Had Tim been straight, he could have easily fallen in love with the girl in the next cubicle. He had been working at Hollywood Today for less than a week, and Sandy had already emerged as the one true character in the office. Pretty, but in a cute way, with wispy hair that seemed unusually affected by the slightest static electricity or weakest air currents, Sandy was the resident daffy genius—you could never be sure whether she had stumbled into some of the funny things she said, or whether she was just that clever. She was a lovable curmudgeon, if such a thing is possible, and she got away with sarcastic comments that would have ruined other friendships, but which merely seemed funny coming from such an habitually confused face. A bright, witty writer—at least when you
read her finished copy—she seemed to know very little about show business and got easily baffled by the few facts she did know.
Her head popped up over the partition with alarming regularity and even more alarming questions.
“Is Walter Cronkite dead or alive?” she asked, poking her head up. The prevailing winds in the office must have been blowing east, since her hair pointed left.
“Alive,” answered Tim.
She eyed him quizzically. “Are you sure?” she asked slowly.
“Very old but very alive,” said Tim, but he could tell Sandy was not fully convinced. “Like Abe Vigoda.”
“Who’s Abe Vigoda?” she asked.
Five minutes passed. “Marilyn Manson and RuPaul—which one is the real woman?” she asked. The nonexistent breeze had shifted and her hair now tilted right.
“Please tell me you’re joking.” Tim laughed. “You’re an entertainment reporter, not a grandmother. They’re both men. Everyone knows that.”
“I thought there might be a trick in this one,” she said with a sigh, and sat back down. Before this job, Sandy had never seen Entertainment Tonight, let alone Variety. She might as well have taken a job at ESPN, considering her lack of knowledge.
Before she could ask another question, Simon James appeared at Tim’s cube. He was the only man in the entire office to wear a suit, an old tweedy suit that smelled of cigarettes. “Sandy, this involves you, too,” he said, and Sandy’s head quickly sprang over the partition, hair wafting toward the rear.
“I’ve been meaning to take you both to lunch to get to know you better, and I thought today might be a good day, unless one of you has other plans.” No one admits to other plans when the boss comes calling, so they agreed to meet at Simon’s office at 12:30 P.M.
Real estate was cheap in Culver City, where Hollywood Today had its offices. Of all the cities on the Westside, Culver City was the most out of place, a dowdy little town that belonged farther inland, away from even a hint of glamour. It was poorer than any of its neighbors and managed to keep many of the vestiges of a small town. Even the massive presence of Sony Pictures couldn’t seem to draw a decent restaurant to the area. But it had a Main Street—a real main street, almost like Disneyland’s—with a hardware store, a beauty college, and parking meters that still took pennies. Main Street also had Novacento, a funky Italian restaurant with good food that existed under the radar. It never made Zagat’s or any restaurant reviews, but it still managed to exist handsomely on hungry Sony execs and people from the neighborhood.
“Let me give you some advice,” said Simon as they sat down. “Be careful of the first person who tries to be your friend at any new job. That’s almost always the person who’s alienated everyone else and is desperate for new blood.” Neither Tim nor Sandy could figure out whom he was warning them about—no one talked much to either of them.
But Simon flowed with advice—and praise. He told them how impressed he’d been with their early work, and how, after forty years as an editor, he was fairly convinced that he’d developed a certain sense for talent and that they both had it.
As he talked, it seemed as if no aspect of their lives was off-limits. Simon knew books they should read, movies they should see, countries they should visit. It wasn’t obnoxious at all—in fact, Tim wanted to blurt out, Will you adopt me? because Simon was such a natural father figure. Better yet, he was a dad with a lot of experience, who seemed to have taken a liking to his two new charges.
Tim’s pasta and scampi arrived. “Would you like cheese with that?” asked the waiter.
Simon held out his hand. “Never put Parmesan on seafood,”
he warned, as if the combo might be combustible. “No gourmet ever does. It makes it too salty.”
Tim made a mental note. So did Sandy, who picked at a spinach salad but figured she had gleaned yet another useful nugget from her new boss.
Three bites into his lunch, Tim felt a presence behind him.
Sandy, who was sitting opposite him, got a confused look on her face. “I think I’m seeing double,” she said.
Tim turned around and found Perry and Nancy standing behind him, smiling. Their fledgling production company, Comstock Productions, had just taken its first meeting at Columbia TriStar on the Sony lot, pitching a TV series, and both were giddy. No promises had been made, but the meeting seemed to have gone very well, and the happy partners had just finished lunch at a nearby table. Introductions were made, and Nancy produced fancy new business cards with a flourish. No one else even tried to compete.
“We told them what our company was trying to do, and they respected that,” said Nancy, and even Perry had to roll his eyes. But pragmatic Perry was still optimistic. “We pitched to one guy, and within thirty minutes we were pitching again to three biggies,” he said. “Plus, they asked us not to talk to anyone else until they could talk it over.”
“I might call Fox anyway,” said Nancy. “It’s not like anyone wrote us a check.”
“I think we can give them a few days to think about it,” maintained Perry firmly. Now it was Nancy’s turn to roll her eyes.
Later, back at the office, Sandy’s head popped up. “Would you read my copy?” she asked.
Tim blanched. “Sure,” he said, clicking on Sandy’s folder on his screen. It was only 450 words, but they were 450 attitude-laden words, which were great fun to read. Even more
impressive, they seemed to be written by someone who knew what she was talking about.
“I have a question,” asked Tim as Sandy’s head reappeared. “Are you an idiot savant?”
“You know,” said Sandy thoughtfully, “you’re not the first person to ask me that.”
“It’s very good. Very funny,” said Tim.
“Oh, thank you,” said Sandy, clearly relieved. “Now I have something else I want to ask you.”
“I’m listening.”
“How come if you’re the gay one, your brother has all the nice clothes?”
Tim laughed out loud. In part, it was an involuntary reflex to being outed—he had been careful not to say anything that would have given a hint of his sexual orientation. And he laughed because it was true. He was a fashion failure, while Perry—under Nancy’s tutelage—looked great.
“What can I tell you?” Tim stammered. “I don’t like show tunes, either. I’m not a very good homosexual.”
“I can fix that,” said Sandy. “Tomorrow at lunch, I’m taking you shopping. I’ll fix you. I could tell your brother was sort of a jerk, and you can’t go around having him look better.”
“He’s only a jerk about show business,” protested Tim.
“He’s a jerk if he’s involved with that girl,” said Sandy.
“And a jerk about Nancy,” he admitted. “But she has nice business cards.”
“And this time tomorrow, you’ll have nice clothes. It’ll cost you an entire paycheck, but it’ll be worth it.”
“How about a partial fixing?” said Tim, thinking dollars and cents.
“Okay, part this week and part when you get your next paycheck. Then we’ll move on.”
“What do you mean, ‘move on’?”
“You know, the works. We start with some clothes, then move on to your hair. Think of it as Sandy Moore Life-Management Services. We take care of everything. Eventually, I’ll even choose all new friends for you. But first, we shop. We style. We find you a gym.”
“I already belong to a gym,” said an indignant Tim.
Sandy’s face scrunched up into its most bewildered look yet as she carefully eyed Tim from top to bottom.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said.