comes with her, there is no doubt in my mind he will look at you seriously for other positions. Use this job as a test. If you do well, consider yourself on your way up in the industry.”
“You really think so?” I would do just about anything to get back in the game, to get behind a mixing board and start assisting with production again.
When I left the Pechanga Reservation in Temecula for college, my family scoffed at me, told me my pipe dreams were just that—pipe dreams. I should stay in the family business, the general store, and work to serve the community. Trying to earn a job in production wasn’t helping anybody, the great parting words from my father. The only person who believed in me was my grandpa. He funded college while I reached for the stars, hence ensuring I won his Pez dispenser. As I said, I would do anything for the man.
Once my family caught wind of
The Incident
, they made a great attempt to shame me and lure me back to Temecula, but I refused. Thank God for Jonathan; I owed him. Taking this job wasn’t just for me, it was for him. He’s worked just as hard and held my head above water while I tried to find myself. It is time to pay him back.
“I do think so, Pay, but you have to work hard. You up for it?”
I eye Bellini and start pumping myself up. Rich white girl, blonde hair, and bird legs with her own reality show: no problem. I grew up on an Indian reservation in one of the most materialistic parts of the country. I was called moccasin, dreamcatcher, and featherhead by my classmates from kindergarten through high school. If I can handle that kind of torture and abuse, what can this little Twinkie really do to me?
“I am. Thanks for getting me this job, Jonathan. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime, sweets. Now let me introduce you because I have some work to do on Backdoor Barbeque.”
Jonathan worked with Wally Rose on one of his other reality shows, Backdoor Barbeque. It is the reason why he was able to get me this job, but he also assists with other shows where needed. It is a bit of an incestuous pool of employees with all shows falling under Wally Rose’s belt. Right then and there, I tell myself I’m going to take this job seriously no matter what the pixie stick throws at me. I’m determined to begin my climb back up to my dreams, starting with Bellini Chambers.
**BELLINI**
It’s so hard being me.
I’m so popular, everyone wants to be me, and do you know what? I don’t blame them? How can I? If I saw such a specimen like myself walking down the streets of Rodeo Drive, I would strive to be just like me as well.
Just look at those cheekbones, smooth and perfectly round, framing the crystal blue of my eyes. I’ve accomplished the absolute ideal symmetry in my eyebrows thanks to the threading goddess at pagoda number nine in the mall. My hair looks like it’s been spun by Rapunzel herself into velvet tendrils of blonde, cascading perfectly to my shoulders. And don’t even ask me where I get it dyed, you dumb bitches, because you can’t find this color in a box. It’s natural.
I’m beautiful. I’m popular. I’m famous.
But most importantly, I’m rich, and what I found out when you’re rich is that you can get anything you want. With one snap of the fingers, you can have three people at your beck and call asking you how they can assist you while they try to stick their head as far as they possibly can up my perfectly bleached asshole.
“Where’s Daddy?” I shout. “How long does it take for a bunch of Cheetos-eating production skanks to find one single man? Hello, he’s the fat, balding one in the Burberry plaid pants!”
Ugh, yes, you heard that right, he wears Burberry plaid pants. He’s known for them now. Once Daddy earned his riches, he decided to make a fashion statement—be a style icon—and since Nick Jonas could pull off the Burberry print, Daddy thought he could too. All my dad’s life decisions are based around the Jonas Brothers, as in his words, they are a proper boy band, one to emulate. Hence the over-the-top karaoke machine in our living room, stocked with songs from the main squeezes in my father’s life. In my opinion, they are a cheaper, yet more attractive version of Hanson.
But like I was saying, it’s so hard being me.
You can’t imagine the amount of pimply faced tweens—boys and girls—that come up to me on a daily basis, asking me how they can obtain the kind of perfection I exude. Do you know what I tell them? I pat their little chunky, pockmarked cheeks and say . . . you can’t.
Every generation has their Audrey Hepburn, but I belong to the Millennials. Instead of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, my minions follow me to the Hamptons where they sit outside the house, scratching their lice-infested heads, watching me have brunch with Harry Winston while we talk about how there is no piece of jewelry in this world that could ever be prettier than me.
Tiffany’s, ha! Pathetic, Audrey.
Girls want to be me, there’s no question about that. Just ask my main follower, Pocket. No, her parents didn’t pull a Michael Jackson on her and name her after the inner lining of a jean sack, I just can’t remember her name. I think it’s something like Polly, but I’m too bored of her to figure it out, so I call her Pocket. It’s much easier this way.
Pocket is the perfect little minion. On a daily basis she pulls my pants down and blows compliments up my little white ass. Not literally, God, we’re not an episode of The L Word.
She is entirely too ugly to upstage me, therefore she never steals the attention. I do dress her because I can’t be seen walking the streets with a Macklemore thrift shop monstrosity. I give her my hand-me-downs, even the underwear I only wear once. No use in throwing it away. I’m sponsored by Bordelle—kind of like Justin Bieber being sponsored by Calvin Klein—but instead of walking around like a bleached-blond douche, I strut my Bordelle as if I am Marilyn Monroe, occasionally letting the wind send a sexy uplift to my flouncy dress, showing off my perfectly waxed Brittney.
No publicity is bad publicity if you ask me.
Girls want to be me . . . but more importantly, boys want to get with me.
Ugh, men. Their brains are in their dicks, thinking only with their lightning rod and coin purses. The amount of men who’ve panted over my mere appearance is overwhelming. I’ve had to increase my security detail because a nude shot of me has now escalated to a half million dollars. I’ve seen pictures on the Internet of naked women with my head photoshopped onto their bodies, and it’s disgraceful. Newsflash to everyone out there, including the Tumblr freaks dying to post a picture of me in my true essence: anyone who thinks those bodies belong to me are sorely mistaken. If you haven’t noticed already, there isn’t one ounce of fat on my body, and secondly, if you were to see my nipples, you would notice they are pretty little jelly beans rather than the pancakes some bored computer nerd thinks I have.
Thankfully, I’m taken, and don’t have to worry about sifting through the trough of America’s finest.
Who is the lucky man you ask?
Only Olympic royalty, Reese King.
I’ll wait while you fan your face.
Done salivating? Such horny bitches.
He’s everything a girl like me could ask for. He looks good standing next to me. He’s just sexy enough to be able to hold his own, but doesn’t overshadow me, and he’s rich as well, thanks to his underwear modeling and popularity. Anyone would want to have a threesome with us, but too bad for them, I’m a puritan and believe in abstinence before marriage. By no means are we engaged, but he isn’t sticking anything near me anytime soon.
“Did my little angel puss call for me?” my dad asks. “I was walking Pope Francis, making sure he dookied outside.”
“Popey!” I squeal, reaching out with my needy hands, wanting to feel his hair run through my fingers.
The minute Pope Francis is handed over to me, I bury my face in his hair and take in the smell of frankincense and myrrh. He wears it as cologne, and it suits him well.
I know what you’re thinking, why is the ex-officio of the Roman Catholic Church letting you bury your face in his hair? Shouldn’t he be hanging out at the Vatican, breaking bread for the homeless like Jesus did?
He is, you ignorant shoehorns.
The Pope Francis I’m talking about is my mini white schnauzer, the love of my life, and the only good in this world. Gandhi, the real Pope Francis, Oprah, and the Olsen twins come in a close second.
Popey is the perfect little companion and religious outlet I need. He is kind, has a deep concern for the poor—mainly homeless dogs—and is extremely humble. Despite my attempts to pamper him with mink fur coats and gold-threaded dog beds, he continues to sleep on the cold, hard floor of my bedroom like a saint and will only wear collars from . . . PetSmart. I cringe just thinking about it.
Most importantly, Popey is the inspiration for my up-and-coming clothing line of religious wear for dogs. Where did I get such a fantastic idea you ask? After realizing my dog is a religious humanitarian, I wanted to make sure he was dressed properly for the part. After hours upon hours of research, I concluded there was a hole in the dog clothing market. I couldn’t find one Angelican surplice, Roman Southport cassock, or a simple short-sleeve, polyblend clergy shirt for a dog. What is the world coming to if I can’t buy a cassock for my own dog?
Therefore, I took matters into my own hands and began creating my own line of religious wear to satisfy my dog’s needs.
“What’s wrong, angel puss?” my dad asks as I’m nuzzling Pope Francis’s nose. “I heard you were upset about a bench.”
The rage I was feeling instantly vanishes, and I know it’s because God rests in my dog, and he can calm the inner Lucifer that wants to pop out of me from time to time. “The bench is oak, Daddy. I asked for African blackwood.”
“The nerve.” He slams his fist on the armrest of his chair. “Who do I need to fire?”
I want to say the carpenter, but I know Pope Francis wouldn’t be pleased with me. He’s so thoughtful and respectful of others, and I don’t want to disappoint him. Instead, I put on a brave face.
“No one, Daddy. I can tough it out. I only have to sit on it for a short time while they take pictures of me.”
“I don’t want my angel puss unhappy and uncomfortable. Are you sure you can go on with the shoot? I will demand we reschedule.”
I pat my dad’s arm. “Thank you, Daddy, but I feel like slumming it for a short amount of time won’t harm me. Might be nice to see how the people below us live. Let’s see what it feels like to be a blue-collar worker.”
“You’re so brave.” My dad grips my face, tears of pride in his eyes.
“Thanks, Daddy. It can be a blog post I make later and a moment to add to my scrapbooks. I can entitle it, ‘How people on the other side of the tracks live.’”
My dad claps for me. “What a wonderful and inspiring title. You’re changing the world, angel puss. I couldn’t be more proud of you.”
I grip my dad’s hand that still rests against my cheek, and I’m about to tell him I love him when someone from behind me clears their throat, interrupting the father-daughter dance of emotions I’m experiencing.
“Miss Chambers, I have someone I would like to introduce to you.”
“Who the hell has the audacity to interrupt—?” My words are cut short when I see Jonathan Byers standing behind me. Normally, I wouldn’t know someone’s name so well, especially when I don’t tend to care about the humans around me, but Jonathan is important. He’s good friends with Wally Rose, my producer. So I try to give him a miniscule of my respect, despite the fact he dresses like a hipster straight from an Anthropology ad. No matter what anyone ever says, sock hats and plaid should never be worn together with leather bracelets. Ill-fashioned illiterates. “Jonathan, I’m sorry. I thought you were that pestering coffee mule again.”
He straightens his skinny tie and shoots a fake smile in my direction. I’m not stupid. I know the irritable gingham-clad man-version of Blossom hates me, and well, the feeling is mutual.
“I apologize for interrupting you and your dad but I would like to introduce you to your new assistant. Her name is Paisley Macarro. She is a graduate from UCLA and has a degree in film production.”
From behind Jonathan, an extremely fit woman with tan skin, long black wavy hair, and grey eyes appears, looking a little gun-shy. She’s wearing a pair of cut-off jean shorts, combat boots, and a black tank top—what a monstrosity. Her skin is decorated with random tattoos of scribbled sayings, providing no rhyme or reason. It looks like Jonathan just opened a trash bag and she crawled out of it.
“Hello, Miss Chambers, it’s a pleasure—”
I hold up my hand, pleading with her to shut her mouth before a raccoon munching on an ear of corn pops out. “Did you say your name is Paisley?”
The girl quickly glances at Jonathan and then directs her attention back to me, where it belongs.
“Yes, it’s Paisley.”
“As in the Persian pattern that decorates most elderly women’s living rooms? Mainly in mauve or dusty blue tones?”
“Some people might say like Brad Paisley,” she says, in an attempt to correct me. I look at her, clueless. “You know, the country star?”
“Fortunately his name is irrelevant to me. I don’t listen to that cheap southern twang you beer guzzlers call music. I only let my virgin ears listen to the harmonic composers of the Baroque period. For you imbeciles, that would be Bach, Purcell, Scarlatti, and Hendel, to name a few, but I’m sure you knew that.” I give her a knowing look as I pet Pope Francis, fully satisfied with putting her in her place.