Page 2 of Stroked by (Stroked)
“What?” I shout-whisper. “The only job in this entire industry you could find for me was an assistant to a reality star? How is that even possible? I have three years of production experience, specifically in sound mixing.”
“Yes, and those three years were washed away the minute the incident happened.”
The Incident.
There is always a pivotal turn in everyone’s life that tilts the axis of their world, sending them in a different direction. For some, this moment could be getting a raise, having a baby, finding the love of their life. For others, like myself, the moment could be a death spiral, flying out of control into an abyss of solitude where you have one hell of a time trying to claw your way out.
I made one mistake, and it caused the demise of my career, washed away three years of hard work making a name for myself in this industry—two and a half of those being a long-earned internship. Now, not only do I have to start from the ground up, but I have to work around a tarnished image as well.
You’re probably wondering what I did that was so bad I have to take a job as the assistant to the most over-the-top, self-centered human.
It’s simple. I forgot to turn off a microphone.
Yup, you heard that right. I didn’t click one single button. Just one.
Let me enlighten you about this business.
I was working for Good Morning, Malibu at the time, a local morning news station that goes into great detail about the surf report, celebrity parties in the hills, and what tanning lotion is best used for overcast days. Real riveting news, Pulitzer Prize type of stuff.
I was in charge of keeping track of Malibu’s very own Minnie Winston’s microphone. She’s a Botox-injected, leather-skinned, seventy-year-old phenomenon. Her bones screamed seventy, but her face was that of a thirty-year-old. In my opinion, from the way her face didn’t move when she laughed hysterically, she looked like she belonged in a horror flick shining a light on discarded and mutilated Barbie dolls. It was terrifying. Like,she spins her head around on her neckkind of terrifying.
But, weirdly enough, she is a Malibu staple, but she is also a loose cannon.
The Incidenthappened on a Friday morning. Minnie was in a rare mood that day, pretty sure she didn’t take her Xanax. I was anxious not because of the show, but because my grandpa kept texting me about a Pez dispenser I was bidding on eBay for him. He didn’t know how to work a computer, but texting apparently was right up his alley.
Before I go any further, quick side note: my grandpa means the world to me. I would literally do anything he asked of me. Growing up with the man sleeping in the bedroom next to me, we became best friends, inseparable at times. Other kids on the reservation would bike with their comrades, licking at their ice cream while directing teasing jokes at me. But it hadn’t mattered because my grandpa and I rode like pimps in our souped-up boxcar, taking down a sixty-four-ounce Slurpee with ease while listening to my battery-operated boom box, blasting none other than Queen.
Back toThe Incident.
During production, we cut to the weather report just as I received a text from my grandpa asking about the soft-head Mickey Mouse Pez he needed so desperately to add to his ever-growing collection. I glanced at my phone for one second, without turning Minnie’s microphone off. You can see where this is going. She started swearing to her makeup artist about a visible wrinkle by her right eye.
While the poor weatherman was talking about the sunny weather and urging viewers to drink plenty of water in the heat, Minnie was raging about the application of wrinkle cream by using adjectives, nouns, and verbs like fucking, shit, and whore face.
Only one sentence was heard before I turned off her mic, but that was all it took. I was packing my box that afternoon and kissing my career goodbye. Word spread, of course, because the clip went viral, thank you, YouTube and Facebook. Social media was the nail in my career coffin and sent me packing with zero prospects lined up.
In case you were wondering, my grandpa did outbid PleazPassThePez65 in an epic bidding war over Mickey Mouse, so at least someone won that day.
I would like to tell you that during the time of my unemployment I spent time reflecting on my inner self, trying to improve my worth by taking other classes, continuing to educate myself, butthatdidn’t happen. Instead, I spent hours upon hours binge-watching Netflix while eating my weight in Thin Oreos—thin because I convinced myself they weren’t that bad for my figure.
It wasn’t until Jonathan, my best friend and roommate, came home one night with a girl while I was lying spread eagle on the couch, itching my inner thigh, and enjoying a can of tomato juice did he kick me in the ass and threaten eviction from the apartment we shared. (Technically I knew he wouldn’t throw me out, but I got his point.)
Wanting to get back in the game, I started my running routine again, which was much harder than I remembered—thank you, Oreos—and searched for jobs everywhere. Six months later, I have one option.
“What is the color of those walls?” Bellini shouts to whoever is in earshot. “Is that ceramic sand? I asked for mystical peach. Is this that carpenter’s fault? Doesn’t anyone know Pantone colors around here? The orange hues are too harsh; they will wash me out.” She starts to fan her face. “I can’t do this, someone get my dad.”
In an instant, the crew scatters away from her and starts searching for Buddy Chambers.
Jonathan grabs my hand and squeezes it sympathetically. “You know I would do anything for you, sweetheart. I would stick my neck out for you, and I did. This was the best I could find. It’s this or start spreading your legs over at Sunset Boulevard. And even though I know this isn’t the job you were looking for, the rent is not going to pay itself. I’ve covered you as much as I can.”
“I know.” I nod in agreeance. Taking a deep breath, I watch Bellini continue to snap her fingers at humans, demanding her father’s presence. “My grandpa better cherish that damn Pez dispenser.” I take a deep breath, accepting my fate. “Let’s do this.”
Jonathan beams at me and lets out a long, relieved sigh. “Awesome. This will be great, Pay. Just work with her for a few months, get some experience, and hopefully soon we will be able to scrub your record clean. The producer, Wally Rose, is well known for rotating his crews. If you prove you can handle someone like Bellini Chambers, and all the bullshit that comes with her, there is no doubt in my mind he will look at you seriously for other positions. Use this job as a test. If you do well, consider yourself on your way up in the industry.”
“You really think so?” I would do just about anything to get back in the game, to get behind a mixing board and start assisting with production again.
When I left the Pechanga Reservation in Temecula for college, my family scoffed at me, told me my pipe dreams were just that—pipe dreams. I should stay in the family business, the general store, and work to serve the community. Trying to earn a job in production wasn’t helping anybody, the great parting words from my father. The only person who believed in me was my grandpa. He funded college while I reached for the stars, hence ensuring I won his Pez dispenser. As I said, I would do anything for the man.
Once my family caught wind ofThe Incident, they made a great attempt to shame me and lure me back to Temecula, but I refused. Thank God for Jonathan; I owed him. Taking this job wasn’t just for me, it was for him. He’s worked just as hard and held my head above water while I tried to find myself. It is time to pay him back.
