"I wish I was 25 again and had all my mistakes in front of me."*

   I was cleaning out the contacts in my gmail account yesterday (hoping to avoid another mass email debacle) when I did a face plant onto a horrible memory. I hit on the email address of a woman whom I’ll call Jane Emerson. She was listed as jane@lasthespot. That’s close to the real URL, because that’s where I worked when I worked for Jane Emerson. I worked for Jane for four whole days.

   In the Spring of 2007 (one of the shittier years of my life, it would seem—at least, the first half certainly was), I answered yet another job ad on Craiglist. You’d have thought I’d have learned my lesson mere months before when meeting Ty, the “producer” who had adult acne and braces and wanted to pay me to be his girlfriend. But no, I had to go out and apply for more jobs on Craigslist. Because I’m a goddamn idiot.

   But this one seemed genuinely awesome because it was a writing job and it involved social media and online publications and all the stuff I wanted to learn how to do. So I applied and had a phone interview with Jane. She seemed kind of great. We talked for a full hour on the phone and it was a good chat, though she did seem really concerned with whether or not she could trust me. She kept saying that her fabulous, up-and-coming, online magazine, LA’s The Spot, was going to be really cutting edge and giving people a glimpse into shit that hadn’t even happened in the city yet. As a result, she really needed an employee she could trust to keep her mouth shut and write content. I said I could totally do that. And she hired me.

   I met her at a huge apartment/condo complex in Marina del Rey, a really fun one-and-a-half hour drive from my apartment. Sigh. Just thinking about that drive makes me mad to this day. 

I will add a better map of how far this actually is when I have more time.

   She was a chunky, middle-aged woman with a long, black ponytail and even longer fake nails that did nothing to hide the fact that she was…chunky and middle-aged. She was nice enough, though, and offered me a soda or a cup of tea. I opted for water, since I usually feel weird taking refreshments from people I don’t know very well. I always feel like I’m imposing, even when they offer.

   She said, “You should really have a Diet Coke. I’m going to have a Diet Coke.”

   I accepted the Diet Coke. She directed me to the couch next to her desk.

   The apartment was a pretty nice, one-bedroom place with a big, airy glass door that led onto a balcony.

   “I rented this to use as office space, because if I stayed at home I’d never get anything done what with my husband and my son always bugging me,” she said.

   “Oh sure, that makes sense.”

   She set about explaining what my job was going to entail: essentially, I would take articles published by the AP and rewrite them in my own words so she could copy them onto her website without any fear of people being mad about that pesky little copyright infringement/plagiarism thing. I didn’t really understand it as such at the time because a) I’m an idiot and b) I really didn’t know any better because c) I was an even bigger idiot in 2007.

   I was excited because it was going to be my very first writing job and I was going to be paid: $8 an hour! Which was $8 more an hour than I’d ever made as a writer.

   She was excited. I was excited.

   Jane spent an hour showing me how to use the website and setting up my email account. She gave me my first assignment right away: she wanted me to “write some copy” about a hotel that was reopening in Hollywood. I felt great. It was the quickest first day at the office I’d ever had and I was going home to write for money! I took the AP article and stood up with my laptop.

   “Okay, Jane. I’ll get on this as soon as I get home and post the copy this afternoon.”

   She gave me a weird look.

   “No, you need to write the article here.”

   I sat back down with my mostly empty Diet Coke.

   “Oh. Okay. So, this will be my office, too?” I asked.

   “Yes. Until I know you better, I can’t really trust you to be honest about how many hours you’re working. But don’t worry. It’ll be fun! We get to sample all kinds of fun products. People are always sending me samples so I’ll write about their products online.”

   “Fun,” I said.

   “Yeah. For instance, I just got these today.”

   She pulled out a green box with the words “DietLife Chews” printed on the side.

   “They’re weight loss chews with ephedrine and caffeine. So they stimulate weight loss and they keep you alert. You should try one.” She offered me the box.

   “Oh, that’s okay. I’m good with the Diet Coke.”

   “Come on, try one! You look like you could use them. Plus, if you try it, I’ll let you write about it on the site!”

   I tried really hard to wrap my head around what she’d just said to me. Had I been called a fatty on my first day of work? By a fatty even fatter than I?

   And you know what I did? I took a chew and opened it and put it in my mouth. She was watching me try to eat it and probably would’ve watched until I swallowed it, but her Skype phone rang (she had to have been one of the first-ever people to use Skype on a regular basis).

   “Hi,” she said by way of greeting to whoever was calling her. Pause. “I don’t know.” Pause. “Well, it’s your turn to pick him up so I don’t know why you’re calling me.”

   As she talked, I ate my fat girl candy and looked around at our office. It was dawning on me that even though she said she’d only rented the apartment for “office space,” an awful lot of personal things were in there: artwork and clothes and framed photos and skis. It kind of looked like somebody actually lived there.

   “I’m working right now!” she shrieked into the phone.

   I looked out the big, glass door to the balcony, so it would seem like I wasn’t listening, even though the apartment was really small and I was sitting two feet away from her.

   Then she started crying, “I don’t know why you’re doing this to me!” Pause. Tears. “Wait…no wait! I—well then fuck you!”

   She slammed the headphones down on her desk. Then she swept everything off her desk onto the floor. I'm talking keyboard, headphones, cell phone, papers, REAL PHONE...etc...

   I sat there and tried not to move. Like when spiders or rabbits think you can't see them when they're immobile.

   “You know what, Lacey?” she asked me, looking up through her tears.

   “Um…what?” I swallowed my chew.

   “My husband is a fucking asshole.”

   “Oh yeah?” I sipped the very last drop of my warm Diet Coke.

   “I’m going to take a Vicodin and go lay down in my room for a while. You can get started on the article.”

   She went into the kitchen and poured herself a very large vodka. Then she went into her bedroom and closed the door.

   I worked for about an hour, waiting to see if she died and then I turned in the article and went home.

   That was the first day. I worked for three more days and then on Friday, she fired me over the phone. I WORKED FOR THREE MORE DAYS. When she fired me, she said she didn’t feel like my heart was in it.

*The quote is from Louie, my new favorite television obsession, written and directed by the incredible Louis C.K. I don't really wish I were 25 again. Clearly, that was a bad year for me.

"I've had a lot of joe jobs, but nothing I'd call a career. Let me put it this way: I have an extensive collection of name tags and hairnets."*

            There was this time a few years ago when I was (yet again) unemployed. I was still kind of cocky about my prospects because I’d recently quit a really stable and decent-paying job (yeah, I don’t know why I did that) and I figured I’d be hired again in no time.

            I spent a large portion of my days trolling through Craigslist for employment, looking to find something that would pay me boatloads of money for very little time. I also wanted the job to be easy and fun. This way, I reasoned, I could make lots of money and spend all my free time pursuing the creative things I really wanted to do.

            My ideal position was personal shopper. I wanted a rich but kind woman to pay me an obscene hourly wage to go buy her fabulous clothes at the shops on Rodeo or that swanky part of Melrose. Come to think of it, I would still like that job.

            So anyhow, one day I stumbled upon the following ad:

            “Successful producer seeks paid daytime companion for shopping and activities. If you’re interested call Ty.”

            It sounded pretty ideal, so I called Ty.

            We had a brief chat in which he asked me about myself, how long I’d lived in Los Angeles, what I wanted to do with my life, and what kinds of activities I enjoyed. I told the usual lies about wanting to make a difference in the world and then it was his turn.

            He explained the position: he basically wanted someone to hang out with him during the day. He’d worked as a producer for years and he had lots of money and interests, but hadn’t cultivated many friendships. He wanted someone to hang out, go shopping, maybe see a movie and eat “fancy” food. He even asked me if I liked to eat “fancy” food. That seemed a little weird, but of course I like to eat “fancy” food. I like to eat any food, as I’ve mentioned before. (Sorry I keep putting quotes around “fancy.” It seems necessary somehow.)

            He asked if I was interested in the job and when I said yes he instructed me to meet him at a café in Korea Town the next day.

            That seemed safe enough, in case he was a psycho or something. 

( Here are some pictures of famous psychos throughout history. The three M's.) 

Mormons.

       

Manson.

"M."

             

            He told me he’d be wearing a button down, short-sleeved yellow shirt.

            I’d like to pause at this juncture and say that I’m not one of those really gullible, naïve people who might be at risk for cult membership or anything like that. I sort of figured that Ty was off a little bit (hence, the shirt he planned to wear) and this whole thing was going to be weird, but I also thought that maybe he was just a social misfit who really wanted to pay someone to teach him how to be cool. And I am the perfect person to teach others how to be cool. Truly.

            So the next day I went to Korea Town and got a rock star parking spot right in front of the café—no small victory in Korea Town. I took the excellent parking spot to be a sign.

            I went in and looked around. After ordering a coffee, I wandered around the place looking for someone that might be Ty.

            I saw the guy sitting at a table in a button-down yellow shirt. He was talking to a twenty-something Asian girl. She looked confused and slightly uncomfortable. Within seconds, he shook her hand and stood as she left. She nearly stumbled over the furniture rushing to get out the door.

            I marched forward.

            “Ty?”

            “Are you Lacey?”

            We shook hands for slightly too long and he invited me to sit down.

            “So, are you interviewing a lot of people today?”

            “A few. Wow, you are really pretty.”

            Everything felt wrong right away.

            “Um, thank you?”

            “So, what kind of restaurants do you like to go to, Lacey?”

            Ty looked about 24. He had incredible acne, the really awful kind that you can't beat without antibiotics and battery acid. He also had braces and the smile of a serial killer.            

            “Uh…you know. Any kind, really. I love to eat.”

            “That’s really great. And are your days pretty free?”

            At this point he leaned across the table and put his hand on mine. I patted his hand and pulled mine away slowly. I didn’t want to be rude.

            “Pretty free. So, what kind of a producer are you, Ty?” I asked.

            “I produce the encoding on CDs.”

            Pause.

            “You know, I make the encoding so you know which company produced the CD. I do DVDs too,” he tried to explain.

            “Oh, like the credits? Like if Timbaland produced it, you’d make sure that was encoded?”

            “No, like the company that made the actual, physical CD, like Memorex. Or Sony. And I put the FBI warning in after the menu on DVDs.”

            “Oh. Interesting.”

            He put his hand back on top of mine (why hadn’t I put my hand under the table?).
         
           "You know," he said, "your nails would look really nice with a French manicure." I tried to yank my hand away. "Look at my fingernails. I get a manicure every week." He held out his hand. "And I get a pedicure every week--look!" And he raised his foot up so I could check out his toenails, which were clearly visible because he was wearing SANDALS.

             "I think women appreciate good hygiene," he said.

             "Yeah, well I shower every day," I joked.

              "Good, good" he said, nodding his head, serious. "So do you like to go to the theatre?"

              "Yeah, I love theatre! I majored in theatre."

              "Great. I really love the Grove."

             "Oh. You mean, like, the movie theatre?" (I've never before--or since--heard a movie theatre referred to as "the theatre.")

            "Yeah. I like romantic movies," he smiled. My stomach heaved.

            “You’re really sweet, Lacey.”

            “No I’m not! You don’t know me!” I blurted it out. I was really uncomfortable.

            “Well, I think you are sweet. What I’m looking for is someone sweet and affectionate to do all the activities with me that I’ve never had time to do. I make so much money but I haven’t had time to spend any of it. I want to spend it in style, spend it on someone special.”

            “Wait. Is this, like, um, a romantic, um thing? Are you…looking for a girlfriend? That you, like…pay?”

            “Yes, in a way,” he smiled. He had a creepy smile. 

            "So this isn't about learning to be cool?"

            "What?"

            “Nothing. Look, that’s really not going to work for me. I have a boyfriend, for one thing.” (This was actually true at the time. I really did have a boyfriend.)

            “That’s okay. You can do whatever you want during the evenings. But during the day, you’d be my girlfriend. And it wouldn’t be anything serious. We’d just hold hands and kiss sometimes. We could see movies and go out to eat at nice restaurants. I would buy you clothes and presents. And I could teach you to surf, because I bought a surfboard and I plan to learn how to use it pretty soon.”

            “Yeah, I don’t know about all that. Although the surfing part sounds kind of cool. I just don’t think my boyfriend would really be okay with us kissing and holding hands all day. For money.”

            I took a very big sip of my coffee and turned my head away. I just couldn't keep looking at him. Unfortunately, now I was staring at a painting of naked people who appeared to be running a race.

            "I just love the human form," Ty commented.

            "I bet you do."

            “Tell you what—don’t say no right now. Think about it and I’ll call you tomorrow and you can give me your answer.”

            “Um, okay. But I really don’t—“

            He cut me off.

            “Just think about it. I think you’re a really sweet person and I would really love to get to know you better.”

            I’m not sure why he kept calling me sweet. Maybe because I hadn’t run away yet?

            He stood up, so I did, too. Then he hugged me. (Why didn't he hug the Asian girl? Because he liked me better? Ew...) I wriggled out of his iron grip on my lower back and raced out the door.

            I thought about how I’d have to take a rape shower when I got home. (You know—the kind where you sit on the floor of the shower in the dark and wrap your arms around your knees and rock back and forth feeling like you’ll never be clean again?)

            When I told him about it, my boyfriend was a cross between worried and confused.

            “He wants to pay you to be his girlfriend?”

            “Only during the day,” I pointed out.

            “And you told him you have a boyfriend?” he asked.

            “Yeah, Ty doesn’t care. He’s not going to let that stand in the way of our relationship.”

            “You’re not going to do it, are you?”

            “I don’t know. He said he’d pay me $20 an hour. And he'd buy me clothes and presents.”

            That didn't make the boyfriend feel better.

           Needless to say, I didn't take the job. And I had to screen a few unknown numbers for the next several weeks, worried that it might be Ty calling to offer me one last chance at it. But that boyfriend and I are no longer together, so sometimes I wonder what might have happened if I'd gotten a paid girlfriend gig. Seems much more practical and financially rewarding.

           But I didn't. And some other girl is out there getting paid to date my boyfriend.

*Quote courtesy of Waynes' World.