I: Air
I am sitting in an airplane somewhere above Colorado. I’m on my way to LA. Cowboy is next to me watching South Park on the seat back TV. There are a number of firsts to this excursion: This is the first plane ride I’ve been on since 9/11 (with my best friend Klonopin); this is the first real vacation that Cowboy and I have ever taken together; this is my first time out to LA.
I’ve wanted to go west since I was 25, but the east with its gravitational pull of family and familiarity has always held me back. However, Cowboy wants Cowboy country. So, LA beckons with its beaches and cacti, its sand and sage, its city and valleys, its big dreams and empty vistas.
II. So Far
It’s our first night in Venice, and I lie in bed and ask Cowboy to hold me. I feel far away from everything I know. Something about looking at a place critically — wondering if I could settle there is terrifying. It makes me feel small.
III. Meeting
I dress for an LA meeting. Heels with points, nice gray slacks, a feminine ruffled shirt. I have no idea why or how I’m on my way to the office of a high-powered agent in Beverly Hills, except “it’s all about contacts.” Once there, I’m brought a bottle of “Hope to Others: 100% Profits to Charity” water. Next to me a skinny forty-ish bald “manager” sits with a beefcake blonde twentysomething actor no one has ever heard of. His name is Travis. They talk about Travis’s red carpet walk in August and how much money Travis should spend on his outfit. The manager tells Travis about another client who spent three grand on his red carpet outfit. Obviously Travis’s outfit is very important because he is Hollywood’s best-kept secret and this will be the world’s chance to finally meet young Travis and find out why he’s so “hot.” The kid wears ripped jeans with Nikes and a baggy shirt. He’s got that kind of LA model/actor tight ass that is more like two grapefruits stuffed in American Apparel tighties.
Once inside the agent’s office, I am deported to the reality of La La land. I start to sweat as I wait for said agent to get off the phone. He hands me the Hollywood Reporter while he chats on his head set and answers e-mails at the same time. My thong starts to separate my Clementine. I want to stand up and pick my wedgie. Instead I sit, oddly catatonic, as if I’ve been clubbed over the head. Finally, he turns.
“The point, Caitlin — it’s Caitlin, right? — is LA is about money. Not art. Money. Lemme put it to you this way — you might be a terrific writer — Look, let me say it this way and then I’ve got to hop: I write a Christmas card every year to my family and everyone says I’m such a great writer. I might be a great writer. But the question is, can I write something that anyone wants to sell? Maybe not. Here’s another way to say it: You might be a great sculptor. But you want to make furniture, right? You can’t convince people of that until you make a nice credenza. You see? If you can make a credenza that people want to buy, we have a conversation. The question is ... Caitlin ... can you make the credenza...? This is the question that we need to answer. OK? You understand? The. Credenza. By the way, are you meeting with any other agents?”
