Elimination Night (16 page)

Joey, meanwhile, was pretty much the exact opposite. Having loosened up since Houston, his decisions were now as instantaneous as they were emphatic. One contestant, upon reaching the third bar of a 1968 Honeyload classic, found himself interrupted by Joey’s airborne soda bucket, which exploded upon contact with the sponsors’ wall behind him. “THAT’S LIMPER THAN MY DICK IN A ROOM FULL OF FAT CHICKS!” he screamed. Another contestant opened his eyes at the end of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” to find Joey on his knees in front of him, literally worshipping his feet. Joey needed no cues. All he needed was his gut.

“That feelin’ in ma’ belly is the reason why I’ve sold enough records to buy two live-in hookers and put fifty million dollars’ worth of blow up my nose,” as he explained—in complete earnestness—to a sixteen-year-old member of the Lake Jackson Pentecostal Baptist Church, who had wept during her spirited rendition of “My Jesus, I Love Thee.”

I was beginning to suspect, however, that Joey often confused his gut with the area directly below it—namely his penis. Hence the yeses
he delivered so predictably to the females wearing the fewest items of clothing. Often, these contestants also triggered within him an inexplicable urge to improvise obscene-sounding ditties, many of which, thank God, made no actual sense upon a closer listening.

Example:

      
JOEY:
A-whop-bop-a-loo/I’d like to goo on your chew!

      
GIRL IN STRING BIKINI
(Wrinkling nose adorably): Eew. What’s my
chew?

      
JOEY:
Why, it’s right there in your… OOOH! (Violent thrust of crotch)

But here was the thing with Joey: No matter how badly behaved he was—and as time went on, he became more and more like the Joey we’d seen in the sanity checks—we knew he could be tamed in the editing suite. Bleeping out a word or pixelating a finger is easy, unlike trying to hide the fact that a judge
isn’t even looking at the podium.
And Joey trusted us to take care of him in postproduction. With Bibi, it was as though she were convinced the edits would be used against her. Why else would she be so reluctant to offer her spontaneous thoughts? Unless, of course, it was Teddy or Edouard who didn’t trust us and had persuaded Bibi that she needed to double-check every decision.

Whatever the case, something had to be done before Len got back on set. And I got my opportunity sooner than I’d expected, near the end of the first day of filming in Milwaukee, when I walked into the bathroom just off the hotel lobby to find Bibi there alone, rinsing her hands in front of the mirror. The moment I saw her, I knew what had to happen.
This was my moment.
My one and only chance to confront her in private, without Teddy or Edouard standing guard.

“Oh, hey there, Bibi,” I said, as casually as I could manage. Aside from my nerves, I needed to pee—urgently—but if I used one of the stalls, I’d lose my opportunity. So I held it in and stood next to her, pretending to fix my makeup… the main problem being that I wasn’t wearing any. I
did
have some lipstick in my purse, however, so I pulled
out the tube and began to apply it. My hands were shaking. At this rate, I thought, most of it would end up on my teeth…

“Going anywhere?” asked Bibi, with a semicurious glance.

“Oh—er—yeah,” I lied. “Date tonight.”

Bibi gave a little squeak of excitement. “Okay, tell me everything,” she demanded.

“An Internet thing,” I said, suddenly picturing Mr. Zglagovvcini in his yellow flip-flops, with his eCupidMatch.com questionnaire. “A friend’s been trying to set me up for a while.”

“Weren’t you going out with that surf guy? Mr. Hawaii?”

How did she know this?
“Long-distance relationship,” I shrugged. “Too much trouble.”

Bibi laughed with more sincerity than I’d expected. “I hear you, sister,” she said. “
I hear you.
”

This was my chance.

Now.

Ask the question.
Ask the question, Sash!

“Oh, er, Bibi?” I began, in a tone that suggested I’d just remembered something.

“Hmm?”

“About Teddy. And Edouard.”

The towel in Bibi’s hands stopped moving. “What about them?” she asked, the warmth suddenly gone from her voice.

Too late to back down. “Do you think that maybe they’re, y’know…
distracting
you?” I ventured, as the blood in my entire upper body diverted toward my face. “I’ve noticed that you look at them… a lot. Especially when you’re making a decision, y’know? Maybe it would be better if they weren’t on the set?”

Bibi said nothing as the towel began moving again, slower than before. Worried I might not have made myself absolutely clear, I added, “I think Edouard might even be allergic to something. He’s always seems to be rubbing his n—”

“So you take those little green pills, too, huh?” interrupted Bibi,
peering into my purse. My orange-tinted pill bottle was there for all to see, with the name and address of my doctor’s office and “Sasha King, take as needed” printed on the side.

I hesitated, not quite knowing what to say. Was Bibi simply
changing the subject?

“You have… panic attacks?” I asked.

“Not often, sweetie,” she said, throwing the towel into a basket under the sink and reaching for her bag. “Sometimes.” She no longer seemed interested in our conversation.

I wondered if I should risk bringing up the subject of Teddy and Edouard again. What if she just ignored my question entirely and walked out now?
What would I tell Len?

“So… about Teddy and Edouard,” I said. “What do you think?”

“Oh, um, yeah…” Bibi nodded, lowering her head slightly to make eye contact with her reflection. “Well… here’s what I think about what you’ve just said to me…”

I relaxed slightly, expecting her to make a joke of the whole thing. I’d given her—very skillfully, I thought—an out. This would go no further. Just between us.
As friends.

“I think that you’ve been getting prescriptions filled for Joey,” she said, abruptly. “Everyone knows he has a problem with those green pills, and that they’re the only drug that won’t show up on the pee test if you drink enough of that stoopid…
kangaroo
water, or whatever the hell it’s called. So what a coincidence you’re carrying them around with you, huh? That’s what I think,
Bill,
since you’ve been thoughtful enough to ask. I think you’ve been selling those pills, making a little money on the side, because they certainly ain’t payin’ you much here. Are you even a
real
assistant producer? Or are you still filling in for that other guy, the one on life support in Denver? Isn’t that why they call you ‘Bill’—so you can be
replaced,
if he ever gets over his head injury and comes back to the show? But don’t worry, dear. It’s none of my business how you pay the rent. Your issue. For you alone. Just like
my
issues are for me to deal with, on my own. Without interference. Are you understanding me yet, Bill? Are you clear with what I think now?”

I felt numb and cold. All I could do was nod.

“Good,” said Bibi. She smiled and gave my arm a little squeeze. “I’m glad you get it.”

Then with a clatter of heels she was gone. Her fingernails, I noticed, had left white marks on my skin.

The Moment

I MUST HAVE CALLED
Brock ten times when I got home. But he had an all-night shift at the bar of the Hua-Kuwali and wasn’t answering. He probably couldn’t even hear the phone. For the first time since I’d arrived in LA, I felt a shudder of uncertainty about him. Could this
really
work—one of us in California, the other on a rock in the Pacific, halfway to Japan? Why hadn’t I just gone with him and taken a job as a waitress, as he’d once suggested? Wouldn’t that have been easier? But, no… I had to take Len up on his “dazzling opportunity,” mix with the celebrities, be the hotshot producer, and try to stash away enough money to
take an entire year off.

It was beginning to seem like an almost delusional plan—especially given the current status of my Novel of Immense Profundity, which had recently undergone some significant revisions, mostly to the grandfather character’s dialogue. I’d deleted it, basically. So now my manuscript was one sentence long. As for those unresolved plot issues, they remained very much unresolved—I’d finally had an idea about where the Black Lake of Sorrow might be located.

“Hey, it’s me,” I told Brock’s voicemail, sounding croaky as hell. “I
know I haven’t been calling you back… I’m sorry. And I know I’ve been bad on e-mail and Facebook and pretty much everything else. It’s just… things are crazy. I’ve had a bad day, babe. I’m not sure I can do this. Call me, okay? Just call me.”

Click.

I wondered if he’d get my message tonight. I had to talk to someone, tell them about Bibi, the whole situation. I mean,
what an unbelievable bitch!
I didn’t doubt for a second that she could get me fired by saying I’d given pills to Joey—or more likely, relaying the accusation via Teddy. I wondered if anyone at Rabbit would even bother to ask Joey if it was true. Probably not. An addict’s word can never be trusted. And besides, for someone like Ed Rossitto or David Gent—Bibi would definitely go that high, if not all the way to the top—it would be more trouble than it was worth. Better to just fire the stand-in producer (
what was her name again?
), keep Bibi happy, and forget it ever happened. And Len wouldn’t object. Better me than him. That’s why he’d put me up to this in the first place—just like he’d had me take the fall for Joey’s treatment during The Reveal. The whole thing was crazy, like my worst day at high school squared. I also felt a bizarre kind of shame—as if this were all my fault, as if only a world-class loser could make an enemy of a woman so admired and so powerful.

I debated calling Mitch. He’d understand. He’d tell me what I wanted to hear. But he’d also tell Joey everything, which would be a disaster. That left only one other person whose number I could dial: Mom. But it was past midnight on the East Coast. And she’d worry. Or rather, she’d lecture me about how I should have never gone to “Hollyweird” to begin with, and then she’d start checking in with me every day, asking questions, making me paranoid, getting herself into a state. Which meant calling Mom was an option best left for
real
emergencies. Like if I was fired. Or if
Icon
was cancelled, which basically meant the same thing.

Slumping down on the bed, I allowed myself a fantasy of escape; of not going to San Diego—the next stop on the
Icon
audition tour—and instead taking the morning flight to Honolulu. If I could find a ticket
for less than a thousand bucks, I still had enough credit left on my Visa card. No more Bibi. No more Len. No more clipboards and swollen toes. Just white sand and flip-flops… and Brock making me breakfast. Ah, yes… lovely, blue-eyed Brock, muscular and bare-chested, holding up a tray of… ooh, yes, Danish pastries… as the Tom Waits version of “Ol’ ’55” plays on the radio… and our pet sea turtle—
all
my Hawaiian daydreams involve a pet sea turtle—rests in his shell on the rocks beyond the lanai…

I closed my eyes.

That
was more like it.

“Hey—me again.”

I was back on the line with Brock’s voicemail, sitting upright, the hoarseness now gone from my throat. “What if I get on a plane tomorrow? Seriously. Screw
Icon.
I can find a job—whatever. I can write on the weekends. Call me, call me,
call me.
”

But he didn’t.

When I awoke the next day—still in my clothes (I know,
I know
)—my phone showed no new messages, no missed calls. Not even an e-mail or a Facebook message. WTF. Usually, Brock was the one chasing
me.
Had he just had a busy night at work? Had he left his phone on the beach? Or did I no longer have a boyfriend? (If I’d been having doubts, maybe
he’d
been having doubts, too.)

What a perfectly shitty end to a perfectly shitty week.

So.

I made myself coffee. I ate a week-old bun. I took a shower. I found some clean clothes and put them on. I decided to buy cigarettes. I walked to the 7-Eleven up the street. I decided against buying cigarettes. I walked home again. I changed my mind. I walked back to the 7-Eleven up the street. I changed my mind again. The guy behind the counter asked me if I was okay. Uh-oh—sobbing redhead! He gave me a soda on the house. I reassured him that I was okay. I reassured him again that I was okay. I told him that, no, seriously, I did
not
need his cell number.

Then I walked to Plummer Park and spent ten minutes on a bench,
watching old men play chess, and feeling pathetically sorry for myself. But here’s the thing with self-pity:
It’s boring.
I just don’t have the patience for it. So I walked back home, and when I got to my front door—a surprise. Wedged into the jamb was a white envelope. I pulled it out and ripped it open.

On ruled notebook paper, this:

      
Crazy Woman!

           
You have date next Tuesday night, eight o’clock, with Boris, nice boy from. He meet you here and take you for dinner. And don’t worry your head—I watching out for you.

           
Mr. Z.

           
PS: Nothing I can’t live without (apart from Mrs. Z).

           
PS: Mrs. Z make me write that.

Oh boy,
I thought.

This should be interesting.

Another day passed, and still no word from Brock. Judging by his Twitter feed, he was still alive—he just wasn’t returning my calls. Maybe he was trying to teach me a lesson by doing what I’d done so many times to him for the past few weeks. Or maybe I really
was
dumped. I guessed I’d find out soon enough. In the meantime, I sucked it up and took the early morning Amtrak to San Diego, ready for the next round of auditions. It was going to be awkward, being on set with Bibi, that was for sure. But whatever. As long as I still had a job, why should I care?