Answered emails from bed about the poster, wrote the nepo baby about her audition (her famous mom DM'd me). The nepo babies are descending. A "new show" is reading young talent. They add me on Instagram and I observe how their lives cost about 500% more than mine even though they are 21. But I have something they can't buy. I don't blame or judge them. It's just weird. Art is weird. Money is weird. Nepotism is weird.
I trot to the cafe to catch Puhg. He's seated next to a middle age man we've become neighborhood friends with. He's always reading cool books. Totally coincidentally he's going to the festival with his middle school daughter this summer! He says he wants to go to my play with her. I eek, "That is my dream! When producers ask me my ideal audience. I say teens and their parents!" I realize I'm going to be late to my nail appointment, get up and hustle out. I kiss Puhg outside then look over his shoulder to see our friend DM watching. "Oh!" I say. He tips his head like, howdy ma'am.
I get light pink nails with the gal who is openly hostile to customers. I don't mind this because she's allowed to express how she feels, and the claws look good either way. I don't need laborers to pretend to like labor. I don't have an outfit for opening, and I do have a little time, so I zip down to the row of thrift shops. As I approach the first, I see Tira at the French sidewalk spot yapping with a pal! We get to chirp for a bit.
I try on about six dresses and decide they're all A-. I don't buy anything that's not A plus anymore, consider I could just wear my sleeveless black bag once again. On my walk home I am enticed by scones in a window. Get a latte and treat for twenty American dollars. I outline an essay and slather on the clotted cream. Two playwrights I know knock on my table as they're leaving. They're perfectly nice, but we did once get in a fight at a writers' group because they were ragging on how my generation isn't 1000% dedicated to working on weekends and while traveling like they were, and it got awkward when I said, "Well I notice you both have really nice homes." Anyway, I get up and hug them to show I'm not a regular demon, I'm a cool demon. As I'm leaving I see an exec I know. I knock on her table. She's meeting with her intern. They both buy tickets to my play. I walk home listening to MUNA's new album, thinking about how I saw seven friends, just by virtue of bopping around!
At home I feel ultra compelled to work on an essay. I answer a couple emails from my manager, but the piece has to come first. I complete a draft, race to shower, race to makeup, shove carrots in my mouth, then zoom across the city blasting my pop punk playlist of 8th grade jams. "Anything" by Simple Plan to Start. I'm not sure why, but that's always what I listen to on my drives west.
I kind of dread going into the lobby opening night. I pull into a parking spot at the window. I see the director in an adorable dress, our producer with the red bob in heels. They're laughing the joy of people pulling something off. I sit in the car a while writing notes for the main four. I add heart stickers and Sharpie stars. I wobble in around 7:40.
I am overwhelmed immediately, as predicted. Everyone is so nice though. I see my new friend, leaned against the wall. Another producer gives me a sweet pin. I greet the school shooting survivor and her friend. I get a desperation peach seltzer. We funnel into the theatre. I see my friend JG in the front row. I'm pretty surprised. I haven't seen her in six years, not since I happened to be taking a meeting on the same patio she was celebrating her first Emmy nomination. She didn't tell me she was coming.
They hold curtain for fifteen and I am SWEATING. I cannot stop bothering this poor survivor. I tell her, "There are gunshots at the beginning." She says she knows. I nod. I lean over, "And, you know, if you want to leave, you can totally leave!" She tells me she knows. I tap my toes a while. I tell her, "Just get up and go. At any moment. No problem!" The lights go down.
The cast does an incredible job. The best the best the best they've ever been. The crowd is on board right away. They howl a few times. I'm really happy in the moment even though I can't enjoy it because I am tensed out of my gourd trying to notice what this girl is and isn't laughing at. In the penultimate scene I see her wiping tears. I relax a little.
The girls bow and the audience leaps to its feet. The cuties jump in joy on stage. "Really good," the girl says. "Way funnier than I thought." Yes. Red Bob created an amazing after party for us. It was ballooned with grad congrats. There was a bowl of Pop-Tarts and vodka slushies, a corner to write, flowers, teen music blaring.
JG came up to me quickly, overwhelmed. "Thank you," she heaved. "Just...that really....I needed that." She wrote me an email that night too. I told her I'd keep it and I will. The 20something explained about his worries in movie theatres. The little costume designer, about her plans to cover the door. The teen there, 16 and never enters a room without scanning the exits. The photographer told me he cried like a baby. This is all so meaningful. I really could listen to people talk about shootings all day.
Everyone gets silly. The couple couple. The AD tells me about her need to create. The school shooting survivor has two vodka slushies and does a handstand. Go off, queen! I have to do the "Oops I Did It Again" choreo or I wouldn't be doing my part as a millennial. QD brings her boyfriend in a turtleneck. The drunk one gets drunk. The nuts one gets nuts. She gives me a card. I cry reading it in the living room, still in my lilac blazer, at 1 AM. After I got home to Puhg on the couch, trying to wait up. He toddles to bed. I text my sister about a robin, waking her up in the middle of the country. Can't sleep until 5.
save the games for the girls on the tennis courts
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