Sections: Introduction, Characters, December 25, January 1
Author: Scribe
Fandom: Original
Pairing: None now. Who knows?
Archive: Yes, with the caveat that I may ask to have it taken down if I think I can get it published. And tell me where it goes.
Feedback: Yes, please. poet77665@yahoo.com
Websites: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/scribescribbles
Disclaimer: It's mine, actually. Basic structure provided by Writing Assignments at http://www.stories.com but the meat, potatoes, and garnish are mine.
Summary: A woman working for a bomb shelter building enterprise is trapped in one when she attends the 'shelter warming' party of a Hollywood movie mogul.
Notes: This is in journal form, so some parts may be very short. If I do several of them in a row, I'll try to combine them. The gathered sections can be viewed in my portfolio at stories.com, under the name Scribe Mozell
Warnings: Nothing for now. God knows what will happen later. See intro for why.
Rating: Let's say NC-17 to be on the safe side
Scenario
by Scribe
Introduction
This is going to be something totally new and experimental for me. I recently found a fantastic site called stories.com. It is chock full of wonderful ways to express yourself, posting your work for others to read, review, and rate. <plug>You can post up to fifteen items in a personal portfolio free of charge. A reasonable payment gives you unlimited items. You can (using the forms they supply) create stories, poems, interactive stories, interactive lists, journals, 'campfire' stories, book reviews, etc. I LOVE THIS PLACE! And yes, they DO list fanfiction as a genre. I highly advise going there. If you're interested in checking out my stuff, I go by Scribe Mozell over there. Most of my stuff will still end up here, but there may be an odd or end there that you haven't seen. :)
Anyway, this is my first 'writing assignment'. It's an exercise offered there. They set up a premise, you start a journal, and then work with the elements they give you.
I chose Scenario One to start with. The simple premise is that there has been a thermonuclear war, and you somehow find yourself with twelve other people in a bomb shelter that can only comfortably (safely?) house TWELVE. It goes on from there. The moderator will introduce things down the line, like two survivors become antagonistic, someone is stealing food, and I THINK there's going to be a murder somewhere along the line.
Anyway, this is my effort.
I call it Scenario (very original, eh? But it's after three a.m.). My writer is a thirty-something young woman employed by the company that built the bomb shelter. It was built for a Hollywood movie mogul, a very demanding and difficult man. The person responsible for keeping construction running smoothly and dealing with the customer passes away suddenly, and the writer gets stuck with the job.
When it's finished, she is invited to the 'shelter warming' party. She's reluctant to go (he's been an ass), but is not so subtly urged to attend for 'customer relations' (read 'shilling for more business
from the richies who'll attend). While she's there, someone, somewhere in the world drops a bomb...
Many of these entries will be very short. Remember, this is supposed to be a journal.
I have no IDEA where it's going, won't know what's going to be in each section till I'm ready to write it. I'm flying by the seat of my pants here, people. Hope you enjoy it--I think I will.
Characters
1. Zima Feely--Journalist (keeper of journal). Name means 'trustworthy', and yes, she's caught HELL for that name all her life. Standing grudge against her parents for the name (they were
hippies). Thirty-five, single, virgin with attitude. Coordinator in Texas branch of Seguro Shelters. Suckered into taking charge of Callahan project.
2. Arthur Callahan--movie mogul. Mid-to late fifties, fairly presentable, salt-and-pepper beard and hair. One of top ten grossing movie producer/directors of all time. Has been told he is God so
often that he's beginning to believe it. Charming with those he considers equals, condescending or shitty to those he considers inferior (which is most of the world).
3. Margo Callahan--Arthur's wife Mid-fifties, looks mid-forties. Very well put together, frosted ash blonde hair. Drinks too much. Not an unpleasant person, but very vague, and afraid Arthur is
hunting for a 'trophy wife'.
4. H. Colin Baxter--superstar, nice guy. H. stands for Honeywell (family name, but he tries to keep it quiet). English actor, leading box office star for past decade. English. Twice divorced, both
times when wives cheated on him. Decent and down to earth. Gorgeous. Think the guy who plays Clark on Smallville about fifteen years down the road.
5. Nala Wyndham--Colin's girlfriend. Teeny, tiny, blonde actress, minor success so far. Viciously ambitious. Cokehead. About six weeks pregnant with Colin's child, still trying to decide if she's
going to keep it or not.
6. Joe Holiday--hot young star, very full of self. Think of him as kind of an amalgam of Leo DiCapprio and most boy band members. He's the one all the teenyboppers are drooling over right now, but their moms and grandmoms like him, too. He's hot, and knows it. Obnoxious.
7. Nikki Aliway--'Nikki All-the-Way', pop star, Joe's date. Yes, I know I'm evil, but think Brittany Spears in image. Turns out to be tough and decent.
8. Michael Underhill--agent for Baxter, courting Holiday, courted by Nala. He's there to schmooze.
9. Senator Daniel Matherson--Texas senator. Mid-fifties, very bluff and handsome. Very much a politician. The most aware of what's going on.
10. Ben Travers--Callahan's chief of security. Big, scary. Think Dolph Lundgren. There's just something a little suspect about him.
11.Monica Mason--talk show hostess. Number two to Oprah, and resenting it. Hoping to get either Callahan or Senator on her show.
12. Gordon 'Gonzo' Kramer--paparazzi from tabloid, snuck in for photos, pretending to be bartender. Gonzo is notorious. Late twenties, normally a little scruffy, but tricked out in bartender
outfit as disguise.
13. Hector Castille--waiter. Early twenties. Just a catering service employee, doing his job, hoping for tips.
December 25
Mom is watching me, so I'm writing in this. I wanted a diary when I was twelve, but would she give me one? Nooooo. "Little girls don't need to keep secrets from their mamas." And she says that anyway, this isn't a diary, it's a JOURNAL. Big woo. But then again, it IS nice. Real leather, lots of pages, and not with each one divided up into sections about two inches wide so that you have to sprawl over a week if you want to write anything more than, say, what you had to eat. I suspect that she hopes that I'll write my deepest, darkest, most incriminating secrets in here, and then she can sneak and read it when she comes over to visit. That's probably why there's no lock on it. Wow, she might find out that I've decided to keep that library book that's three months overdue, cause the fine is more than what the book's worth, and I can't find it in the bookstores anyway. Or that I secretly lust after the pizza delivery boy. God, I'm pathetic...
January 1, 2003
Ooooh, man. What in God's name possessed me to drink all that damn tequila last night--ESPECIALLY since it was at the office party? I embarrassed the hell out of myself on the karaoke machine. Actually I'm embarrassed now. I had a fine old time THEN. And I sing better when I'm drunk. At least I THINK I do. Somebody must've thought I sang all right, because I seem to remember someone complimenting the hell out of me, and giving me more tequila. And then asking me something, and I said yes... Wait a minute
Okay, I'm back. I checked my panties, and they were here and in good condition, so apparently if anyone talked me into an empty office or the supply closet nothing major happened. I hope. Hell, I can't be sure, except that I don't FEEL weird, aside from the nausea and headache, and since I haven't actually had sex yet there should be SOME physical fallout, shouldn't there? Or is that only if you're a fresh young thang? Nah, I'm pretty sure a busted hymen feels the same whether you're seventeen or seventy. Why am I worrying about this? I might have been drunk enough to forget conversations, but I would have remembered THAT. Especially since I've decided that since I've waited THIS long I might as well save my virtue for someone spectacular. What the hell, God meant for there to be old maids, too. How depressing. Maybe I OUGHT to get laid. "Hi there, I'm a thirty-five year old virgin. It isn't that I haven't been asked, but they were all either drunk, married, or slimey, and yes, I AM that choosy."
It just occurred to me. Just because MY panties are still pristine, it doesn't mean I didn't do something major league funky with someone. I may not be experienced, but I'm well read, and I know there are a LOT of activities besides straight intercourse.
Damn, I wish I could remember what I said yes to.
January 2, 2003
Curiouser and curiouser, said Alice as she fell down the rabbit hole. Not just curious, fucking WEIRD. It's now 10:30 on a Thursday morning, and I'm not at my desk at Seguro Shelters. I'm sitting at my kitchen table drinking coffee-milk and chasing toast crumbs (unbuttered, bleh!) around a saucer. What has brought about this odd situation? Damned if I know. Tabitha (otherwise known as the Satanic Supervisor) called early (too DAMN early, a half hour before I had to get up) and told me to take the rest of the week off so I could come in fresh on Monday.
HUH?! This is the woman who was asking one of the other girls if she REALLY needed a WHOLE week off after having her C-section. She said that I hadn't been looking my best after the party, and she wanted me to stay healthy and vigorous, then hung up before I could ask more
questions.
Well, I'm always in favor of a paid holiday, but now I'm really, REALLY worried about what happened at that party.
January 3, 2003
Daily beverages--diet soda, unsweetened tea. Breakfast--Bran muffin and skim milk. Lunch--Tuna with lemon, carrot sticks, apple. Snack--hard-boiled egg. Supper--skinless broiled chicken breast (dry), steamed broccoli (no butter or cheese), green beans (no seasoning bacon, cooked till just crisp-tender to preserve nutrients. BLEH!). Snack--skim milk and ONE (non-chocolate covered) graham cracker. Self restraint sucks.
January 4, 2003
Daily beverages--diet soda, unsweetened tea. Breakfast--poached egg on dry toast, grapefruit juice. Lunch--beef broth, small salad (lemon juice dressing), 2 slices turkey breast. Snack--ten grapes. Supper--broiled fish, Brussels sprouts, steamed cauliflower (no butter or cheese) Snack--skim milk and two vanilla wafers.
Spent evening watching the Food Channel, lusting after Jamie Oliver, cute Brit chef. He made big dinner with hearty beef, rich Yorkshire pudding with gravy, and trifle. Fantasized about him making good on his show title of The Naked Chef and feeding me the goodies in bed. Maybe Mom's right--maybe I DO need to get a boyfriend.
Self-restraint sucks BIG time.
January 5, 2003
2 a.m. four slices of broiled cinnamon-sugar toast and large bottle of REGULAR Coke. Fuck New Years resolutions.
Listening to news radio while eating. Things are hot in the middle-east, so what else is new? Border dispute with India and Pakistan is still nasty. How can either of them afford to build bombs? Note to self--don't ever let Mom see this or she'll cream me for random non-PC thought. Unconfirmed rumors that plutonium is missing in Britain, and the IRA might be responsible. Damn. Seems like the nuclear material is to global governments what socks are to normal people--some are always disappearing.
Now Russia is pissed off again. Great New Years for the world so far, but at least mine hasn't been too bad. Unexpected holiday to laze around, yay! I just wish I didn't have this dread of going to work tomorrow. Wish I believed in precognition. I'd be willing to shed a few bucks to the Psychic Friends Hotline to know what I'd be walking into.
Gotta go to bed. Sunday school at 9:00. Still freaks Mom that I'm a Southern Baptist. Hope that part of the reason I am isn't just to rebel against ex-flower child parents. Possibly revenge for my name?
1 p.m.
Mom and Dad just left after brunch. Mom said who serves take out pizza for lunch? I said single people who didn't know they were having guests, and it was sausage pizza, so it counted as breakfast food.
Heard her in bathroom checking medicine cabinet to see if I was on birth control or had prophylactics. She doesn't know whether to worry I might get sick or worry that I'm not getting any.
I was right--she tried to find my journal. Caught her in my room, rummaging around. Claimed she was looking for safety pin. I said in my panty drawer? She said from the state of some of my underwear, she wouldn't be surprised. I said fine talk from a woman who didn't wear panties till the Clinton administration. She'll never find the journal. It's wrapped in a Rush Limbaugh dust jacket. :)
Dad seems worried lately. Talked about going to Washington with some of his old college buddies to demand action about escalating nuclear tensions. Love Dad to death, but he's kinda vague about what kind of actions he wants taken.
Watched new Dead Zone series on USA. Pretty good. Anthony Michael Hall grew up NICE! Inspires random Dirty Old Broad thoughts. Wonder how far this is going to go with the original material? Wasn't Johnny Smith trying to stop a presidential candidate who was going to start WWIII?
Work tomorrow. Still haven't remembered what I agreed to. Hope I didn't set up date with that creepy guy in telemarketing.
January 6, 2003
SHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHTISHITSHITSHIT! Well, I now know what it was I so blithely agreed to at the New Years Eve party. I know why Tabitha applauded my rendition of 'Sisters Are Doin' It For Themselves' so strongly and told me it was just SO true. I know why my glass of Tequila Sunrise never seemed to get any lower.
THE BITCH SUCKERED ME! Oh, GOD. One single 'got so damn drunk that I can't remember what I said' incident and I'm ready to join a fucking twelve step program because alcohol has sure as hell made my life more difficult.
Okay, deep breath.
I am now in charge of the Callahan account. THE CALLAHAN ACCOUNT! The account that has become legendary at Seguro Shelters. The account that drove one of us to therapy and the other to medical leave. Yeah, yeah, sure, they say both of those were coming on for a long time, but Carl SWORE to me that after working the account for three months his blood pressure would jump fifty points every time he heard Callahan's voice, and all I know is that Bob started on Prozac less than a month after HE had it.
Big prestige job for Arthur Callahan, right? Yeah, THE Arthur Callahan. Testimony, Goddess Grant, The Celestial Syndrome, Pavement Patrol... Shit. He's in the Guinness Book of World Records under Highest Earning Producer, Highest Earning Director, Most Academy Awards... Sort of like Lucas/Scorcesi/Spielberg/Kubrik combined.
The brass at the office was shitting bricks when we heard that Callahan was going to put in a luxury shelter on one of his pieces of property--either in California, or here in Texas. Everyone figured California, cause that was his main residence. Then he decides he wants to have a safe place first at his vacation spot away from 'the biz'.
Terrific, right? Our office gets the contract. It's going to pump over three mill into the company coffers in about a year's time, and the chance to point to Callahan as a client, WELL... Hello? Can you say free publicity? We're all dreaming of bonuses.
Then he rejects outright our first six suggestions of architects. He has one he wants to use, a friend who built his beach house in Malibu. Takes a month to get it through to him that building a bungalow and building a bomb shelter that will withstand a nuclear blast are two VERY different things. He finally agreed to use one of our architects, but wanted a list of prospective interior designers. This is me, rolling my eyes.
That was the start. They quickly made the Callahan account a full time job, pulling whoever had it off any other assignments. I'm glad I didn't have to pay Callahan's long distance bill, considering the time he spent on the wire from Los Angeles to here in east Texas. It would probably have paid tuition at a decent college.
Anyway, a week before Christmas Carl went on medical leave, making threats about filing a civil suit for a hazardous workplace environment, and Tabitha had to take over the Callahan thing herself. Ooo. You know, I didn't think it was POSSIBLE for the woman to get more pissy, but she managed it. One day on the job and she started trying to farm it out to someone else. But with the way the company is set up, she couldn't ORDER anyone to take it. We all had a few good snickers over that, let me tell you. I guess I laughed too soon.
Apparently somewhere along my sixth refill and my tenth song (I think it was Welcome to the Jungle), she started chatting me up, telling me how under appreciated I'd been at work, that she'd been keeping her eye on me, that she wanted me to realize my potential, how far ONE good job would go in furthering my career... Somewhere along the line I agreed to take over the Callahan account. It is now official: ALCOHOL KILLS BRAIN CELLS!
Piss, piss, piss. I wasn't at work two hours when I got my first phone call from Callahan, asking why his account had been delegated to someone else without his express permission. Tabitha was 'unavailable'. I couldn't very well tell him, "No one wanted to deal with you after you ruined the health of your last two liaisons, so they got me drunk and more or less shanghaied me." Luckily I learned how to say a lot without saying anything in particular when I was in college (debate actually DID come in useful). I managed to escape after only 45 minutes, and with only the beginnings of a headache.
It's now 9 PM and I'm sitting at home, staring at a stack of folders and papers at least 16 inches high. I'm supposed to 'familiarize myself' with it--by yesterday.
That half a Sara Lee Cheesecake in the fridge is doomed.
January 8, 2003
I'm gonna get calluses on my fingertips from turning pages, reading all this shit related to the Callahan chaos. This is my second day trying to wade through it. Roughly half of it seems to be records of business we did with various suppliers and contractors who have since been dismissed, so it's all irrelevant, but I have to go through it anyway. I'm doing this between fielding calls from Callahan himself or one of his flunkies. This is AFTER I told Callahan that I wouldn't institute any changes unless they came through him personally or through verified channels, like the company email account or snail mail. That pissed him off royally, but I finally managed to make him see what a mess it could be if someone wanting to give him grief decided to call up.
It could happen, too. There's been publicity about the shelter he's having built. Some tabloid hired a helicopter and flew over it and took zoom photos of the construction site. I think they even managed to get a blurry shot of Callahan himself delaying the workers by insisting on screwing around with the machinery and tools. He's apparently treats them like toys. I think I read somewhere that he owns his own bulldozer, and personally knocked down some sets after one of his movies was finished shooting. Weird. I don't trust people who enjoy destroying things. They might move up from things
to people.
I'm looking over the basic blueprints for his underground castle now. Christ, most people I know would sell their grandmother to Bedouins for something like this above ground. I've seen group homes that were smaller than this. Five, count 'em, FIVE sleeping rooms. Oh, hell, BEDROOMS. I seriously doubt if Callahan is gonna have Army cots or bedrolls in them. Sure, most of them are about the size of a double walk-in closet, but that master bedroom is nice by any
standards.
They wouldn't have been able to do anything this large if they hadn't hit that granite shelf. Usually something like that would have scotched the project, and they'd have had to find another location. Not Callahan. No, he isn't going to let a little thing like Mother Nature slow HIM down. He just had them blast and chisel out the space. Actually, not the shelter is going to be even MORE secure than most other designs, since the floor and sides are going to be solid stone behind the steel and lead linings. Once they pile that twenty feet of earth and gravel on top of the steel and lead roof they'll practically have to drop the bomb on top of his living room to make a dent.
Of course, the company had to replace the construction crew two times getting that done. They couldn't convince Callahan that even double pay wouldn't tempt men to work ten hour shifts, seven days a week, for very long.
They're going to start putting on the roof tomorrow, and I've been invited to supervise. Invited by Callahan, directed by Tabitha. I'm pretty sure that the site boss would rather not have hanging around his site a woman who knows only enough about construction to put up a decent Lego building, but who is expected to goad him on to even greater efforts.
Christ, it's at least a three hour drive out to Callahan's Retreat (what an original name. I don't think that man has retreated from anything since he first hauled himself up on his chubby, bowlegged legs and took his first wobbly widdle steps). The distance means that, since I didn't drive out tonight to sleep over at a motel, I have to get up at five so I can leave at six so I can be there at nine because I'll be damned if I'm gonna get up any EARLIER! Not unless they decide to grant me a fucking commission on this thing.
I just hope he doesn't keep me there too long, but I have kind of a bad feeling about this. He flew in all the way from Los Angeles for this 'confab'. I doubt he'll let me go before four or five. He won't feel like he's gotten his money's worth unless I'm hounded through a typical business day time period, and I doubt he'll include travel time in his estimation.
Note to self: Keep CLOSE fucking tabs on mileage and gas. I'm deducting this puppy of next year's income taxes. And if I have to go on ulcer medication or sedatives, I'm deducting that, too.
January 9, 2003
I sat with this book on my lap for ten minutes, staring at the blank page, trying to think of something to write that wouldn't be hostile, vulgar, or obscene. Then I thought 'Fuck this shit! This is what journals are for!'
I have known Arthur Callahan, face-to-face, for well under 24 hours, and I can't for the life of me figure out why someone hasn't KILLED the motherfucker already!
There's one thing I like about working at Seguro--loose dress codes in the office. As long as it wouldn't get you a ticket on the street and it's clean, they don't gripe. Tabitha told me I needed to 'dress nice' whenever I met with Callahan. I told her I'd wear my t-shirt with the sequined cats on it. She said that wasn't suitable. I told her I needed a raise if I had to buy a whole new wardrobe. That shut her up. When I left this morning, though, I was wearing a dress--my ONE dress, reserved for funerals and weddings.
I got up on time. I put on the damn dress. I put on fucking PANTYHOSE! I haven't worn pantyhose since I graduated high school. If I have to wear skirts I wear them below the knee and pull on some dress socks, but I bought the L'Eggs, and I wore them. It felt like I was wearing a tourniquet from the waist down. I wasn't in the best mood to start with when I arrived at the site.
The Retreat was about three miles outside the nearest small town. I was expecting the usual dirt turn-off. I almost passed it, because it was paved better than the highway. It ran back through an increasingly thick stand of pines for about another mile, then it opened up again and BAM! There it was.
Damn.
I have stayed at hotels smaller than that place. I couldn't believe that ONE family (hell, one COUPLE--they don't have kids) lived there. Oh, yeah, I forgot. There'd be the servants, too.
There was a gate across the road, and I saw now that it was set in a very respectable looking fence that ran off into the pines on either side. There was razor wire on top. I considered turning around and going back, then calling from town and telling Callahan that I'd had car trouble, but I figured that the little delay I'd get wouldn't be worth the shit storm it would raise.
There was an itty-bitty guard booth at the gate, with a not so itty-bitty guard in it. Unlike most rent-a-cops I've run into, this one looked like he might be capable of handling more than a snotty 14 yr. old. In fact, when he came out and gave me the eagle eye, I noticed that he was packing. There was a gun there on his hip, in front of God and everyone. And, by God, he had a HAND on that gun till he got a good look at me.
I showed him my DL, and he compared it to a clipboard. I got a look at what was on that clipboard. It was a picture of me, apparently taken at the New Years party. Oh, I am gonna have to think of something SERIOUSLY nasty to do to Tabitha.
He told me to follow the road around to the back of the house, and I'd see the shelter site from there. There was a fucking PARKING lot behind the house. Granted, not a big one, but still... There were a couple of vans with company logos on the side that must've trucked in the workers. There were also several high end luxury cars, including a Jaguar I KNOW would have given most of the guys I knew wet dreams.
I'd seen one or two other shelter construction sites, and I'd expected this one to look pretty much the same. They're always a real mess, with the ground all rutted and churned up from the heavy machinery. Well, they'd laid down a thick gravel patch around this one, so that the traffic area was barely visible. I parked, got out, and started crunching my way toward the big hole in the ground--the shelter.
There were several piles of thick sheet metal, each one taller than a good sized man, and a man was standing on top of one of them, fastening a sheet to the chain of a massive crane. There were other men standing about, dressed in work clothes and steel-toed boots, waiting for the roofing sheet to be placed so that they could begin welding and riveting. There were a few other people who, judging by their clothes, were obviously NOT there to work. A woman and two men were standing to the side, observing, so I approached them.
I recognized Callahan immediately. That thick shock of hair and full beard, both salt-and-pepper, was hard to miss. The woman was a handsome woman in her mid-forties, her hair a frosted blonde heap. Hm. She was a little old for that 'just out of bed' look. She was wearing high heels. I wondered how she'd managed to get out there without breaking an ankle, walking through that gravel. The other man was in his early thirties, with thick, dark hair. He was wearing those Rayban sunglasses Tom Cruise made popular in Risky Business. Looked good on him. Hell, just about ANYTHING would have looked good on him.
Callahan and the woman were busy talking to each other, but the cutie in shades noticed me approaching. He smiled and lifted his chin in greeting as I came up. The woman noticed me, but Callahan just kept on talking. Sounded like he was bitching about a certain company liaison being late. Great.
I didn't bother with the 'Hello?' crap--I HATE it when people do that. I just stuck out my hand and said, "Mr. Callahan, I'm Zima Feely, from Seguro Shelters."
He paused and stared at me for a second. "You're late."
I didn't drop my hand. "It's a three mile drive." He stared at me. I didn't drop my hand. He was going to make this a pissing contest. If I didn't show him that bitches could compete, too, I wouldn't survive this job.
He finally shook hands. "This is my wife, Margo, and our friend, Colin Baxter."
I thought, yeah, sure. Then the dark haired guy pulled off his shades and HELLO! H. Colin Baxter in the toned and luscious flesh! Good Lord, the other girls at work were going to drop their panties over this! Zima Feely, office wallflower, shaking hands with People's Sexiest Man Alive of 2002! I decided that maybe God didn't hate me after all.
Callahan started grumbling and questioning what seemed like every decision that had been made since the start of the project. I tried to answer some of them, but he has this tendency to just talk right over you before you can finish a sentence. I gave up after awhile and just let it wash over me. I realized after about forty-five minutes that he was trying to 'break me in'--let me know who was in charge of this barn dance. I thought about just turning around and walking off, then I thought about the stack of bills at home on my coffee bar, and stayed.
Came lunchtime. The crew brought out lunches and settled down to eat. Margo said something about getting back to the house or the cook would have a fit about having to wait lunch. Callahan said I had an hour, and started toward the house. I was thinking, an hour to drive to the town, get lunch, and be back here? Then Colin said that Callahan had better make it TWO hours, or we wouldn't have time, then asked me if I'd seen any place I'd like to eat in town. Callahan said he'd assumed that Colin was going to be having lunch with THEM. Colin stared at Callahan. Callahan got the hint and said of course he'd assumed that I was going to stay to lunch, too. Note to self: Remember to pack a lunch if I ever have to come back up here. Baxter might not always be visiting.
I found out what rich people eat for lunch: French onion soup, quiche, and Waldorff salad. Rah rah. Margo ate the soup and a salad, dressing on the side. Callahan made some snide remark about the number of crackers she ate. I was silently rooting for her to dump the soup in his lap. She didn't, darn it.
Baxter had to leave after lunch cause he was due to do a segment for Entertainment Tonight in the evening. The rest of the day was a total washout. Bitch, gripe, gripe, bitch. I finally decided that Callahan wasn't going to be happy with anything that wasn't completely HIS idea, that he didn't do COMPLETELY himself, and since he wasn't into common labor, that just wasn't gonna happen on this project.
He kept me till five-thirty; a half hour after the construction crew had quit. Then he told me that he couldn't give me any more time, and he was going back to Los Angeles for a couple of weeks, so he couldn't be here to supervise me personally.
I managed not to cry at the prospect.
I've decided that my revenge on Tabitha will have to be visited unto the fifth generation.
January 10, 2003
I'm bleary-eyed, but I'm almost finished with reviewing the Callahan material. This guy had almost doubled his cost by changing his mind so many times.
Actually located some Triple X rootbeer at the corner store. Snagged it and some Cracker Jack for a snack while I finished the reports. I needed serious sugar to get me through it. When did they stop putting cool prizes in Cracker Jacks. You used to get all kinds of neat stuff like itty bitty plastic harmonicas and tiny drop-the-beebee-in-the-hole games. Now you only get paper shit, like fake tattoos and lame jokes. I think it's because they're afraid some idiot is going to just tip the box up and swallow the prize and choke, thus setting up a lawsuit. Either that, or it got expensive enough to cut the profit margin. Yeah, Corporate America lives by two three word phrases that rule everything they do--'it would cost' or 'cover your ass'.
Didn't get ONE call from Callahan. Things are looking up.
January 11, 2003
Actually felt motivated to clean house, now feel virtuous--one beneficial side effect of domestic ambition. Good thing I did. Mom came to visit, no damp towels on bathroom floor or dirty dishes in sink, tra la. She's still looking for my journal, either that or she was checking my housekeeping skills--caught her looking under the sofa cushions when I brought her some coffee.
Told her about Callahan. She said she wasn't surprised that he was a fascist, judging by the way his movies pandered to the bourgeois. I asked her if she and Dad had finalized that time share thing in Jamaica. Love Mom, but don't see how she can pick up on sarcasm, but irony goes right over her head.
Mom WAS impressed that I met H. Colin Baxter. Mom almost twittered. I haven't seen her this excited over anyone since she got within twenty feet of Abbey Hoffman at a book signing. Turns out that Mom has seen all his movies, some of them twice. SHE MENTIONED HIS BARE BUTT SCENE IN THAT BANK HEIST MOVIE! I thought it was noteworthy, too, but I never thought Mom would have noticed it. She BLUSHED. Boy, it's weird to think about your Mom maybe getting damp panties over a celebrity.
Peaceful Sunday, other than Mom's visit. No more visitors, no phone calls, just me and the satellite dish, and a horror movie marathon, yay! Gotta remember to go to sleep early enough so I don't nod off during the sermon. It's a heck of an insult to the pastor.
Life is good.
January 12, 2003
Motherfucking Tabitha gave that bastard Callahan my HOME PHONE NUMBER! God, that has GOT to be illegal. I swear, I'm going to check regulations or laws or something.
I come home from church and the light is flashing on my answering machine, and there are EIGHT messages--all from Callahan, getting increasingly pissed that I'm not answering. And I'm NOT answering, dammit. This is MY time. If it isn't a fucking disaster, then it can wait till Monday.
Shit. I may have to get an unlisted number and just not tell them the new one.
January 13, 2003
There was a small pile of faxes in the office machine Monday, all addressed to me. The phone rang five minutes after my butt hit the chair behind my desk. When I picked it up, Callahan started off with, "Who the hell do you think you are? I will NOT be ignored..."
I hung up on him, and unplugged the phone jack JUST enough to keep it from connecting. Then I spent a relatively peaceful half hour settling in, reviewing some bank records pertaining to the project.
Tabitha came in, said Callahan had called her, and asked me why I wasn't answering my phone. I innocently told her that it hadn't rung. Well, I wasn't lying--it HADN'T rung. She checked the phone, found the loose jack. I did big, innocent, surprised eyes, seriously doubt I fooled her. She said she'd route Callahan's call to me.
He wasn't quite as rabid as I expected. Funny, I would have thought that frustration would have kicked his bastard factor up a notch. He wanted to know why he hadn't heard from me. I said that I had listened to the messages, and that we COULDN'T change the type of gravel that was going to be layered over the shelter roof, because it had to meet a ton of specifications, and none of them involved its aesthetic value. And even if we COULD change the type of gravel, I couldn't do it over the weekend because most companies like that didn't WORK on Sundays. Sensible people didn't.
He was quiet for a little while, and I was wondering if I'd let my Monday morning, ain't-had-enough-caffeine bitchiness get me fired. Then he laughed and said I had more balls than the other two men who'd been on the project combined. He only kept me on the phone for another half hour, obsessing about what type of landscaping he could have over the shelter, and I had to tell him that any type of tree was out because the wouldn't have deep enough soil for their root systems. It looks like I'm not going to be fired.
I wonder if maybe it wouldn't be easier to just go on unemployment.
January 14, 2003
I was so miffed yesterday I forgot to brag to the folks at work that I'd met H. Colin Baxter. They didn't believe me. Bitches. Suggested I get his autograph next time. Yeah, right, like there will BE a next time. And I'm not going to do the giggling, gushing fangirl thing. That CAN'T be attractive. What the hell am I doing, thinking about what he might and might not find attractive? I need something to occupy my mind.
Callahan is thinking about blanketing the top of the shelter with imported Dutch tulips. Fine. Great. Get scarlet and white and put them in concentric circles. Give the folks who drop the bombs something to aim at.
January 15, 2003
He's considering a Japanese style rock garden. Wants my opinion on whether or not he should hire a Japanese gardener to maintain it? Do I think that only they can give the raked pebbles the right Zen effect? Knew he didn't give a damn about MY opinion, just wanted a chance to listen to his own again. Refrained from making some comment about 'Zen my ass'.
He wants me to drive over and consult about interior finishing materials. I get to drive three hours each direction to look at fabric swatches and paneling slats.
Wonder if my car will develop something minor but disabling if I pray hard enough?
January 16, 2003
No, it won't, dammit. He didn't suggest I go into town for lunch this time. I got to eat in the house--in the kitchen--with the cook.
I don't care HOW fucking talented this man is--how has he survived in Hollywood, the land that perfected butt kissing, with this attitude?
Did you know that six hours of driving, even if it's in three-hour shifts, would give you a numb butt?
We went through several thousand swatches and carpet samples, and paneling examples and paint smears. He narrowed it down to about fifty of each. I figured at least that was SOME progress. Then he said we'd look at the rest of the available samples NEXT time.
I managed to get out of there without whimpering. My idea of decorating has always been 'paint the walls white or beige, then just get everything from the same primary color group'. I didn't have too many absolute 'nos', except for no avocado green shag carpet, or orange beanbag chairs. Callahan didn't want either of those. I think I might have liked him more if he had.
January 20, 2003
One of the first weekends in my memory that hasn't been relaxing. Of course, that's probably because I spent most of it at my Mom and Dad's, trying to avoid calls from Callahan.
I'm going to have to figure out some other way. I don't think I'm strong enough to spend that much time with them on a regular basis. I had almost forgotten that they had 'Woodstock' on tape. Mom claims that you can see her and Dad in the movie, but I still haven't managed it, despite the number of times they've run it for me, even using slow-mo and freeze frame. It just looks like a couple wrestling under a blanket on the muddy ground--you can't really tell who it is.
Callahan wants me over tomorrow. He has the next batch of samples ready. Joy.
January 21, 2003
I'm going to have to go back out there, but I've managed to convince him to wait till Friday, so I can sleep in the day after. WHY am I having to come back? Because we didn't get a chance to examine all the samples. He was debating whether or not he should scrap the rock garden in favor of a more natural landscaping, one that wouldn't draw attention to the shelter. Managed to not faint from shock that he was actually having a sensible idea.
Talked him into a mixed covering of bluebonnets and Indian blanket. Those will be perfect, because they're natural enough to not attract attention from a more-than-casual observer, and they start blooming in mid-March, which is about when the shelter should be finished. Took a look around the area behind the house where the shelter will be. It would actually look pretty nice.
January 25, 2003
I'm not telling them at work. They won't believe it, anyway. I had a sleepover at Arthur Callahan's house and saw H. Colin Baxter in his UNDERWEAR! Briefs, by the way. Navy blue, I think, though they could have been black.
He was at Callahan's when I arrived that morning--him and his agent Michael Underhill. Turns out they're there negotiating Baxter's next picture with Callahan. Very hush, hush. If I was a mouthy sort, I could rake in a ton, selling the story to the tabloids. Still have some ethics kicking around, though.
I get there, ready to compare brocades and nubblies, and find out that he's completely forgotten about having invited me. Callahan needs to conference, but doesn't want to turn me loose without getting some work out of me. I'm not about to turn right around and make another three hour drive back.
Callahan parks me in a room with piles of fabric, sample books, carpet squares, tile examples... you get the idea, and his wife--Margo. We look at each other when he leaves. We both know that we aren't going to settle a damn thing, because he isn't going to approve of anything that isn't his decision. She offers me a sherry. It's 9:30 am. I ask for a Coke instead. It's going to be a long day.
I get to eat with the cool kids again. Margo is drinking wine with lunch. Callahan and Underhill keep talking about billing, on-set perks, foreign distribution... Colin is sitting next to me. He doesn't want to talk about 'the biz'. Asks me about my work. I tell him not to talk dirty. He laughs and says he knows different WAYS of talking dirty, and he'll have to show me sometime when we don't have mixed company.
H. COLIN BAXTER WAS FLIRTING WITH ME!
Holy shit.
A storm rolled in during lunch. BIG storm. We're talking thunder rattling the picture window so bad you move away real quick big.
After lunch Margo and me went back to the swatches. Colin came in and said he was bored, he'd take a look at the final decisions with his lawyer later. Would we mind if he joined us? Would I mind if someone handed me the keys to a Jaguar for the weekend? I moved sample books so he could sit next to me. He put his arm across the back of the couch behind my neck and leaned in to examile upholstery samples. He breathed on my cheek. I didn't give a damn that he had garlic dressing on his salad at lunch.
Margo hit the hard liquor. She was drinking scotch before two o'clock in the afternoon. I noticed she's older than I thought at first. I thought forties, but I got a good look at her close-up. She's mid-fifties, at least. But she's trying REAL hard not to look it. I remember some rumors about Callahan and some starlets in his movies, and understand WHY she's trying so hard. She ought to divorce his butt. They live mainly in California--they have community property there, right?
Margo gave up pretending to consider decorating options and went to drink and stare out the window at the storm. It wasn't easing up. Colin asked me about my name. Said I looked too young to have been named after the drink. I explained about my flowerpower parents, and that Zima meant 'trustworthy'. Thanked heaven that I'd gotten out of school before they came out with that damn malt beverage--I caught enough grief for the weird name as it was. He told me I didn't know from being teased for my name. I'd forgotten that the H. stood for Honeywell.
I asked him what the next movie was going to be about. He said they had to be careful about information leaking out before anything was finalized. I told him that I only read tabloids for stories about Chihuahuas who save their owners from pit bull attacks. He confided that they were negotiating for him to play Remus Lupin in The Prisoner of Ahzkaban. I'd heard they were talking Ewan McGregor, but hey, Colin would be fine by me. Decided not to mention werewolf fetish I've had since seeing Peter Lucas as Baron Freiderich von Glower in the Gabriel Knight PC game.
Weather did NOT get better. Callahan and Underhill came in and said there was bad tropical storm moving through, and it would get worse before it got better. Contemplated having to drive three hours in storm. Didn't like the odds. Callahan said everyone had better stay the night. Well, why not? It's not like he doesn't have room. Besides, it meant I'd be sleeping under the same roof with Baxter. Yay! Fantasy fodder for months, if not years, to come.
Power went out. Callahan chose then to start asking questions about the proposed solar powered energy system for the shelter. I refused to discuss anything in the dark.
They couldn't locate a flashlight (naturally), but Margo believed in candles as a decorative motif. There was enough for us all to have one. Everyone headed for bed. I got an upstairs bedroom. GASP! No servants' quarters for me!
Room was nice. Sheets probably cost more than what I earned in a week when I was fresh out of high school. Don't usually like trying to sleep away from my own bed, but the rain helped.
Woke up sometime in the middle of the night, storm still going strong. Needed to use the potty. My room had its own bathroom, so I didn't have to go stumbling around in the hallways. Good thing, because I was sleeping in just my panties and my shirt.
Groped over to bathroom, opened door. FLASH! BOOM! Lightening. Suddenly found out that this bathroom was shared with the next room over. Standing on the other side of the bathroom, hand on the knob of the other door, is Colin, hair sticking straight up, eyes almost round, looking as surprised as I felt. Wearing bikini briefs. Whoa.
I realized I was staring. Then I realized HE was staring. Then we both took a step back and shut the door. I think I heard him say sorry, or something. I waited a minute, then went in. I made sure I locked the door to his room before I did my business, though. Nature cannot be refused for long. I didn't sleep much afterwards, though.
I'm not telling ANYONE about this! That sight is gonna be mine, and mine alone. Gloat, gloat, gloat.
Storm thinned out and stopped by this morning. Felt pretty damn rumpled when I came downstairs, and didn't even have night of wild sex to justify it. Damn.
Margo was still asleep. Big surprise, after all the booze she put away. I think I drank less than that the night I agreed to take on this white elephant of a job. Underhill and Baxter were getting ready to leave, had to catch a plane back to the coast, as they were running a day behind. Callahan started making noises about maybe my hanging around to go over the projected work schedule. I asked if he really wanted to pay me triple time. That killed THAT suggestion.
Before we left, Baxter apologized for the bathroom incident. Said he'd been half asleep, and hadn't really thought about the rooms being adjoining. I told him I didn't see anything that was likely to strike me blind. He BLUSHED. It's kind of nice to find out that a superstar can be a pretty nice guy, too.
January 26, 2003
Brunch with Mom and Dad at Luby's. My roll didn't make it to the end of the serving line again. Cashier gave me a funny look. I don't know why--it's not like I tried to hide the dish and not pay for it.
I know I wasn't going to tell anyone, but when Dad went to the men's room, I told Mom about my late night bathroom confrontation. She asked me why I didn't step on over and grab something interesting. I swear. Well, at least she believed me. Asked me to pinch his butt for her the next time I saw him. Told her I wasn't likely to see him again. I mean, it was weird enough that I'd met him twice. What are the odds that I'll see him again? I'd probably have more luck playing the lottery. That reminds me--the pot is up to 48 million. I'd better buy a handful of tickets tonight.
January 29, 2003
I had all six of the numbers for the lottery. Unfortunately, no more than two of them were in the same group. Damn. Near miss--the story of my life.
January 30, 2003
Sales brochures and catalogues have started to arrive at the office AND at home, addressed to me. I didn't order them. They're all for household appliances and survivalist supplies. THE BITCH TABITHA GAVE HIM MY {b}{i}HOME ADDRESS!{/i}{/b} So help me God, if this twerp ever shows up on my doorstep, I am {i}suing{/i} Seguro and Tabitha. I'll get the fillings out of her back teeth! I wonder if filing a change of address form for her with the Post Office would count as a sin?
January 31, 2003
Callahan wants either Avocado Green or Aztec Gold for his shelter appliances. Who knew he was stuck in the seventies? I keep trying to explain to him that the energy efficient types he needs to get for the shelter aren't exactly for maximum eye appeal. Wouldn't brushed steel look nice? He says he's pretty sure he can have one or two items custom made if he talks to the manufacturer. Pissy thing is that he's probably right.
February 1, 2003
He wanted me to spend the weekend at the Retreat meeting with representatives for the energy, ventilation, and water purification systems we're considering. I told him that I could handle that in the office, during office hours. He said he was going to be brainstorming on a script, but wanted to be able to pop in and check on the progress occasionally. I told him that my weekends were my own. He offered me a $100 cash bonus.
I packed an overnight case, and brought this journal. It's more comfortable than it would have been in the office, I guess. The food is better, anyway. The company is better. No Tabitha--H. Colin Baxter instead.
Yeah, that's right. He's developing the script with Callahan, planning to make it sometime next year if they can get a script thrashed out.
Margo was drinking something pink, fruity, and alcoholic before noon. When I talked to the salesmen, she was about as useful as a snow shovel here on the Gulf Coast. I wonder if Callahan knows she's a twelve-step prospect? I get the feeling that he's real good at ignoring things when he wants to be.
Never knew that just listening to sales pitches could be so tiring. Never experienced such kissing up in my entire life. Decided I didn't like it.
Supper was good. Heck, most meals {b}I{/b} don't have to cook are good. It was something with a French name that pretty much worked out to beef stew made with wine.
Callahan asked Margo about the products we'd heard about this afternoon. He got a blank look. That meant I got to have my meal spoiled by having to talk business. Normally it's a good thing when the customer is interested enough to ask questions, but it would be a hell of a lot better if the customer actually bothered to listen to the information first hand. I wish Callahan would either just give me complete authority, or push me aside and do it all himself. This nagging supervisor method is making me tired.
After supper Callahan got on the phone to bug other people on the coast. Margo started on the scotch. Baxter showed me a big stash of games in the recreation room. I think Callahan collects them, since most looked like they'd barely been used. I haven't played board games since my last junior high slumber party. Playing them with a grown man makes a load of difference.
Since work was over for the day, I had a few drinks. Maybe that helped make everything seem so hilarious. Candyland was a hoot. So was Hi-Ho, Cherry-oh. I had no idea you could get so many double-entendres out of kid's games. And Snakes and Ladders? Whoa, could he make a {i}s-l-i-d-e{/i} sound sexy. The man is a menace. A very, very nice menace.
Maybe I had one too many, because I told him what Mom had told me to do next time I saw him, about the pinch. He laughed. Then he stood up and turned around, pointing his behind at me, and said far be it from him to deny a mother's request, have at it. I bet he thought I wouldn't. I thought I wouldn't, too, till I was actually tweezing. Mmmm. Here's a secret--his booty is so firm I had a hard time getting a nip. But I managed.
I have pinched H. Colin Baxter's ass, at his invitation. I guess I can die now.
He offered me another drink. I decided it was time for me to go to bed. Yeah, right, I'm chicken. Maybe I {i}could{/i} have actually gotten some kissy-face or even a little groping, but I wasn't about to risk having Callahan come in. He'd probably have wanted to give directions.
February 2, 2003
I saw my shadow this morning. Six more weeks of winter, dammit. Eight more hours of salesmen today. Doesn't ANYBODY besides me not like to work on Sundays anymore?
Baxter spent part of the day with me, listening to salesmen and letting Callahan wrestle with the script alone, since he seemed to be there mainly to agree with what Callahan came up with. He told me that it was easier to do that on the first draft. He'd start fighting on the second one.
I thought Margo had run through the Scotch yesterday. Did you know that if you're rich enough, liquor stores will deliver on Sunday?
Callahan wanted suggestions this evening. Told him I'd need more time to look over the sales material and check for customer satisfaction from other customers. He wanted to know if he could get a small nuclear powered generator. Resisted the urge to ask him how much science fiction he'd been reading lately. Pointed out that he was trying to AVOID radioactivity, that it was probably pretty hard to come by the needed uranium, and that I didn't care HOW much influence he had, but I doubted he'd be able to get the permits necessary--if they even existed. Talked up combination solar charged batteries and propane for cooking. He looked blank when I said 'cooking'. Hope he's well acquainted with a can opener. I guess if he can boil water, he should be able to use the survival rations.
Callahan joined us in the rec room. Kiddie games were out, but he had several versions of Trivial Pursuit. Good thing he isn't in charge of my paycheck. I whipped his butt at Movie Pursuit. Baxter tried not to laugh, but wasn't too successful at it. Might not have been tactful, but I can't stand to pretend to be dumber than I am. Screw him if he can't take a joke.
Before bed Baxter asked me, no sales talk, if I honestly thought that a shelter was a good idea. I asked him if he'd been listening to the news lately. Yes, I think it's a good idea. I think the one that Callahan is putting in is more an exercise in ego, but a basic shelter is a good idea. He asked if I'd ever considered doing private consulting. He's probably just flirting on automatic pilot, but that's okay by me.
Baxter asked if he could pinch my butt if he brought a note from his mother. Heeheehee.
February 4, 2003
He's going abroad to scout locations! Tra la la la la! Peace! Quiet!
February 5, 2003
Alexander Graham Bell, may you burn in Hades. Or at least whoever invented long distance. Callahan called from Scotland. Now he wants to see if I can spread some heather around the site, and do I know how long haggis can be safely stored? I said it was a stuffed sheep's stomach--what kind of a shelf life did he THINK it had, and had he ever actually TASTED one?
Entertainment magazine had an article on Before They Were Famous. Listed Baxter in that British soap opera, Me Mates and that cheesy mid-eighties slasher movie he made when he was seventeen, Blood Ballet. Oo, bet he buries that one on his resume. He was in it for about ten minutes, playing the ambitious dancer who gets a heavy spotlight dropped on him. Yeah, he still looked a little immature, kind of unfinished, but he still looked DAMN good in that leotard. He even looked good spitting blood. Talk about a cheap production, you could see part of the capsule he bit down on, and they didn't even retake. I remember seeing that in the theaters. All the girls in the audience did the 'awwww' thing when he died. Some asshole sitting near me yelled that he was probably gay. I yelled and asked if he was hoping for an introduction.
I think I saw a poster for that movie on eBay. I wonder if it's still there? I wonder if he'd sign it if I asked?
February 7, 2003
Now Callahan's in Ireland. Asked if there would be storage space for two cases of premium whiskey. I shudder to think of the import tax or whatever the hell it is he'll have to pay. I'm having warm fuzzies thinking about how much his phone bill is going to be.
I could hear someone talking in the background, then Baxter came on the phone. O.o That's me, being surprised. He just wanted to say hi, wondered if he decided to have a shelter built in California if he could choose his liaison, or he'd have to take whoever they sent? I said that usually they worked with the local staff, but for an important customer they might get someone outside.
He asked if they'd send someone all the way from Texas. Then he asked if I thought he ought to try to kiss the Blarney Stone. Then he said 'Good-bye, kiss kiss' and hung up.
Oooooh, BROTHER! The man is the master of flirtation. I think he must've kissed the Blarney Stone a long time ago.
February 8, 2003
Took advantage of matinee prices. What the hell ever happened to a 'small' popcorn? Even the 'child' size is bigger than the small used to be. They shouldn't blame me if I eat it all, because I'm not about to leave half a cup of popcorn sitting around. It's as stupid as claiming that one Pop Tart is a serving when they put two in a pack. Also got large soda and box of Whoppers. Lamented the fact that I can't get Jordan Almonds or those flat, round dark chocolate things with the teeny white sprinkles on top. What are they, anyway? Something like parallels. Spent twice as much at the concession stand as I did on the ticket.
Went to see Shameless Flatterer, Baxter's newest movie. He played a public relations guy fighting with his conscience about working for an absolute shit, trying to make him look good. The boy can act. Angst out the wazoo, soul searching all over the map, more redemption than a coupon clippers club. I can hear the Oscar buzz starting already.
Oh, and he had a semi-nude scene, too. Got woke up at some ungodly hour by his client, desperate to have him cover up some shit, stumbled around his bedroom in just his boxers, talking on the phone. Heard the girls sitting behind me drooling over him. Resisted the urge to turn around and tell them I'D been as close to him as I was to them, and he was wearing less than he was on screen. Decided to just hug that thought to my bosom and gloat. Sat through the movie twice. Did not feel guilty, since I bought a box of Goobers.
February 9, 2003
I love looking through gourmet catalogues, like Swiss Colony. Tons of different sorts of sausages and cheeses, pastries and candies. I don't even LIKE cheese all that much, and I like reading and looking at them. Who knew what kinds of flavors they'd come up with? And the Swann's catalogue. Damn, what a selection of ice cream novelties! I can read all I want, and never gain an ounce.
Not quite the same thing, looking through the survivalist supplies catalogues. Never saw so many grains and legumes in my life. I read that Callahan has catering from four star restaurants brought in when he's on the set. Wonder how he'll deal with powdered eggs?
Solar powered generator has been installed and is operational. Banks of rechargeable batteries set up and charging. They've started finishing the interior rooms, be ready to decorate soon. Darn thing is really beginning to come together.
February 11, 2003
Two days of meeting survivalist food sales reps. Two days of sampling items. Two days of the type of food I'd thought I'd left behind when I graduated high school. Couldn't really call it 'mystery meat', since it was clearly labeled on the outside of the containers. Pork and noodles. Teriyaki chicken. Santa Fe Beef and Beans. Riiiiight. Read the teeny, tiny print. 'Textured vegetable protein'. Hello. Can you say 'soy beans'? I'll have to look at the high end suppliers. Callahan can afford it, and I hate to think about how he'd bitch if he got this stuff. Of course, if he ever got around to actually USING it, the situation would probably be that he'd be too preoccupied to bother chewing my ass out, if said ass still EXISTED.
The beef patty reminded me of the oatmeal burgers they sold in high school. They tried to tell me that it was soy protein then. HAH! I made the mistake of looking under the bun once. I SAW the damn flakes, okay?
I think he'd be better off going for bulk goods instead of just individual MREs. Anyway, they aren't recommended for long term use, and he wants the place stocked for a three year stay. I have to admit, as maddening as he is, he's a thorough booger, and doesn't do things halfway. I'm going to enjoy spending his money.
Now, I have to figure out exactly how much preparation they'll be up to. I know that they'll have plenty of water (hooked the system up to their well, plus plenty of bottled water and purification tablets), and a functioning stove and oven. The thing is, is there anyone in that household who will actually COOK? Well, he IS putting in room for a dozen people. Maybe he intends for one to be a cook? Margo doesn't strike me as either Betty Crocker OR Martha Stewert.
February 13, 2003
Explained concept of 'complete protein' to Margo Callahan. She doesn't like rice much, when rice AND beans were mentioned, smoothed hands over hips and twittered about too many starches. Refrained from telling her that malnutrition was a hell of a way to stay slim.
She doesn't like canned fruits and vegetables, or frozen fruits and vegetables, and looked blank when I mentioned dehydrated fruits and vegetables. This woman is going to be very, very miserable if she has to stay locked in a shelter for more than a couple of days.
Mentioned that Callahan had sent a vintage bottle of wine for early Valentine's present. Wished she could offer me some, but it was gone already. Big surprise. Showed me opal ring he also sent as Valentine's Day present.
Last thing I got for Valentine's Day was a miniature box of conversational hearts--from my Mom. I hate Valentine's Day.
February 14, 2003
I love Valentine's Day.
At work today received one dozen scarlet roses and one pound tin of Godiva chocolates, from someone with initials of HCB. Noticed officemates turning several interesting shades of green. Refused to tell them who had sent them. Tabitha guessed that Callahan was trying to keep me from being irritated enough to quit. Tucked in box was envelope. Read enclosed note and turned almost same shade as roses. Am storing note in journal. Am thinking gooshy teenage girl thoughts about buying carved wooden box to store it in. Where has my brain gone, and do I want it back?
Note
Dear Miss Zima Feely,
Hello, you don't know me, but my boy, Honeywell, pestered me to write this note to you. I was so happy when he popped in that I couldn't deny him anything. I never have done, which makes it a miracle that he isn't spoiled absolutely rotten.
In any case, I am to tell you that he has my permission to pinch your bum. The very idea, a grown man asking his mum if he may pinch a girl's bottom. I told him he ought to be making those decisions himself, but he said you required a note from me, so here it is.
Frankly, I'm rather happy that he's interested in a girl who actually HAS a bum. Those ones he's been dating need a serious feeding.
Let me know if your bottom sufferes unduly, miss, and perhaps he'll bring you 'round to meet his poor old mum someday.
Yours,
Lily Baxter
February 15, 2003
Zima Feely, you're a self-delusional idiot.
There, right on the front page of the National Enquirer. H. Colin Baxter... or as they like to call him 'Honey' Baxter, with a tee-nintsy blonde draped over his lap at some film function. Big ass print headlines. 'Hollywood's Next Golden Couple?'.
I didn't intend to read the article. I usually avoid the gossip items, which means I don't read much of the Enquirer. The World Weekly News with the Bat Boy, and Chihuahuas saving people from pit bulls, and people falling 30,000 feet without a parachute and living, and little old grannies beating up muggers with their canes... that's more my style.
But I read this one, hating myself for it. Well, it had taken place almost a month ago. I suppose he COULD have broken up with her by now. Her name was Nala Wyndham. Nala. Ha. Named after a cartoon lioness. Okay, okay, so The Lion King came out a long time after she was born. Maybe not all THAT long. She looked about nineteen. Oops, but they always give the ages, and it said that she was twenty-two. And apparently they'd been dating for a couple of months.
She was some sort of starlette, though they don't use that term anymore--too unPC. I kept reading. Yeah, she'd been in that stupid teen comedy, Hijinx Hall. She played the stuck-up blonde ditz. What a stretch. Ooh, I'm getting even nastier than I usually am about thin, blonde, famous people. And she DID share something in common with Colin--she got offed in a teen horror movie. I remember it now. She was the stuck-up blonde ditz who got drowned in a jacuzzi when the killer tied her hair around a peg near the tub's drain. Maybe I should give her credit for keeping her bikini top on... Naaah.
I shouldn't be upset by this. After all, he probably had a list of people to send Valentine's things to, and handed it over to his secretary. Of course, he'd have had to see it personally to tuck the letter in the flowers...
Stop building cloud castles. Just eat the damn chocolate, smell the damn flowers, and take it at face value.
It shouldn't hurt. Really, it shouldn't.
February 16, 2003
Pastor's message today was 'Finding Your Place in God's Plan'. I suppose that God meant for there to be old maids, too. Somehow I'm not comforted.
February 17, 2003
Mondays should be outlawed. Someone in the office cut the photo out of the tabloid and tacked it to the bulletin board. Someone made a remark about how convenient it would be to have Baxter for a boyfriend--if you wanted evidence on him, you wouldn't have to hire a private detective, you could just go to the newstand. Someone suddenly found out that the restroom was totally out of toilet paper when they made their regular-as-clockwork visit after lunch. I'm glad I have a big purse. Do you know how much room a roll of toilet tissue takes up?
Convinced Callahan that he didn't need a complete furniture suite for each sleeping chamber, since the shelter occupants, would probably have to grease themselves to squeeze inside. He finally settled on futons and a couple of stacking storage containers for each room. Except HIS room, of course, but that's twice the size of the other ones. He's going to fit a kingsize bed in there, even if he only has a half-foot space around the sides. He was talking about having a tv mounted on the wall. I asked if he REALLY wanted to risk having it fall on his head if there were tremors. He mused about having it set INTO the wall. I told him that the interior walls were too thin, and it was too late to blast space in one of the exterior walls. Am wondering what the hell he thinks he'll watch? If it's bad enough for him to be locked into the shelter, I'd think it would be bad enough to wipe out most broadcasts. Knowing him he'll probably have a video library.
February 19, 2003
I was kidding about the fucking video library, but he wants me to order one for him. Sent over a five page, single spaced list of what NOT to order. I'm almost positive this isn't part of my job description, but there's no union to complain to. I guess this could be fun: just sort of pretend I'm doing it for myself, can buy anything I want without worrying about expenses. So help me God, though, I'm paying retail for this, and I'm not ordering any porn for him. If he wants that, he can pick it out himself. I don't even buy porn for myself. Yeah, I rent occasionally (please God don't let Mom find this) but that's not the same.
So since he's going to have the videos that means I'll have to add a television and a player to the list of furniture needed. At least he had enough sense not to ask for a 'home theater' set up. I don't guess I'll try to talk him out of the satellite dish hookup. After all, if it survives whatever happens at first, it may be able to pick up news.
February 20, 2003
Underground phone line has been installed at the shelter. Seems like a waste to me. After all, if things are so bad that you're staying in the shelter long enough to want to call someone, then chances are that something happened that's gonna make it hard for you go get through to anyone. Who are you going to call? Pizza delivery? Movie Line? Yeah, sure, 911, but again--will it get through? And if it does, won't the 911 guys and gals have their plates pretty full already?
He agreed to the short wave sets. Yep, sets--two of them. Just in case. I may not like the booger, but I'll do my damnedest to be sure that he has the absolute best chance of survival I can give him.
Best estimation of shelter finish time is around March 20, 21. We're making excellent headway, considering the number of times our freaking client has changed his mind about things.
Entertainment Weekly running an article on Hot Brits. Guess who's the coverboy? He's got a nice smile. Sort of like 'this is all a joke, isn't it?'
February 21, 2003
There's an email titled 'You owe me one pinch' in my inbox when I get to work. Got huge goofy grin on my face, then sternly tried to remind myself that he's probably a fickle dog. Didn't work very well. Wonder how he got my email addy? Probably from Callahan. What the heck must Callahan have thought when Colin asked? He'll probably think Baxter is trying to steal me away from my job to build a shelter for him. Think I'll wait till most of the office is out to lunch, then print the email. I'm not saving the thing to hard drive or disk. God knows WHO might find it. I'll tuck it in here.
Printed email
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: You owe me one pinch
Hi. Sorry I haven't called, but believe it or not, Callahan wouldn't give me your home number. Sodding git has to go be discreet at the worst possible times. Don't particularly like the smirk he gave me when I asked, either. I'd be offended about what he thought I was thinking about, if I hadn't actually been thinking that. If you know what I mean. Anyway, he let me use his computer to check my email, and I checked his address book. He didn't have is password protected. Sometimes I wonder how he's managed to come as far as he has.
Anyway, did you get the candy? Did you get the flowers? Did you get the note? Did you READ the note? May I stalk you? I have permission from Mum now. :D
Told Mum all about you. She's impressed that you have a 'real job', instead of being an actress or singer, like most of my more recent dates. I asked her if acting wasn't working, then what did she think I did? She said get paid for having a good time. Can't argue with her there.
I know you're bogged down with this thing with Callahan, but do you ever get vacations? When? Do you have any idea what you'd like to do or where you'd like to go? Think you could handle spending some time with an oddly named screen-trotter? I figure after dealing with Callahan for a few months on an almost daily basis you deserve some R and R.
Anyway, you have the addy now. Ta, and don't let Callahan drive you batty.
*sits and stares expectantly at inbox, waiting*
February 24, 2003
Saving more emails that have come in and gone out in the last couple of days. Will most likely have to destroy them later, or else throw all decency out the windows, sell them to tabloid, and retire rich.
Printed email
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: Re: You owe me one pinch
How's Nala?
Printed email
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Re: Re: You owe me one pinch
Oh, bloody hell. You saw the Enquirer.
Uh, I can explain?
Printed email
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: Changing the damn subject line
You don't owe me an explanation, Mr. Baxter. You don't owe me anything.
Printed email
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Brrrrrrrr
Damn, woman, this is sunny California, and I was nearly frozen to my seat when I opened your last email. Peace? Please?
Printed email
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: </bitchiness>
Sorry. Really, though, you don't have to explain anything to me. It's not like we're pinned, or something.
Okay, answering your questions in the first email, in order:
Yes, I think I know what you mean, you naughty man.
Yes, yes, yes, and yes. Got the candy, the flowers, and the note, read the note, and you may stalk me. Just warn me in advance if you're going to show up unannounced after dark. This is Texas--people keep guns, and I have nervous neighbors.
Yes, I get vacations. At least they TELL me I do--haven't managed one yet. When depends on the work we have at the time, but I'm darn sure not going to be able to go anywhere until I get this Callahan boondoggle done. What I'd like to do? I don't know. Veg out. Amusement parks. Miniature golf. *snicker and I'll give you a wedgie* Where? Hell, if it involves sleeping away from home, unless it's a freebie at a relative's house, I can't afford it. As to the last question...
You sure you're not up for the role of The Flash? Cause you move awful fast, Bax.
Printed email
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: *zip!*
Well, consider the distance I'm working with here, and how limited the time I've been able to see you is.
I DO want to tell you about Nala, though. I HAVE been seeing her regularly for the last three or four months. We're not EXCLUSIVE, mind you, but I guess it qualifies as more than casual friendship. Trouble is, I don't think it actually qualifies as FRIENDSHIP at all. I've about come to the conclusion that spending time with her outside a restaurant or club, or bed, just isn't all that appealing. More information than you needed, huh? Let me put it this way--I can't imagine her playing Hi-Ho, Cherry-Oh with me unless I held a gun to her head.
I've noticed that she's pushing to be included in any meeting I have with my agent, or any event where we'll be around producers and directors. She isn't all that interested in just having dinner or watching videos, hanging out. She wants to be out and be seen. That's all right, of course. I mean, I wouldn't expect her to do nothing but stay home with me, and I like to party a little, too, but not EVERY OTHER NIGHT.
But all right, moving too fast. Hmm. What could slow things down a bit?
So, how are the parents? When are you going to take me home to meet your Mum?
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: Are you kidding?
Mom is the one who suggested I pinch your butt. Wait till she's through menopause, then we'll see.
February 25, 2003
Tuesday is pizza day at work. So help me, if I find out who keeps ordering anchovies, I'm going to do them a mischief. Tabitha gave me the 'just peel them off' bit. That doesn't work. It's like peeling the pickle off a hamburger--the taste lingers and contaminates everything. Besides, the cheese welds them to the pizza. No one should ever have to face hairy fish before the middle of the week, anyway. I asked for my money back, since I couldn't eat any of it. You never
heard such bitching over four bucks in your life. Luckily there's a Taco Bell across the street. Viva le Chihuahua.
Printed email
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Question
How pissed would you get if I sent you a Chippendale strip-o-gram at your place of business?
Printed email
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: Re: Question
Very.
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Re: Re: Question
Damnation. Scratch that off the list of courting techniques. Ah, well, I suppose I'd rather not have you ogling half-naked men. Make that OTHER half-naked men.
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Question
You're never gonna let me forget that late night near flashing incident, are you?
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Need a new subject line
Nope.
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: See?
I can be terse, too.
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: You're weird
I like that in a man.
February 26, 2003
Went shopping with Mom and Dad this evening. They're having their time share in Jamaica next month, and she
needed me to help her hector Dad into buying cruise clothes. He kept trying to wander off to the electronics section. We finally had to corral him in a changing room and just pitch clothes over the top of the door.
Frankly, I can't blame him. I'd live in short sets or sweats if I could get away with it. I must say, for an old hippie, Mom is pretty fixated on getting me into a dress. Still, I think I ought to get just one more dress--something a little dressier. I could alternate it with the pants suits for church, and I'd have something for weddings and funerals.
Mom says I should have one or two for parties. Hah. The only parties I get invited to are along the lines of office parties and the occasional girl's video night. I just don't get invited to 'occasions'.
Printed emails
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Hiya
Whatcha doing?
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: Let's see...
I'm at the office. I'm reading email instead of working. Do me a favor? Tell Callahan that a salt water aquarium is NOT a practical addition to the shelter. I've tried. He sent me tropical fish catalogues.
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: *wince*
Sometimes I wonder about trusting so much of my career to this man. If I do, can I have a cyber kiss?
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: Cheeky monkey
Do it and find out.
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: moviemogul@yahoo.com
Subject: Shelter
Scratch the aquarium. I'm thinking about a couple of bonsai trees instead.
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Cheesy grin
Well?
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: A deal's a deal
*smooch*
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: *sigh*
When can I redeem that in person?
__________________________________
And I am NOT going to let Baxter corner me in a chat room. Lord knows how I'd come out of it. And I'm
smiling while I write this.
February 28, 2003
I just got a bill from an antiques house. What the hell does Callahan want with three 17th century French commodes?
Sort of wish this was Leap Year. Then I'd have an excuse to sizzle Baxter's inbox tomorrow.
Oh, hell. I'm a grown woman, this is the 21st century. What's holding me back?
The fact that I'm SUCH a cowardly wuss. And the fact that I LIKE feeling like HE'S pursuing ME. Old maid, know thyself.
March 1, 2003
He's having them converted to chemical toilets. I can hear the museums screaming already. Still, I guess the industrial ones would have just CLASHED with the Italian ceramic tiles he's having put in the 'facilities'.
Callahan hasn't bothered anyone else at the office for over two weeks. One of the other's told me they've decided they had better be nice to me, because obviously I either have mob connections (because only the threat of being 'knee-capped' could make Callahan act vaguely human), or I'm a witch that can place a mean hoodoo. I don't care to disabuse them of either
assumption.
Tabitha mentioned that they needed management in the Los Angeles office, and maybe if I completed this assignment without disaster...
I resisted the urge to tell her exactly where she could stuff that idea. I've never wanted to be management--you usually get a ten percent raise for a title and a sixty percent increase in work.
Then I thought, *Los Angeles--Baxter territory.*
I'll have to at least consider it since she saw the grin on my face.
Printed emails
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Say, isn't it February 29th?
Aren't you supposed to chase me, throw me down, and have your way with me?
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: It's March 1st
And my name isn't Sadie Hawkins.
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: All right
I'll chase YOU, throw you down, and have my way with you. How's that sound?
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: We're sorry...
But your last email set off this address' BS filter, and has been diverted. Should you care to talk like a reasonable adult, the service will resume.
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: *grumble*
Bloody censors are EVERYWHERE. *ahem* Good day, Miss. The weather here has been remarkably fine. I do hope that your Mater and Pater are well? The local bakery has begun offering a marvelous pastry that I know you'd enjoy. What color knickers are you wearing? Mine are red.
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: I love a man with fashion sense
Just be sure not to wear them under white pants—talk about visible panty lines.
And mine are... Just a second.
*peek*
White. Gee, what a surprise.
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: White...
*drool*
____________________
Oh, the American public does NOT know what its missing.
March 3, 2003 Mon
The damned thing is actually coming together. It no longer looks alike a metal and wood box that's been dropped in a hole and had dirt shoveled on top. Yes, I had to go out and look at it again. I think I could draw a detailed diagram of the thing, without referring to notes.
The restrooms were finished. I really don't like the idea of the ceramic tiles. The fewer things that can break in a place like that, the better. But I have to admit it looked great. There are even different color schemes. I really like the black and gold one. Tabloid worthy secret of the week: Callahan's personal throne has a padded seat, that can be warmed.
Not too bad a day. Would've been better if Baxter was there. Must remember to slap myself. I'm getting WAY too attached to him.
March 4, 2003
The kitchen appliances will be in Avocado Green. I convinced Callahan that it was more soothing than something as close to yellow as Aztec Gold. The grinder/chipper/disposal thingy that will mulch the kitchen trash will be brushed steel, because THAT manufacturer refused to do a special order. Was glad that I was on the phone when I informed Callahan. He can only SUSPECT how wide I was grinning when I told him.
March 6, 2003
Got calls today from The Star, The National Enquirer, The World Weekly News, The Globe, People Magazine, Esquire, and Maxim, asking for interviews. Offered stunning figures for 'exclusives'. Had to wrestle with ethics for awhile. Don't know why I bother—the tabloids will quote me all over the place, even if I just say I can't comment. Called Callahan and royally
blessed him for making a press release about the shelter's approaching finish without TELLING ME! Told him that it struck me as a little strange, considering that he'd filed civil suits against the papers that took unauthorized photos of his 10th anniversary party. Hung up on him.
Tabitha suggested that since he didn't object to the interviews, it would be excellent publicity for Seguro. I told Tabitha that if I wanted to pimp, I'd set myself up as a madam, and offer the girls dental coverage and a 401K plan. Tabitha mentioned that there were certain glamour hungry members of the company who'd be happy to take over the job. I pointed out that was only because it was so near completion.
The bitch called my mother.
Mom called me, all excited, wanting to know the specific issues the interviews would be in, and did I think that six new scrapbooks would be enough?
I'm not going to take it on myself to pick and choose who I talk to. My luck, Callahan would take offense, and sue me. I called Callahan and told him that HE'D have to set up whatever interviews he wanted done, and they'd damn well better take place at nice restaurants, with me having carte blanche on the menu selection.
Got an issue of Texas Monthly and began looking for four star restaurant reviews.
March 7, 2003
Sitting in the guest room at Casa Callahan, wondering if the steam rising off my head will peel the expensive wallpaper. Callahan summoned me over for the weekend again. When I got here he informed me that People and Entertainment Weekly magazines were coming by for interviews tomorrow.
I think that's the closest I've ever come to physically assaulting someone.
He reminded me that I told him to set up the interviews. I asked him if he'd ever heard of WARNING SOMEONE!
Shit. It wasn't like I'd have dug out the old Vera Wang or Halston, but I gave up trying to look like Callahan's idea of an efficient business woman for these weekend jaunts a long time ago. I brought my oldest, most comfortable jeans, my Garfield T-shirt, and the one with the cat peering out of a garden. If I'd known, I'd at least have brought the T-shirt with
the tuxedo printed on the front.
Damn. I guess I'd better get up and wash my hair. I spotted some conditioner in there that costs more than three days worth of food for me. I intend to be lavish with myself.
March 8, 2003--Morning
The phone rang at 7:00. I pulled a pillow over my head and tried to ignore it, figuring it couldn't be for me. I was at someone else's house, right?
It rang, and rang--and rang. A lot. Finally there was rapping on my door, and I heard Callahan calling, "Will you answer the damn phone? It's for you." I asked how he knew that, and he said he'd answered it downstairs first, then routed it up to me.
I picked up the receiver, ready to singe Tabitha's henna rinse right off her head over the phone. "What?!" I snarled.
"Bloody hell, woman, leave the eardrums intact!"
Guess who? Insert large smile here, even before eight o'clock in the morning.
"Baxter?"
"Still in bed, eh? What are you wearing? Or not wearing, I hope, I hope."
"A large nightshirt with Bill, the Cat from Bloom County on it."
"Ooo, you sexy beast, you."
I had to laugh. "What on earth are you doing calling me here?"
"Last night my agent mentioned, in passing, that Callahan was offering you up as a media sacrifice today. I thought I'd call and offer commiseration, because I figured you wouldn't feel too perky about this."
"No duh. I'm going to look like a flea market booth attendant. I've had more warnings for fire drills."
"You'll do fine."
"I don't know. I used a new conditioner last night. You remember my curls?"
"Yes."
"Good thing. They're gone. I have a headful of dead snakes. I'm going to wash it again, no conditioner, after I get up--that may help."
"Well, I think that you're wise to wait till after you get up. Soggy mattresses are a pain."
"Nut."
"I like to think of myself as an almond--sweet and sophisticated."
"Shaped funny?"
"I could always show you."
"Do you ever think of anything other than sex?"
"Um... no. Not really."
"Good man. I have to go get ready. Callahan has the first one scheduled for around eleven. We shall be brunching, tra la."
"Silly meal."
"As opposed to tea?"
"I'll have you know that tea is what made me what I am today."
"I'll buy stock in Lipton. I have to go."
"All right. Kiss?"
"You first." I didn't think he'd do it, but I heard a *mwha* "Oh, lord. Okay. Mmmmm..." I didn't actually press my lips to the receiver, but I threw a moan in there.
For a minute I was afraid I'd been too silly, because there was silence. Then Baxter said quietly, "Sod it, woman, why do you have to do that to me when I'm so far away?"
He hung up. I sat there and stared at the phone for a good two minutes before I hung up.
March 8, 2003, evening
I should have known. What has to happen to make me learn? Will God ever stop metaphorically swatting me on the nose with a rolled up newspaper?
Big breath, Zima.
Okay, I thought I'd mentally prepared myself for the interviews, then I found out that it wasn't going to be just me--Callahan was joining in. Actually, I'm okay with that. I figured he'd hog the time, as he usually does, and I'd just have to answer a few technical questions. Company PR done, customer satisfied, millions worth of free advertising, everybody happy, right?
AARGH!
Of course they were thrilled to have Callahan join the interviews--I'm not that much of a draw on my own, am I? I didn't have a problem with that. I was less happy with the photographers, since the shampoo had gone BEYOND perking my hair back up. Yep, it had gone past curls straight into frizz. I didn't quite look like Foxy Cleopatra in Goldmember, but I came close enough for government work. At least I knew Mom would be proud. Back when other mothers were throwing combs and brushes at their daughters, telling them to 'tame that mane', Mom was giving me pics and urging me to 'set it FREE!'.
So there I am, with my dandelion hair and a T-shirt (Margo wanted to loan me one of hers, but I informed her that I'd have to wear it Madonna style--open over my bra--because there was no way I'd be able to button the sucker shut over my bosom). We were set to have the interviews just after lunch, and had the meal with the crews that had been sent by the two magazines.
Have I mentioned that Callahan has a big ass formal dining room? Made me think of all those Regency romances I've read, where the glittering throng sits down to an equally glittering table about a half-mile long, with footmen to wait behind each chair. We didn't have that, but Callahan had brought in extra day help--uniformed. Can we say 'pretentious', boys and girls? But then, we couldn't have had Margo helping out in the kitchen. I got the feeling that she wouldn't be able to find anything in there but lettuce and a corkscrew. Yes, I know that sounds cold, but the woman had wine breath at ten am, okay? Callahan kept shooting her 'looks', so I guess he'd had a talk with her. She didn't show any signs of
being buzzed except an occasional middle-air stare.
The first indication I had that All Was Not Well was during lunch. Actually, it would qualify more as a slap upside the head than an indicator. Possibly even a between the eyes with a two-by-four. I'm in the process of wondering why the hell they insist on giving everyone at the table the same salad dressing (I don't eat oil-and-vinegar unless I can't avoid
it--I tend to end up with garlic breath, and while I love garlic, I'm usually eating it when I'm WITH someone), and the writer from People Magazine chirps, "So, Zima, what's this I hear about you and Colin Baxter?"
I almost choked on a crouton. Usually I'm pretty fast on my feet, mentally, but DAMN that came out of left field. I hadn't had any caffeine--I babbled. I said something along the lines of, "I didn't do it, I wasn't there, no one saw me do it, you can't prove I did it, I deny it..." Yep, I channeled Bart Simpson. Most people would laugh that off as humor, right?
Apparently not a celebrity interests reporter.
Knowing looks all around the table. Then I guess Callahan decided that that was enough of that 'I'm not the center of attention shit' and said, "I introduced them."
I didn't dump my salad over his head, but I hope I never come that close again in my life. To begin with, it pretty much had to be Callahan who'd linked my name with Baxter, and to finish with, the bastard had NOT introduced us--he'd stood there ignoring me while Bax had introduced himself. I said as much—but more tactfully. I said he'd been 'too busy' to notice me at first, and Baxter had introduced himself.
Big mistake. You know those cartoons of light bulbs popping into existance over people's heads? The room got brighter. I figured I'd better start tap dancing. "Mister Baxter was very kind to me on my first day on this job. He made me feel welcome, even though I DON'T DEAL WITH HIM directly."
"Yeah? You spent a lot of time together that time we were all rained in here?"
Heads swiveled back to me. "We were just playing games."
Open mouth, insert foot. Tiny smiles. Entertainment Weekly said, "I hear Baxter is really GOOD at games."
"Oh, come on, people! BOARD games, all right? I kicked his ass at Trivial Pursuit." I suddenly realized I'd said 'ass' where it could be reported to millions upon millions of readers. "I mean... He's British, so I had the edge in the pop culter
catagories, and..." I trailed off. "Margo was there, too!" Said with desperation.
They were not distracted. The hounds were on the scent. Callahan had been trying to keep the attention focused squarely on himself, but he'd wildly misguessed this time.
I'd have gotten up from the table and gone out to my car and just LEFT, if I hadn't KNOWN that it would mean my job. Unfortunately, unemployment is a bitch to get if you quit, or are fired for reason, and Tabitha would have had a valid reason to fire me if I ran from a business interview I'd already agreed to.
Let's just say that what I had so little appetite that I ate less lunch than Margo.
The interviews were like root canal without Novacain. Callahan would ramble on about his reasons for putting in a shelter, which included his views on the world in general, and the interviewer or Entertainment Weekly would say, "Fascinating. Zima, is Baxter really as big a flirt in private as he seems in real life?" What could I do? Lie? Baxter can flirt better than a sixth-generation Southern belle. Tell them I didn't notice? I HAVE a pulse, and no desire to be labeled
gay.
I'd answer as briefly and neutrally as possible, then launch right into something about the shelter. They were getting the damn information whether they really wanted it or not. I wasn't about to have Tabitha chew me out for not doing my duty to Seguro.
We were nearing the end of the second interview, the one with People, when the reporter said, teasingly, "You're making an awful big show of there being nothing between you and Baxter but a nodding acquaintance, Zima."
"It's nothing, really," jumped in Callahan. "Why that night that they both slept here, they were in separate rooms. There was a bathroom between them."
"Interconnecting rooms?" God, how much suggestiveness can someone put into six syllables.
"And that time she pinched his ass, I'm sure it was just some sort of joke. After all, he stood still for it, and even..."
I stood up, "Interview is OVER!"
"But we haven't told them about the shelter warming party, and..."
"What party? What 'we'? I've given all the specifics. Tell the readers they can contact Seguro Shelters in Texas and California for the finest, safest shelters available, good for surviving bombs, torandos, hurricanes," I glared at Callahan, "or OTHER disasters!"
I did something I don't think I've ever done in my life--I FLOUNCED. I didn't even go upstairs to get my other jeans and tee, I just grabbed my purse off the hall table, went to my car, and threw up dust heading home.
When I got here the light on my answering machine was blinking. Big surprise. What WAS a surprise was that the message was from Baxter, and not Callahan. He said, "Zima? I just got a call from Arthur screaming his daft head off, something about couldn't I teach you to act civilized to the press. The fool seems to think that I have some say in how you act, though I'll never know how he came by THAT misinformation. Anyway, I figured if HE was in that much of a snit, you must be right over the top. Give me a call at..."
I now have H. Colin Baxter's private phone number. Being the perversely contrary bitch I feel like I am right now, I'm not using it. Email will do just fine.
Printed Emails
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: I want to know one thing
Did you tell Callahan I pinched your ass?
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Bloody hell, woman!
Do I strike you as being THAT insane? No. He must have been peeking, the dirty pervert. Is that what's gotten you so upset?
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: Re: Bloody hell, woman!
Not so much the fact that HE knows, but now that People Magazine and consequently all of AMERICA will know--yeah, I'm pissed.
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Re: Re: Bloody hell, woman!
Oh, my sainted Aunt Fanny! He TOLD? That's it, I'm doubling my fee for anything I do with him from now on. My agent can just sod off if he doesn't like it. I'm sorry, love.
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: *sigh*
I guess it's my own fault. I should have known damn good and well that someone would call me on that. I've never been able to get away with anything in my life. I was always the one they caught trying to cut across the field instead of running the full laps in gym class. Any idea of how long it is between interviews and publication? Maybe I can arrange to be out of town when People hits the stands. I don't care to have to deal with my co-workers.
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Issuing a standing invitation
Come to Los Angelas.
I looked at this last email a long time before answering it.
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: Don't tempt me
I still have work to do here.
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Re: Issuing a standing invitation
Fair enough. Just refer to the subject line.
I'm faced with a dilemma. Do I, or do I not thank God for Callahan? Yes, he makes me want to rip out his
liver, but I have to admit, in a damn Rube Goldberg sort of way, he IS responsible for me meeting Baxter.
March 10th
Oh, my aching head. God, I HATE Mondays. Weeks should officially start on Tuesdays, but I suppose then I'd have to bitch about Tuesdays.
As soon as I got home Saturday I called my Mom, because I fully intended to IGNORE the fucking answering machine, but I didn't want her to get worried. I had to explain why I wouldn't be picking up any time soon. "I'm putting it on mute, and I'll check it a couple of times a day." Why? "Because that way I can weed through calls without having to LISTEN to the jerks on the other end." Why? "Because some of the media seem to have gotten the idea that Baxter and I are an 'item'." You aren't? "MOM!"
I swear. The woman spent the first eighteen years of my life lecturing me about waiting for 'that one special someone' who was bound to come along once I 'was ready'. She's spent most waking moments since then wondering why I haven't FOUND 'that one special someone' already. Considering the men she's introduced
me to (with a hopeful gleam in her eyes) it's astonishing the wide variety of men she thinks might qualify.
I was right about the machine. The calls piled up through Saturday and Sunday. Lots and lots of hang-ups, but lots of people from a wide range of magazines and tabloids asking for interviews, or just quotes. Fat fucking chance. The could take, "I get hot under the collar when anyone suggests I have sexual feelings with Baxter in mind--he's like a brother', and come up with 'I get hot sex with Baxter--brother!" I know how these people work.
Callahan accounted for a half-dozen of the calls I wiped off the machine. Surprisingly enough he didn't sound all that pissed--just said he wanted to speak to me. I decided he could wait till business hours. I've given up enough of my life to this lunacy. Then I got to work and found out that it STILL has a claim on a good-sized chunk of me.
When Tabitha came into my office this morning I was ready to tell her to go screw herself if she had a complaint--I'd just take my chances on finding employment elsewhere. I hadn't had caffeine, and wasn't thinking clearly. Okay, if anyone else ever reads this? Don't faint. She brought me coffee--FIXED THE WAY I LIKE IT! She told me she was proud of the job I was going so far, that Callahan had never been so pleased with any other liaison, that she heard I'd handled the interviews very well...
I should have seen it coming. The shoe dropped.
"And he knows you're going to be a positive BLESSING at the shelter warming party. He's given permission for us to provide literature, but discretely, you know? No table set up or anything, just laid out where they're visible, and then you can casually direct people to them when they, like, comment on some of the features, then set up an appointment, and..."
"Wait a minute. Party?"
"It's formal, but don't worry--there's plenty of time for you to get something suitable to wear. I'd suggest..."
I left the room. It was either that or do something that would surely get me fired, if not have a restraining order taken out on me. I actually had to stick my head under the tap in the bathroom. Someone started to walk in on me. I'm not sure who it was, because I didn't look up, and when they got a look at me, and heard what I was muttering, they backed out REAL quiet.
Tabitha was still in my office when I came back out. Before I could turn around and head for the potty again she said quietly, "You have to. No argument, no negotiation. It's MY ass if you don't, Zima. It's just a party, for Christ's
sake--a FANCY party. You can rub elbows with celebrities that most people only dream about meeting, you can gobble gourmet food and guzzle vintage champagne, and when it's over, this assignment is over, and you'll have a salary bump and a reputation that will get you a job pretty fucking much anywhere you want to go in this business. Curb your natural instinct to bitch and face it--this is a good opportunity for you."
Damn it. I hate it when that bitch is right.
Printed emails
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Was it as bad as I think it was?
?
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: Re: Was it as bad as I think it was?
:(
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Tell daddy all about it
Talk to me. I'm someone who understands the media sharks, remember?
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: *sigh*
You know, I have a pretty large foot. I really didn't think it would FIT so neatly in my mouth. I kept trying to talk about the shelter, and all they wanted to talk about was you. That's not what bothered me--I think you're worth
talking about. But they wanted to talk about you and ME. Like there IS a you and me.
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Re: *sigh*
There isn't? *sigh*
Ooooh, Baxter...
March 12, 2003
I finally did one thing that most young women my age have done way back in their teens. Mind out of the gutter, journal. I went shopping for a formal with my mother. Everyone else has usually done this for senior prom. I'm pretty sure Mom had been looking forward to doing it with me, despite her avowal that she'd been perfectly happy attending her own senior prom in a granny gown--barefooted. I'd have snuck off and shopped alone, except--well, I'd let it slip about the party, and she got so excited, and... And now I know how parents feel about not wanting to disappoint their kids, I guess.
So, off we went. And we didn't hit my usual haunting grounds of Wal-Marts, or Sears, or even J.C.Penny's. Nope. Mom hauled me to DILLARDS. Christ, I'm afraid to walk through that place for fear I'll brush against something, soil it, and have to buy it.
I managed to make myself stay away from the 'Day-to-Day Wear' and 'Businesswomen' sections. You know, I never knew that Mom had ambitions to dress Marilyn Monroe or Rita Hayworth. She kept pulling out these retro-looking gowns--which would have been not to bad (even with the bare shoulders thing), except that they were all in, like, satin, and jewel toned. I'm a little plump, I'll admit it, and I didn't want to look like a wide screen 1950s Technicolor production.
Mom was going, "You don't have to decide right away. We can try here, and here, and here." And I was, "Oh, YES, I have to decide here!" Trying on clothes makes me feel like I'm breaking out in hives--particularly when I get a look at the size tags and the price labels. I was FINDING a dress before I left that store, and it was going to be one that didn't require me to buy any special type of underwear. There are very few occasions when I'd need a strapless bra, and since I was already about to lay out a nice chunk of my finances, I wasn't going to spring for unnecessary undergarments.
I found one I liked, and Mom thought wasn't too shabby. It was a two piece in champagne crepe, and if I had thought Mom's choices were retro... This one had a sleeveless bodice sort of top over a draped skirt that would hide whatever shoes I chose, unless maybe I went with chunky platforms. The bodice was sleeveless, with little ruffles around the armholes and neckline, and it was embroidered in cream thread--a floral pattern. It reached to just above my hips, and came town to a point in the front. Slimming as all hell. Zipped up the back, and oh, yeah... It laced up the front. Not faux laced, either. The booger was closed by a satin ribbon that was drawn though a series of teeny holes on either side, criss-crossing, and ending in a bow at the top, at just EXACTLY the right place to nestle in front of the hint of cleavage that the thing showed.
Mom liked it, but wondered why I'd settled on that particular gown. I told her it spoke to me. It did--really. It said, "Buy me, and all you'll need to be in costume for the next Faire are a few accessories. The one's I went to weren't
so strict on dress codes that you couldn't manage a swing of a century or two--they'd accept Georgian or Regency. I decided not to rip out the taffeta underskirt, but I was going to feel damn odd, rustling wherever I went.
I had sworn I wasn't going to buy fancy underwear, and I didn't. Mom did it for me. I could hardly turn it down when it was a gift, but I felt like an utter fool in Victoria's Secret, with her holding up different colored bras to see how they'd look on me. She settled on--get ready for this... Black. Edged in scarlet lace. My MOTHER bought me naughty underwear! I think she really HAS decided that I'm 'seeing' Baxter.
I find that I'm wondering about what his expression would be like if the next time he asked what sort of knickers I'm wearing, I could describe these.
March 13, 2003
I'm now keeping a Walkman on my desk, and next to my phone at home. I keep the volume at full volume. Whenever a tabloid reporter calls, I just turn it on and hold it to the mouthpeice. My co-workers and neighbors have gotten used to hearing brief, very loud snatches of 'Bat Out of Hell'.
March 14, 2003
There was some guy waiting outside work today with a camera. I got the file folder I was holding up before he could get a shot. I think. I'm glad we're in a good-sized office building. It gave the rent-a-cop something to do. I
yelled, and Charlie charged out like Dirty Harry going after that little weasel in the first movie of the series. He got between me and the guy till I could get to my car and drive off. He was bumping the guy with his belly and telling
him that the next time he came on our property he was gonna by God get a harrassment suit slapped on him. Charlie is a considerable bulk to try to snap pictures around. I'm bringing him donuts tomorrow.
March 17, 2003
My mother showed me her first clipping for the new scrapbooks. It was the front page of something called Peek-and-Tell. It featured a rather grainy close-up of me that consisted of my top pouf off hair, and my eyes glaring over the top of the file folder, looking like I suppose Lizzie Borden must've when she was coming at her step-mother with that hatchet.. The headline under it screamed 'Belle Out of Hell. Baxter's New Gal Pal Is Heavy Metal Chic' Yeah, that's right--chic, not chick. God help me, they must've found out about my Meatloaf souvenier T-shirt.
Who do I kill?
Printed emails
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: What do you want for Christmas?
Korn? Limp Biscuit? Or do you prefer the classics--Twisted Sister, Skid Row, Poison, Def Leopard, Van Halen...
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: You dork
Do not try to teach your grandmother to suck eggs. It's spelled 'Bizkit' and 'Leppard'. Damn, you should have gotthe that last one right, seeing as how it's a British band. Please show some respect, or I'm sure the God of Thunder (and that's drummer Rick Allen, not Thor, you neophite) will lay a stick upside your head. Anyway, Meatloaf is hard rock--not metal. Now, I could use a copy of KISS, Alive!
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Impertinent wench
Just for that, I'm buying you Brittny's latest.
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: Re: Impertinent wench
Don't MAKE me hurt you.
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Re: Re: Impertinent wench
Handcuffs, or straps? Crop, paddle, or bare hand? Should I wear my old school uniform? You can be the stern headmistress.
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: Good GOD, I hope you're on a secure server!
I can just imagine what Peek-and-Tell would make of the recent conversation.
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: We won't ask them
I have my own Instamatic
The man will be the death of me yet.
March 19, 2003
No one has dared to pin up the article on the company bulletin board. I think they finally believe I met and talked to Baxter. Problem is I think they also think I slept with him. Two of the female staff want me to get autographs the next time I see him. One of them wanted to provice a bra for the signing. I declined.
Printed emails
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Callahan's shindig
It's March 25th--a WEDNESDAY. Who the hell has a bash on a Wednesday? You ARE going, aren't you?
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: Re: Callahan's shindig
I am to make a command appearance, and it's the last command that sucker is going to give me, unless I decide to tell him off, and he orders me off his land.
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Re: Re: Callahan's shindig
Good. Then I'll come. My agent was passing stones trying to persuade me. Says it will generate a buzz about Callahan and I working together on our next project. I can clear my calendar clear through till Monday the 31st. You're going to finally be free of that Workload From Hell, and it's past time you and I spent some quality time together. Fair warning: I intend to seduce you.
March 20, 2003
Question: Is it a seduction if you KNOW he's going to be making the effort? And why the fuck should I care? I wonder if I can find a lace fan to carry with that dress. The blood of generations of Southern Belles which flows through my veins will no longer be denied: I'm going to DELIBERATELY flirt!
March 21, 2003
Now the tabloids are calling, trying to pump me for information about Callahan's party. One of them wanted a guest list. They won't be able to repeat what I said to them in print. Not unless they use a lot of asterisks, pound signs, and ampersands. I'll admit that I'm a little curious about certain aspects myself. For instance, do we get dinner, or will there just be finger food? Granted some of those buffets can be pretty substantial--especially when you're not shy about hitting them two or three times, and I'm not. I figure buffet=all you can eat. Knowing Callahan he's going to go over the top to provide a fancy spread, and I intend to take full advantage. That means I won't be stopping at Sonic on the way there, I suppose.
I also intend to take full advantage of the free booze. Even though I will be unofficially schmoozing for Seguro, as far as I'm concerned, I'm on my own time. Plus Baxter will be there, so I rather intend to get tipsy, if not completely snockered. I suppose it's a good thing that Callahan asked me to stay overnight at the house, since I doubt I'll be in any condition to drive when the party breaks up. Baxter will be staying over, also, and if we're in the same rooms we were last time... Dot, dot, dot, my butt. That bathroom is going to see more traffic than it DID, I can tell you.
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com<
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Party etiquette
Should I send you a corsage?
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: Re: Party etiquette
Lord, I feel like Donna Reed, for some reason. I never got a corsage before, so how the hell should I know? I always wanted a homecoming corsage in high school--one with purple and white mums, satin ribbons with the school name in gold or silver glitter, and tiny plastic footballs--one that would cover most of my chest, and I'd have to be careful not to trip on the streamers. Sadly, it never happened, and I'm just a little old for that now. Thank you for offering. At least you didn't offer to buy me naughty underwear.
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Damn it!
Who told you about your birthday present? And I'll have you know that Donna Reed was very sexy in that A-line skirt, high heels, and pearls.
To: callmebax@msn.com
From: damweirdname@hotmail.com
Subject: Re: Damn it!
Are we talking Victoria's Secret, or Frederick's of Hollywood? I'm warning you--I've seen the Frederick's catalogue, and I might laugh so hard that nothing could be accomplished. And are you sure you're thinking of Donna Reed and not June Cleaver?
To: damweirdname@hotmail.com
From: callmebax@msn.com
Subject: Re: Re: Damn it!
At least I wasn't talking about Carol Brady, though she and Mike must've had quite a love life. I mean--three kids apiece--they were both obviously used to getting some on a regular basis. So, since you don't like Frederick's, I suppose feathers, sequins, fake fur, and anything glow-in-the-dark is out? *begins revising order*
March 22, 2003
Mom was over today, wanting to give me a 'refresher course' on make-up techniques. If I remember correctly, she spent a couple of days with me in junior high when I turned fourteen and was officially allowed to wear more than lip-gloss. I was presented with a junior make-up kit. I think I may still have it somewhere in storage, no more than half used. I don't think I ever touched the blue eye shadow. I went ahead and let her try to explain the differences to me between 'day make-up' and 'evening make-up'. (I think it's basically that you wear more after sundown). I've worn make-up so seldom that any more than that makes me feel like Tammie Faye.
I couldn't bring myself to tell her I'm not going to wear anything but maybe some subdued lipstick. Luckily they left for their cruise this evening. They'll be far out at sea when the party takes place, maybe even to their time-share. At least I won't have to pass parental inspection before I go off to what is the closest I'm likely to get to my first formal. Maybe I'll climb back into the dress and do my face, then take a picture for her before she comes home. That is given that the dress isn't ripped to shreds in mad, passionate abandon after the party. I hope.
March 23, 2003
The preacher called a special prayer in church today for the situation of the world in general. Seems there's rumors that the al Quaida might have gotten their hands on the makings of an atom bomb. What really scares me is the fact that the government isn't denying it. In the name of 'avoiding panic', they'd deny that there was a strong possibility that the sun might rise in the East tomorrow.
March 24, 2003
Got the first telegram of my life. They HAVE telephone service on the ship, but Mom insisted on sending a telegram. I think she was remembering all those old black-and-white movies we used to watch together on the classics channel. I also think she just liked the idea of trying to compose it.
Telegram
ZIMA. FATHER AND I FINE. WEATHER FINE. WE WON RHUMBA CONTEST. HAVE FUN AT PARTY. WEAR MAKEUP. LOVE YOU VERY MUCH. MOM AND DAD.
It's official. Maternal guilt can cross oceans.
I will wear make-up. I will dust on a couple of swipes of rouge with the lipstick, but that's as far as I'm going. It counts, damn it.
March 25, 2003
4:30 pm
The big day has arrived. I'll be leaving for Callahan's place in a few minutes. I packed an overnight bag. After all, Baxter said he would have till Monday free, and with a couple of changes of clothing, I can be as spontaneous as all getout. I considered bringing condoms, but decided against it. I think that Baxter is responsible and thoughtful enough to take care of that little item on his own. And if he isn't, eh. Having supervised the supplies for the shelter, I know that there's a goodly supply of contraceptives.
I wonder how many women have planned the loss of their virginity, as opposed to the spontaneous deflowerings? Deflowering... Sounds like washing your hands after a good bout of baking.
I'll wait to get dressed till I get to Callahan's. I'm not going to risk having a flat tire while I'm dressed in the most expensive outfit I've ever owned. I'm taking this journal along, 'cause I'm hoping to have something REALLY significant to write in it soon, she said demurely.
6:30 pm
Sheesh, I thought that the guard at the front gate was intimidating. Callahan has laid on extra security for this bash, and I guess that makes sense. The tabloids will probably be willing to sell kidneys or their grandmothers to get inside. Anyway, besides the usual unofficial cop, there was someone else double checking IDs. I'm kind of glad I waited to put on the blusher and lipstick, because that sucker gave me a lazer vision going over.
He introduced himself as Ben Travers, and said he was in charge of Callahan's security. I wondered why I hadn't seen him much during my time here. I guess he must've been off securing the California property. I mentioned something about it, and he gave me a sort of ice blue look before waving me in. Damn, he's a big sucker. I wouldn't be surprised to find that he'd started out as a plain old bodyguard--or maybe pro linebacker. Or bodybuilder. There was just a whole lot of him.
I'm getting dressed at the shelter, then I'll walk up and present myself at the house, in all my spleandor. The overnight bag can stay here. Maybe Baxter can be hinted into taking us off to somewhere a little more private after the party. There's a nice enough little motel in town. Or hell, if one of us is sober, I wouldn't mind inviting him back to my place. Sure it's a bit of a drive, but we could have a lot of conversation on the way there. Besides, I cleaned up the place, and someone might as well see it.
The caterers are setting up. Looks like it's going to be a good spread. There's a lot of champagne chilling, and the buffet table they've set up makes it a wee bit cramped in the main room. Still, it shouldn't be all that crowded, unless Callahan really went overboard with the invitations. The caterer is only going to be leaving two of his staff, because he has to run over and start preparations on another party, but then he'll return to do the clean up. He's leaving behind a bartender and a waiter
I'm gonna walk up to the house now. Hopefully when I next write here, I will be an experienced woman, and that's an experience I'm looking forward to.
March 26, 2003
I've sat here staring at this thing for the last forty-five minutes or more. Like I said, I was looking forward to having something important to put down here. I don't know where to start.
What the hell. I know what's coming up, so why not start where I left off and work up to it?
To start with, Callahan almost swallowed his tongue when he saw me dressed up. He said something about me cleaning up nice. I didn't hit him, because his wife was there. She'd already started on the wine, but after all, she IS a Texas girl, even if she HAS had the natural fiestiness dulled by time spent in LA. Some of my less than enlightened sisters feel the need to leap to the defense of their men, no matter how little they deserve it.
Anyway, we were supposed to be gathered at the house, then all stroll down to the shelter together, so they could get the full effect. There were already several guests when I showed up, and I realized that I was going to be able to keep my mother entertained with celebrity stories for months, if not years.
Callahan is a rotten host. I think that Miss Manners and Martha Stewart would agree that the host should take a new arrival around and introduce them, if they aren't familiar with the other guests. Well, Callahan patted my shoulder, then went back to schmoozing, leaving me to my own devices. I looked around, but Baxter wasn't there yet, so I settled on a couch to do some people watching.
Callahan must've been angling for even more publicity, because Monica Mason was there. Her talk show is one of the few my mother will watch, since she doesn't limit herself to freaks, geeks, and pop culture icons. Oh, she has those, too, but she occasionally layers in someone of substance--politicians, philanthropists, scientists. It was sort of funny seeing her without a mike clipped to her collar. She was talking very earnestly to a big, rugged, middle aged man. It took me a few minutes to recognize him, and when I did, I knew I'd be able to keep Dad entertained, too. It was Matherson, one of our senators. He's one of the few politicians who doesn't cause Dad to get an expression like he's been sucking a lemon soaked in vinegar. She was saying something about how it was a good idea for him to make public appearances even when he WASN'T campaigning.
The couple sitting in the nearby love seat would have made most paparazzi drool down their chins. They were two of the hottest commodities around these days, though I have to admit that very few of my own dollars had contributed to putting them in a higher tax bracket. Joe Holiday and Nikki Aliway. Heh. Rhymes. Lord, I must be far gone if I'm realizing things like that in this situation.
Nikki--I listened mostly to oldies, so I couldn't say much about her music. I think everyone in America is aware of her career though. She's had videos that just narrowly missed getting banned from the Playboy channel. She's appeared in outfits that would have looked smothering in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. Her nickname was Nikki 'All the Way'. She isn't quite Madonna in her prime, but she's moving up on the outside. She gave me a smile--kind of a nice smile, too. I decided I wanted to try to talk to her later. Maybe ask about her personal taste in music, whether she even knew who Buddy Holly or the Big Bopper were. Anyone who knows Texas Musicians has made a step in the right direction with me.
I've never seen a movie where Joe had the lead role. Soppy romances staring guys who barely had more whiskers than I did just aren't my style. How do I put this? He stares out of a lot of teen magazines. If he'd been around in my genteration, I'd have been reading about him in 16 and Tigerbeat. Somehow I think I still wouldn't have been all that interested. The look he gave me wasn't nearly as friendly as Nikki's. It wasn't exactly hostile, but it was sort of a combination of pity and 'oh, my God, I hope she isn't going to be too 'interested''. I wanted to tell him, "Don't worry, little boy. I'm afraid I'd snap you in half. Besides, I know for a fact there's going to be a REAL man here later on."
Said real man showed up a few minutes later. Unfortunately there was a tiny blonde attached to his arm, gazing up at him flirtateously. I recognized her immediately. It was Nala Wyndham, last seen on a magazine cover, sitting on Baxter's lap. I was hit with simultaneous elation and depression. The combination is nauseating, especially when its mingled with hurt, and followed closely by green-eyed rage.
There was also a slender, dapper, dark haired dude in his forties who came in with them, but he sort of faded into the background. I found out later that this was Michael Underhill--Baxter's agent.
Baxter's eyes came right to me. I have never in my life seen a man look that trapped, except maybe the time when I was very small, and I invited the Jehovah Witnesses into the house before my father could stop me. Baxter's an actor, and very good at expressing emotion without words. His expression right then was screaming, "I CAN EXPLAIN!" At the moment I wasn't feeling particularly reasonable or forgiving, so I leaned over and said brightly to Joe, "So tell me, is it true that you're up for the lead role in the epic Alexander the Great movie that's in pre-production?"
He blinked at me, then said, "How do you know about that?"
Right. How did I lift my rock up long enough to find out? "I read Ain't It Cool? Is it true?"
He smirked. "As a matter of fact, it is. I'm the leading contender."
I gave him an earnest look and said, "So the gay element of the movie doesn't bother you?"
He went slack jawed. "What?"
"You know, his romantic and sexual attachment to Hephaistion. You've never read The Persian Boy?" He shook his head, and he was looking numb. "Well, it's a beautiful love story, and I just think you're really brave. I mean, no one will believe you're gay just because you play a gay character, right? I mean, look at Rupert Everett... No, wait--he IS gay, isn't he? Well, never mind. I'll think positive thoughts about you getting the part." I noticed that Nikki was trying hard not to laugh. I liked her even more.
Baxter was trying to make his way over to me, but Nala was stopping at everyone they passed, and she was hanging on him like a limpet. And perhaps I've mentioned this before--Baxter is a gentleman. Right then I wished there was a little more lout in him, so he could have peeled off Little Miss Size Four.
He'd almost made it over to me when Callahan clapped his hands and said that everyone had arrived, so it was time to head out the the main attraction. I hopped up and sort of swirled over to the door. You know, dresses are good for expressing when you're pissed off. You can't do much with pants.
We walked out to the shelter. The walk was lined with cute little garden lanterns, and I remembered thinking how considerate it was for Callahan to provide anyone who cared to fly over with a lighted arrow leading straight to his hidey-hole. I'm sure that any bomber would greatly appreciate it.
We entered the shelter, and it looked pretty damn impressive, if I do say so myself. Baxter was still trying to edge up close enough to talk without raising his voice enough to draw attention, but it was now my turn to do the guide bit. I waxed enthusiastic, pointing out specific features as the eyes of half the guests glazed over. Some of them, though--the Senator, Monica, and Nikki--actually seemed to be paying attention. I figured that Monica was considering doing a show on something like lifestyles of the rich and paranoid. The Senator was a politician, so he had to know whether or not bomb shelters were a reasonable expense. And Nikki--I think she was just interested in a lot of different things, and polite.
I had laid a few brouchures out on one of the occasional tables, and I did a 'Oh, my--how did these get here?' That covered my obligations to Seguro. I was ready and willing to get stinking drunk. First, though, I was going to find out what the heck caviar tasted like. Fish eggs. I'm sorry, but fish eggs are bait, not food, as far as I'm concerned. I DID eat the Texas Caviar, which is highly seasoned pickled black-eyed peas. And I'm sure the foi gras was a delicacy, but it's still goose liver, okay? But that left crab puffs, cold shrimp, teeny meatballs, and mini sandwiches. No potato chips, but you can't have everything, right? I got a funny look from the bartender when I asked for a Diet Pepsi instead of the wine he was pouring.
I had thought that maybe Baxter would be able to get loose from Nala when the eating commenced, but it still took him awhile. Figures that she didn't eat. She kept hanging onto him, sipping wine. She stole a shrimp off his plate. I silently urged him to stab her hand with his fork. Reaching into someone's plate if you aren't long married or related by blood, and there is no open invitation, is just WRONG.
About an hour into the party, she got up and headed for one of the rooms, looking for a restroom, I think. She was carrying her handbag, which was about the size of a paperback--a SKINNY paperback. I don't know how some women do it. I could pack for a weekend in most of my purses, including a change of shoes.
The moment she disappeared, Baxter was up and coming over to me. "I can explain."
I gave him a blank look. "Explain what?"
"Zima..."
"If you're talking about number theory, forget it. It's the only course I ever flunked, and the very thought of it gives me a headache now."
"Zima, I didn't come with Nala."
"She ambushed you and glued herself to your side."
"That's close. She came with Michael. I swear to God, I didn't know she was coming. He's her agent, too, and he's hoping to promote her to Callahan, maybe do some networking. We drove up at the same time, but we did NOT come together, no matter what she seems to think. We haven't even seen each other for more than a month, I SWEAR. Look, we get through this tonight, and then you and I find somewhere private, and we have a long, intense talk. All right?"
I cocked my head, then said, "Is she as skinny naked as she looks dressed."
"More," he said instantly. "No boobs. I've seen bigger mosquito bites. It's all Wonderbra. The only reason she hasn't had implants is because she's waiting for someone to pay for them. I declined."
I noticed that the senator had moved over to a corner and was talking on a cell phone, and I called Baxter's attention to it. "He looks worried about something."
"A little," Baxter admitted. "Maybe they're calling a special session or something."
"I don't know, but I don't like it when politicians look worried. Especially him. I haven't followed much politics lately, but he's always been pretty unflappable."
Ben Travers came in and went to talk to Callahan, who looked shocked, then pissed. They both turned and looked over at the bar. I noticed that the bartender was fiddling with the chest pocket of his blazer.
Things happened pretty quickly. Travers was across the room in about three strides, and almost over the bar. He had the bartender by the collar before the guy could move. Then he ripped his moustache off. That's right, he jerked that hairy catepillar right off the man's face. There was a sound like velcro being opened, and the guy screamed like a girl. He swung a hand at Travers, and got it batted down for his trouble. The Travers was ripping at the bartender's clothes while the guy yelled about civil rights and lawsuits. Travers came up with a small, silverish object. I had just enough time to recognize it as a digital camera before Travers smashed it against the bar. There was another yelp, this time about destruction of property, right before Travers dunked the remains of the camera in a pitcher of margueritas that the bartender had been mixing up.
Nala came out of the restroom, and everyone in the room sort of drifted over, beginning to babble questions. Then Joe Holiday's voice rose over the chatter, and lemme tell ya, that boy needed to grab a little bass. "Hey, I know him! That's the bastard who got a picture of me landing on my ass during when I was shooting hoops on the set of my last movie! He made me look like a dork."
"I didn't have far to go," smirked the bartender. "I don't know who you are, you Neanderthal, but I'm suing your ass off."
"Really?" growled Ben. "Mister Callahan has a whole drove of lawyers who eat people like you like most people pop breath mints."
"How the hell did you find out?"
"Next time clean your car, asshole."
"You broke into my car? Oh, now I'm really going to..."
Travers didn't let him finish. "You left a fucking pay stub on the dash, idiot! Let me tell you what's going to happen. I'm going to call the local cops, and you're going to be charged first with criminal tresspass and invasion of privacy. I'm sure we can layer on six or seven other charges, once we think about it." Still holding the bartender by the collar, Travers pulled out a cell phone, flipped it open, then punched a button. "Yeah, 911? Look this isn't a dangerous emergency, but I need the number for the local police station. No, I can't look it up myself, or call information. Because I'm hanging on to an intruder right now. No, I SAID he isn't a threat. Believe me, this guy couldn't be a threat to anything but someone's dignity and peace of mind. Look, I know you must be busy, but surely you have time to... Wait a minute! Don't hang..."
He glared at the phone, then said, "I don't believe this. She said she didn't have time. There's some sort of big ass emergency going down, and she has to keep the lines cleared, she said she was surprised I'd gotten through."
"911 too busy? I don't believe it," said Callahan. "That would take something like a hurricane, or a massive blackout. What's going on?"
"I don't know, sir, but I have to tell you, there was an awful lot of commotion going on in the background. I heard yelling, and I think someone was crying." There was silence for a moment, then he shrugged. "I'll lock him in the storage room till I can get someone out here."
I looked at Baxter. "I was expecting it to be a dull party, but we got some excitement after all."
That was when there was a huge, godawful bang, the ground shook, and the emergency lock down went into effect.
I was the only one who had any idea what was going on. I bolted for the entrance, yelling "Ninety seconds! We have ninety seconds! Run, Bax!" So I'm a bitch--he was the only one I was worried about getting out.
Callahan chose that moment to try to be in charge. He grabbed me as I tried to run past him, and the sucker was too heavy for me to drag. He was telling me to calm down. You know, I've always complained about how people in a horror movie never make sense when they're trying to get help? I have to stop doing that, because I was babbling. Then Callahan slapped me. I stared at him, and he said, a little smugly, "You were hysterical."
There was a loud clang as the outer door slammed shut and locked, then a hiss as it sealed. I hauled off and punched Callahan in the jaw. In fact, I knocked him on his ass, and I screamed, "I HAVE A GOOD REASON!"
In the moment of silence that followed, I heard Nala say loudly, "Is she on drugs?"
Then Baxter grabbed me, wrapping his arm around me and speaking quickly and quietly into my ear. I don't know exactly what he said, but he had a calming effect. I heard someone, I think Travers, say something about going and finding out what the noise was. I said, "Yeah, well, you won't for awhile."
He frowned at me. "Look, I'll be right back, and we'll try to get 911 again, get them to send an ambulance to take a look at you."
"I sincerely doubt you'll get through to emergency services, fella. Didn't that sequence of events have any significance to you people? Loud explosion nearby, ground tremor? The next noises were the sounds of the automatic system, which Seguro is VERY proud of, sealing this place." Blank looks, but a few of them, like Baxter, the senator, and Nikki, had apprehension dawning in their expressions. I took a deep breath, then said as calmly as I could, "People think about where we are. This is a BOMB SHELTER. Hello?"
"That's not possible," said Callahan flatly.
"Yeah, well, I'm sure that if any hostile powers knew that you were throwing a party they'd have held off. Didn't you listen to any of the information I've been giving you? This thing triggers only under certain circumstances. You could have a direct lightnening strike, and it wouldn't trigger. You could have a load of dynamite go off overhead, and nothing. You could have a 747 land on your house and it wouldn't even burp. It takes something MAJOR to set this thing off."
It got very quiet. "The security system will NOT allow us to open for twenty-four hours. And people, I suggest that while we're waiting, we make a REAL effort to find out what happened out there--because we just might not want to open up for about..." I considered statistics. "Three years." Margo fainted. "Give or take."
Nala started to whimper. "What do we do NOW?"
I was hoping that her nose would run. I think seeing her with a snot trail on her upper lip would have made me feel better. "I don't know about everyone else." I fished the remains of the digital camera out of the margeurita pitcher, then grabbed a brandy snifter and half filled it. "But I intend to get drunk."
What the hell? It wasn't like I was going to be driving any time soon.
end Part 17