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‘Great, how do I get started?’ I was a sucker, and I knew it, but these were desperate times…and I was desperate. If it got me out of the house two days a week it was better than nothing. At the very least it would prove to my parents that I was on my way.
Shelling out a portion of my ‘allowance,’ a mere $100 a week in exchange for picking up dry cleaning and odd chores around the house, I was relieved when Ultimate Casting booked me a job–and even more relieved to hear that the production was legitimate.
‘It’s a five-day shoot on the Warner Brothers lot,’ said the same supposed frump of a man who had called me the week before. ‘And it’s a period piece, so they want you to sleep in rollers at night. Keep ‘em in until you get to the set the next day. Call time is 7 AM each morning.’
Making it to the Valley from Beverly Hills at the crack of dawn, my head covered in pink sponge curlers, was not quite my cup of tea. The seventy-five-dollar per day fee I was promised didn’t quite average out to a fair amount once it was broken down by the long hours that seemed to drag on forever. My last morning on set, I sat groggily in the makeup chair, waiting to get powdered. The makeup artist who tended to the girl next to me, her brushstrokes creating a completely flawless look in seconds, struck me. She was an artist and hers was a real-life canvas, one that would be seen on film, by millions of people worldwide.
‘I took a SPFX course over the summer a couple years ago–it was kind of cool–we did a lot of horror-movie-type stuff,’ I eagerly told her when it was my turn. I had hoped that would’ve impressed her, but she simply smiled and nodded.
‘I think I would be good at makeup–I’ve always had a knack for it. But…how would I even start?’ I asked.
‘To get the good jobs–to be a professional,’ the woman said, ‘you would need to align yourself with a big company…one that will commission you to travel and to work on events all over the world.’
‘Umm…and how do I do that?’ I asked confused.
‘You’d be invited in for an interview with a makeup line and to do a demonstration for them…but before you could even get an interview you’d have to have a working portfolio and a video reel,’ she sniffed.
‘Wow, okay. I mean, do you need to take classes someplace, or what?’
‘Most lines offer advanced classes for artists who are already considered professionals, there’s nothing for those that are aspiring.’ She stopped for a moment and then raised an eyebrow as if she was about to tell me a secret. ‘Your best bet would be to apprentice for an artist that’s already established. That way you can get your feet wet right away. Look, I don’t have anything right now, but I have a girlfriend who works for a line in Beverly Hills and she gets booked for entertainment and high-fashion jobs all the time. I’m sure she could use some help.’
A week later I accepted an apprenticeship with Sheryl Lane, or as the slogan on her website read, ‘Sheryl Lane, Makeup Artist to the Stars!’ I would be available to Sheryl five days a week, possibly more–starting at 8 AM and working as long as she needed me.
As I walked into the house, the smell of chicken roasting from the kitchen caught me off guard. My mother rarely cooked when I was in high school, and since I’d returned from Boston and settled back into the home I’d grown up in, it had become even more infrequent.
‘Special occasion?’ I asked, throwing my messenger bag clumsily on the floor near the back door. She looked up from the counter where she was preparing green beans to give me a disgusted look.
‘I’m just cleaning up in here, do you really have to leave your mess all over the floor?’
‘My mess?’ I asked before pointing down toward my bag that I left in the same place every day. ‘You mean this?’ Consumed with the green beans once again, she merely nodded. As I was scooping my belongings off of the floor, my father breezed through the back door, looking famished.
‘It’s almost done,’ my mother said seeing the look on his face. ‘Jackie, put out some silverware and get ready to eat.’
We ate in silence for the first few minutes until my father loudly cleared his throat. ‘Since we’re all here, we should probably talk.’
‘About?’ Though I had tried to conceal it in my voice, the aggression with which I forked my food back and forth along my plate hinted at my annoyance.
‘It didn’t sound to me, when we spoke on the phone today, like you are too interested in going back to school,’ my mother said slowly. Too interested? The way she said it made me cringe, as if I had been stringing her along, forcing her to cling on to some sort of hope when in reality I’d been brutally honest with her for months.
‘I’m not,’ I said.
‘So working at that makeup store, which is perfectly fine if that’s what you want, is the plan?’ my father asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘Yeah. For now, anyway.’ I didn’t know if makeup was something I wanted to do for the rest of my life, but it was something I was good at, and something I could even be great at–something that would take me places. I could tell from their frowning faces, however, that this wasn’t the answer they were looking for.
‘Well, if this is going to be your career it’s only fair that you start supporting yourself financially. A girl your age shouldn’t be living rent free,’ my father said. I scowled. I could only imagine what most of the kids I’d grown up with in Beverly Hills were up to. I could just imagine them now, lounging in the private screening rooms of their statuesque homes, playing doubles on the adjacent tennis courts above Sunset, and guzzling out of $400 bottles plucked from the wine cellars of their parents who were vacationing in St John for the next three months. For me, growing up here was far from fancy; in fact, I felt more ordinary here than I would’ve in Oklahoma City. I didn’t return to my family’s modest Spanish-style home on a square lot south of Wilshire to be pampered, I did it because I was unable to afford a place of my own.
‘Fine. I’ll start looking for apartments in Watts since that’s the only place I’ll be able to afford one,’ I joked.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, we’re not pushing you out into the ghetto. You can stay in the garage apartment, you’re just going to have to pay some rent.’
‘That’s right.’ My father nodded in agreement with my mother. ‘And that goes for your car too. I think it’s only fair that you take over insurance and maintenance.’
In shock, I looked out the side window at the sad-looking Jeep Wagoneer that I had driven since high school. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It wasn’t the money that upset me…sure, a few skylights and a fireplace may have been the fanciest features of our home, but that didn’t mean that we were poor. We were far from it. But we were also far from the type, like some I went to high school with, who took private jets and were driven around in limousines. These were the kinds of people my parents would complain about for hours…but they were also the ones that they gave their full attention to. As a kid I could never understand it. If these Hollywood folks were really so awful, why did my parents spend so much time tending to them instead of me? I wanted to know what it was like. I wanted to be a part of that world too, to be as fabulous as the creatures they cater to, and yet they found this to be unacceptable for me. And now I was being punished it seemed. Sometimes I wondered what I looked like through their eyes. Goofy, clumsy, never-able-to-finish-anything Jackie–she doesn’t have what it takes to work in entertainment.
Interrupting my self-loathing, my mother piped up. ‘You had such a good thing going for you back East. I’d hate to see you ruin that. I don’t want to see you get lost out here, like so many people do…’
‘I don’t want to live a life you’ve planned out for me,’ I said, the frustration rising in my voice and red flames burning up my cheeks. ‘Just because you’ve always been so miserable out here doesn’t mean I’m destined to be!’
‘That’s enough,’ my father growled, but I was unable to stop myself.
‘…You always talk about people following their dreams…so why is it you want me to give up on mine?’
‘Honey, it’s not that I want you to give up on your dreams–I just don’t understand what yours are?’ The way she raised her eyebrows with mock concern normally drove me absolutely crazy, but as I listened to her speak a feeling of relief began to settle over me.
‘Just because we don’t have the same one doesn’t make mine ridiculous,’ I said calmly before turning and walking out of the dining room. Cool winter engulfed me as I made my way up the rickety steps to the apartment over the garage. I had no plan, no idea as to how I was going to make extra money but at that moment I couldn’t have cared less. I had never felt so free in my entire life. Starting immediately, I would pay rent like any other kid my age, and make sure to save enough money for things like car insurance, oil changes, and gas. Well it may have been the end of my social life, which was scarce these days anyway, it certainly wasn’t the end of the world. Since the hourly wage that Sheryl paid me wasn’t enough to cover even half of my newly incurred expenses, I was going to have to take on another job, and quick.
With Sheryl off in Santa Barbara shooting a local fashion spread, the store was in my hands. I was taking full advantage of this, using the time to surf the web for other part-time jobs, when our first customer, a rather big-boned woman, burst through the door around noon doused in shades of pink.
‘Hi,’ I muttered, not looking up from pages of openings on myjobsearcher.com, ‘let me know if I can help you with anything.’ The way she clunked about–the heels of her strappy platform sandals resounding in thuds along the wood floor–roused my attention. Looking up, the annoyance on my face quickly morphed into confusion. Standing just a few feet away, testing shades of cream blush by swiping them on her forearm, was what most certainly was a man in drag. The flutter-sleeve chiffon top with a ruffled bodice and plunging keyhole neckline tightly hugged what was supposed to be a cinch waist. A white cotton miniskirt with pink accents like rhinestones and piping was paired with the incredibly noisy six-inch wooden-heeled sandals to accentuate long, smooth legs. As I caught her eye, she lowered her chin, as if trying to hide the lump in her throat was an instinctual reaction. Then, thinking better of it, she turned and smiled at me, almost shyly at first.
‘Are you finding everything you need?’ I asked, trying to stifle my surprise. She made her way over to the counter, slinging along her pink-and-white purse–which featured a mishmash of designs that included a Christian Dior signature logo, butterflies and flowers, and a bejeweled padlock at the zipper to top it off.
‘I’m Rita,’ she said batting her eyelashes. ‘I need to find a good red lipstick, and a new shade of foundation. Something a little darker, I’m done doing Jayne…I’m on to Hayworth. She’s got Spaniard in her like me, you know?’
Her warm and energetic demeanor rendered me completely comfortable, and I found myself giggling at almost everything she said. Periodically she’d say things like, ‘You can’t rush glamour, honey!’ Or ‘Every woman is a vamp until proven innocent,’ which would make me laugh even harder. We spent what seemed like an hour rifling through various shades of coverup, looking for the best products that would allow Rita to exaggerate her eyes in an attempt to play down at least a healthy portion of her masculine jaw, and me trying to convince her to give up lip liners that were darker than her lipstick. In the end, like any good transvestite would, she stuck to her guns and bought a deep plum shade to match with her classic red.
‘What’s all this?’ Rita peered at my computer screen and then down to a list of names and contact numbers I’d compiled for job openings in everything from retail to government, none of which were too appealing.
‘My parents are done supporting my creative endeavors,’ I told her. ‘So that means I need to find a second job.’
She picked up my notebook, gingerly flipping the pages with her surprisingly feminine hands, before stopping to point out one of my leads. I tried not to stare when I noticed the exact pearlescent white Invicta watch I’d been drooling over for months on her dainty wrist. ‘You’re not going to make the money you need serving up hash browns and waffles, I can tell you that right now.’ She was pointing to a listing for a deli just down the street.
‘It’s in Beverly Hills,’ I argued. ‘The patio there is always busy.’
‘Everyone knows, honey, that the real money is in cocktail waitressing.’ She raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, and flashed a huge grin. ‘Today’s your lucky day, girl.’ Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a business card and smacked it down on the desk in front of me.
‘The Queen Victoria, huh?’ I said picking it up. Beneath the embossed lettering were background images of cross-dressers that appeared as 1950s and Hollywood’s screen legends. In smaller type was what I had guessed to be Rita’s birth name, Jorge Vazquez.
‘That’s right, I’m the manager over there; we could probably use a little help. And a pretty thang like you. You’d do real well.’
‘Yeah–no thanks, I think I’ll pass,’ I smiled, trying not to laugh.
‘I know what you’re thinking, but it really is a lot of fun. Plus…you can keep on doing makeup–some of the best makeup artists count drag queens as muses. Think about it.’ And with that, Jorge, er–Rita, scooped up her purchases and headed out the door.
Not heeding Rita’s warning, I took the waitressing job at the deli down the street. Most days, like today, I started my shift there at 6 AM so that I could finish early enough to accompany Sheryl to bookings, watch over the store, and take the occasional odd job by myself.
It had only been two weeks but I was already hating my new schedule. Not only was I barely making any money, I was completely accident prone. I’d broken five glasses in the span of three days and in one morning alone I had forgotten two orders to boot. By the time I made it over to help Sheryl, I was already in a rotten mood. I could barely stand to listen to her as she shrieked into the phone.
‘Oh my God! Is that not cool, cool, cool?! Totally, totally–we will be there honey and don’t you worry about a thing–it’s on us, no absolutely, don’t worry about a thing!’ I became annoyed. Just listening to her I knew exactly what was happening and I did all I could to stifle my frustration.
I had been working with Sheryl for almost six months by that point and was always surprised, though I should’ve at some point probably gotten used to it, at her sheer excitement for absolutely everything and nothing. Just that morning she doubled over in joy at a most recent purchase: a gift for a friend’s baby shower.
‘And, if you pull on that right there,’ she said, showing me the glossy catalogue in her hand, ‘the diaper bag turns into a backpack! How cool is that!’ I had stopped trying to conceal my boredom months ago after a half-hour rant concerning Candle Belts, which are exactly as they sound–a decorative belt for your candle.
Part of me pitied Sheryl, while my other, more sympathetic half felt bad for feeling bad. She was, by all definitions, a very in-demand makeup artist in Hollywood. From spreads in Los Angeles magazine to booking the occasional job for a daytime drama, she did it all. Though she had very kindly taken me under her wing, I couldn’t help but notice her enthusiasm seemed to compensate for something, something I didn’t know. She had set up shop in one corner of a chic salon on Beverly Drive, though we rarely worked out of there, instead using it more for office space to schedule shoots, take meetings, and market her services than anything else. When people did come in for meetings, I was always blown away by her ability to make eyeliner, makeup brushes, and lip gloss sound so wildly exciting, but was almost certain that the people who left would never come back again. But shockingly enough, most did.
Here’s the thing, Sheryl was a divorced forty-something who left her cheating husband and McMansion in the Calabasas to become a swinging-single career woman in Beverly Hills. This was all, no less, inspired by an episode (her first, for the record) of Sex and the City on TBS. I’ve heard her quote Kim Cattrall from that episode enough to make my ears bleed. Perhaps I was a pessimist, but no one in her right mind could be that excited all the time, and I was just sort of waiting for her to crack…
‘I got you a gig!’ Sheryl shouted in a singsongy voice as she hung up the phone. I braced myself…I knew exactly what she was going to say. ‘Okay, well, don’t get mad at me…I told Nan Dressner we’d–well, you–would do her daughter’s makeup tomorrow morning. She’s walking in the “Women in Hollywood” fashion show. It’s a favor, so we’re not getting paid,’ she said, meaning I wasn’t getting paid. ‘But, oh-my-God Jackie! I mean,’ she continued, ‘the Dressners! They would be great people to know!’
This was typical Sheryl, and this is what I mean about feeling bad for her. She was so desperate to be seen and liked, especially by the society types who lunched at the Polo Lounge, that she always did them favors to ingratiate herself to them. Although when I really thought about it, she adored attention from almost anyone willing to give it to her and was known to flirt with men half her age after no more than a single appletini. The Dressner job, however, was a definite step in the right direction for her as it was one more step up the social ladder. To me, it meant a wasted Saturday afternoon spent with a bratty teenager and her friends and no compensation in sight.
‘Sure,’ I mumbled, feigning rapture with something on my computer screen, which I hoped would mask my annoyance.
‘Fabulous! I would go–but I’ve got a hot date with a hotter man,’ she said before she leaned in closer to me. ‘And I probably won’t get out of bed ‘til noon, if you know what I mean.’ Making a whispering voice without whispering, she said, ‘Ted Painter,’ and then sat there smiling, waiting for my reaction.
‘Oh that’s great–I was supposed to meet friends at one of his restaurants for brunch tomorrow…’ I hinted. Standing up, I grabbed my coat as fast as I could in fear that she might start spouting more–where they were going, how they met, what he was like in bed. Just the thought of Sheryl and the sixty-year-old restaurateur holding hands made me gag.
‘So, I have to go now, bye,’ I said as I practically ran toward the door.
‘Oh–don’t forget, we have a big job on Sunday,’ she called after me.
‘We do?’ I asked, halfway out the door.
‘Come on, you remember, the music video shoot in the Valley,’ she said.
‘Oh right, those dancing, singing boys from that Nickelodeon show, right? The ones with kind of spiky hair?’ I asked nonchalantly.
‘The Emerson Brothers!’ she shrieked.
‘Yeah, them.’ I shrugged. She looked at me like I was crazy, but I wasn’t a twelve-year-old girl and I had no idea who they were.
‘They’re huge, Jackie, they just signed an endorsement deal with Street Cred!’
‘Who is that? A rapper?’ I asked, genuinely confused.
‘Street Cred?!’ she asked incredulously. ‘The energy drink? Well, anyway, we’re not doing their makeup exactly…’
‘Great,’ I thought, sure she was about to tell me we were doing their mother’s makeup for her dinner reservation that night.
Much to my relief, she responded, ‘We’re doing the makeup for this up-and-coming singer named Brooke Parker…a real cutie, she was Miss Teen Florida last year. She was discovered by some kind of talent manager or someone, doing her cute little song and dance in the pageant–anyway, she’s their opening act and she’s shooting her first video. I’ll see you Sunday.’
I was running late as usual the next day and hurried to put the finishing touches on the Dressner daughter’s face while the Hollywood elite took their seats in the ballroom of the Regent Beverly Wilshire–soon to be filled with the amateur designs of local rich kids dabbling in the fashion world on their parents’ dime. I giggled about this to myself as I spotted Delia Lutz, the Queen of Gossip and ruler of her own online domain, deliasdirt.com, sitting just a few seats away. She was snaky, sort of, in a very Page Six sort of way, but was even better because she sank her teeth into local personalities just as hard as international celebrities. And even though Delia could be cruel, I knew that she’d still write up the fashion show favorably since the proceeds were benefiting the Children’s Hospital. She’d call the attendees fashionistas instead of fogies, and describe the clothing with supple adjectives like sleek, flirty, and hip, instead of boring, ugly, and uninspired. As I mused, her gaze unexpectedly met mine, and then the strangest thing happened. Delia cringed, either in a state of embarrassment or horror, or maybe it was a combination of both, and looked away immediately.
‘That’s strange,’ I said to Lauren, my longtime friend who had accompanied me to the show, ‘did you see the way that woman just looked at me?’
‘It’s not that surprising considering she just lit up your boss online,’ Lauren laughed.
‘She what?’ I asked.
‘Don’t tell me you didn’t see it!’ A look, similar to Delia’s, spread across Lauren’s face now. She punched a few keys on her BlackBerry and flipped through a few entries–obviously having read Delia’s Dirt more than once on the go–and handed it over to me. Squinting slightly, I read:
Which well-known restaurateur currently going through a mid-life crisis was left waiting alone at a table in his very own nightclub while his recently separated, social-climbing date (who’s been known to do her fair share of both making out and ‘makeup’ all over town) gave a little ‘hand service’ to a hard-rocking musician in the next room over?
‘This is bad,’ I said to Lauren, ‘I mean, everyone knows that Sheryl’s been seeing Ted Painter…’
‘Who’s the hard-rocking musician?’ Lauren giggled.
‘I’m surprised that you don’t know!’ I laughed though I was still in sheer disbelief, unable to pry my eyes away from the phone. If anyone knew the rock star’s identity, I was sure it’d be Lauren–because Lauren always seemed to know everyone’s business everywhere. From celebrity blogs to the society column in a tiny Beverly Hills newspaper, she was on it. We met freshman year in high school and she was no different then–always relaying the latest dramas that were unfolding in the hallways as she twisted pieces of her unruly, strawberry-tinged hair around her finger. And even though she somehow knew everyone’s secrets, gossip for Lauren had always been more of a spectator sport. She worked at an art gallery and spent most of her time between the door-chimes of incoming customers compulsively hitting ‘refresh’ on every gossip website and blog in existence. Still, like me, she preferred to watch from the safety of the sidelines, managing to never stick out.
By the time the sixth model strutted down the runway in something that can only be described as ‘contemporary culottes’–if there is such a thing–I had become completely oblivious to the over-oooh’d-and-aaah’d crap being flaunted up and down the runway. If Sheryl puts as much energy into her anger as she puts into her enthusiasm, tomorrow was going to be ugly, a sleek and inspired kind of ugly.
My ringing cell phone provided me with a rude awakening early Sunday morning, confirming my worst fear: Sheryl scorned was a force to be reckoned with.
‘Hello?’ I asked groggily.
‘Jackie…it’s Sheryl.’
She was silent for a few seconds and I had momentarily forgotten all about the blind item in the newspaper as I looked sleepily around my garage apartment, which was basically attached to my parents’ house. The sunlight leaking in from the blinds highlighted the disaster that had become my home–littered with unused chopsticks, empty Lean Cuisine containers, and invitations to showers, weddings, and graduation parties (and thank-you letters from showers, weddings, and graduation parties).
‘Hi,’ I said, stepping over a pile of clothes that I meant to bring to the dry cleaner weeks ago.
‘Listen, you’re going solo to the gig today,’ she said slowly and grudgingly.
‘Okay…yeah, sure. Is something wrong?’ I asked, slightly wincing and wishing I could have taken it back the second I asked.
‘I um–well, my right hand is in a splint,’ she said cautiously as if she was contemplating telling the truth. Then, unwavering, she burst out, ‘It was that stupid bitch Lunt or Klutz or whatever. Okay? Here’s what happened…’
‘…It’s fine, you don’t have to explain, I can do the job—’
‘She wrote this thing about me, which totally wasn’t true–okay, so maybe it was kind of true–anyway, now Ted isn’t speaking to me and I’ve been getting weird looks…’
‘Honestly Sheryl, it’s fine. I can handle—’
‘…It’s been awful, and I told myself, “Sheryl, she is not going to get away with this, uh-uh.” And you know what? You’re never going to believe this Jackie…never, never, never…’
‘Okay…’ I said knowing full well that she wasn’t really waiting for my response.
‘I go to Jubilee last night for dinner with my neighbor Dana, who by the way is the only one of my friends speaking to me right now, bless her heart…we go to dinner and you’ll never believe who is sitting next to us! That bitch…Delila or whatever her name is…’
‘Delia,’ I corrected her.
‘Whatever–I recognized her from her stupid website…you know that picture next to her column–she’s got the frizzy hair and looks like she doesn’t pluck her eyebrows…’ she took a breath before continuing, ‘well I saw her and you know, gave her a little piece of my mind and things sort of escalated from there.’
My blood ran cold. I was scared to ask but knew I had to. ‘Escalated?’
Turns out sucking down one too many sugary sweet custom cocktails could not only influence Sheryl to bat her eyelashes at boys with fake I.D.s and give hickeys to her dates in public, but given the right antagonist, she could even throw a punch.
