The Assistant Prequel

Well, I got the job. I am now the assistant of TV actor Matt Steiner, star of the popular series

The Single Life

. I'm assuming the agency feels I can handle the incredibly mind-wobbling responsibility of this job: make him coffee, pick up his dry-cleaning, and, more importantly, pay his bills and run his errands. You can envy me now, girls!

This is by no means my dream job. I was hoping to become a journalist. I want my career to be based on the entertainment industry, but instead of doing menial work for a spoiled actor, I was hoping to write intelligent articles and documentaries on celebrities. I majored in English at NYU and have had a bachelor's degree for a year now, but I haven't been able to find a job in that field.

My friend, Bianca, was the one who told me about this job. I have no idea how she knew about an opening for an actor's assistant, but she insisted that I should send a résumé to the agency. After several interviews I got hired.

I'm tired of doing jobs that don't appeal to me. Ever since I graduated from NYU, I've had one dull job after another. I was a waitress, librarian, a customer service representative for the

New York Times

, and now, Matt Steiner's assistant. At least this new job sounds a bit more interesting than the previous ones. Nevertheless, it is not good enough. These jobs are an insult to my intelligence. I deserve better.

I guess I should be excited about meeting Matt Steiner. I watch

The Single Life

sometimes. It's a surprisingly well-written sitcom about seven 20-something-year-olds from Manhattan that basically whine about relationships and jobs on every episode. There are four girls and three guys. Matt Steiner is one of the guys. He's known as the funniest one of the group. Perhaps I should have been a cast member, but no, I'm not attractive enough. (All of the stars of the sitcom are drop-dead gorgeous, by the way.)

What I hate about the show is that the characters live in unrealistically large apartments that would cost the average New Yorker about thirty-five hundred dollars a month to live there. In sitcom world, however, a waitress and a secretary could afford it. I live in a tiny rent-controlled studio apartment on the Upper West Side that costs eight hundred dollars a month—rent-stabilized, of course. The studio consists of a living room-slash-bedroom, a small kitchen and a bathroom. My living room-slash-bedroom is decorated with a futon, books, CDs, movies, TV, stereo, and a night table. It's all crammed in like a sardine can. I am so glad I'm not claustrophobic.

After making sure I don't have a criminal record, the agency made me take an oath: that I, Karla Lopez, will never steal, lie, harm Mr. Steiner, or sell any information to the press (the agency insists that celebrities should have trustworthy people working for them). Actually, I was forced to sign a rather legally binding contract. If I break any of the terms and conditions listed in the aforementioned contract, I would lose my job or possibly go to jail, depending on the crime. You'd think that I'm going to be working for the President of the United States or something.

I'm going to meet Matt on Monday. Today is Friday.

I agreed to meet my friends, Ben and Bianca tonight at a bar in SoHo. They can't wait to hear the wonderful news about my new and pseudo-exciting job.

It's 8:25 p.m. Bianca and Ben still haven't arrived. I'm on my third Cosmopolitan.

They finally arrive. Bianca looks as beautiful as always, with her wispy, shag-cut blonde hair. She's wearing a black turtleneck sweater with matching black pantyhose and a gray, short skirt. Ben is wearing a dark green shirt, tie, and black trousers. He must've just gotten out of work.

"Sorry we're late," Bianca says while sitting, "but I had to wait for Ben."

The waiter arrives and they both order Cosmos.

Bianca owns an independent bookstore around my neighborhood that she inherited from her father. She gives me books for free, which is why I own hundreds of books. Ben is a handsome, black and gay man who writes for the

New York Observer

. He tried to get me a job there, but, out of pride, I told him not to. We've been friends since college. We're all the same age. But they, unlike me, have successful careers. I sometimes hate them because of this.

"So? Let's hear it!" Ben says.

"I got the job," I say dully.

"You are so lucky," says Bianca enthusiastically. "You'll be working for someone famous. How glamorous!"

"Glamorous? As if! And yeah, I'm very lucky. I am so lucky. I get to be an actor's maid."

"Lighten up! This could be a great opportunity for you. You become friends with this guy and he might hook you up with some connections," Ben says, lighting a cigarette.

"I'm not counting on it," I say.

"I agree with Ben. This job will give you an inside look into the life of a celebrity. You can even write about him without him knowing it. Sort of like an undercover journalist assignment."

"Right, and betray this man's trust? I couldn't live with myself."

"Then journalism is the wrong profession for you," Ben says matter-of-factly. "Journalists succeed at other people's expense. Always remember that."

This conversation is upsetting me. I thought it would cheer me up to get together with my two best friends. Instead, they are reminding me of how much of a failure I am. I tell them this.

"You're not a failure!" says Ben. "God, you've just finished college. Give it time."

"Karla, you know we love you, right?" says Bianca. "We just want to help you, that's all. This job is a big opportunity for you, and if

you

don't take advantage of this, then

you

are going to regret it."

"Okay. Whatever. Let's change the subject," I say bitterly. "So Bianca, how's your boyfriend? Does he still buy porno magazines and movies because you refuse to have sex with him?"

Ben chokes on his Cosmo.

"No," she mumbles.

"Excuse me?" Ben says with his eyes wide open. "How come neither of y'all told me about this before?"

"I thought Bianca already told you," I lie. Bianca had made me promise I wouldn't tell Ben.

Bianca is silent. She's just sitting there, glaring at me. She's upset.

"

Hello!

" Ben says impatiently.

I know I'm in deep shit right now. I don't know why I blurted Bianca's secret. Maybe deep down inside I resent her. She's never had to struggle in life. I should leave the café before she bursts into tears or something.

At home, I check my messages on my answering machine. The first message is from my mother; the second one is from my ex-boyfriend, Daniel.

Karla, it's me, Daniel. I want to know if you'd like to go out with me next Friday to a party. My company's throwing a soiree and I'm supposed to bring a date with me but since I'm not seeing anybody . . . I thought I might call you. Please call soon and let me know if you're interested. Ciao.

Ha! I cannot believe this. I dated Daniel for two months, and all he ever did was cheat on me. I caught him in the act—he was having sex with my (former) friend Caitlin at his apartment. He has the nerve to call me after six months, inviting me to some party like it's no big deal. What is wrong with this picture?

I have had my share of bad relationships. Daniel was my last boyfriend. I have decided to concentrate on my career before I become involved with someone again. Concentrating on my career is a good excuse not to date. Every time someone asks me if I have a boyfriend, my usual response is this: "All men do is distract you. When people fall in love, they become needy and forget about everything else that should be more important in their lives. Why waste my time that way? I would much rather work for my dreams than waste my time with some guy."

I don't think I'm fooling anyone with that self-righteous nonsense. The truth of the matter is that sometimes I wish I had a boyfriend. But I do believe in what I say—although sometimes loneliness creeps in as if from nowhere.

During the last several years I have had some pretty

bad

boyfriends. (Note the emphasis on the word

bad

.)

There was Mike: the guy who, during sex, made a countdown before he came. It was so annoying. It felt like New Year's Eve. This is how he came:

"Nine . . . Eight . . . Seven . . . Six . . . Five . . . Four . . . Three . . . Two . . . One . . . GAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!!"

It happened every time we had sex.

I dumped him.

I wonder if he still does it.

Then there was Joshua—or as I came to call him: Mr. Mirror Man. He had a mirror placed on the ceiling above his bed and another one on the headboard. He concentrated more intensely on the mirrors than on me.

I dumped him.

He is now a porn star.

And before Daniel and after Joshua, there was Darren. Darren was a cute, charming, and very smart man from England. I met him during a lecture at NYU. He was a legal aide lawyer in England and a notary in New York. He was taking courses in American Law at NYU. He treated me with respect and never once tried to touch me. (He told me that his mother taught him that women should be treated with the utmost respect and that he didn't believe in sex before marriage.)

Darren was a great boyfriend. He was the only good boyfriend I've ever had. We went out for walks or sit on the grass and talk. He kissed me passionately, and the way he made love to me was brilliant. His touch was filled with such sweet tenderness that I often cried afterwards; he gave me the kind of special treatment that I'd never been bestowed upon before. I was certain that he was the one for me, and after two months of dating, I knew I was going to fall in love with him. But fate didn't allow it. Darren got hit by a car while crossing the street in his neighborhood. He died en route to the hospital. I was devastated when I heard the news. I grieved his death for many months after the accident.

I don't think I'll ever meet another Darren again.

I didn't date Darren long enough to fall in love with him. In fact, I have never been in love. Everyone tells me that since I'm twenty-four years old, I should be in love already, or at least should have experienced a first love. But I haven't. No first love, not any kind of love. Sometimes I wonder that if I ever fall in love, will he love me? Now that I think about it, I've probably been reluctant to fall in love. I've been too afraid to suffer because of it.

I'll hold on to my "career before love" philosophy for now. It seems like the right thing to do since my career prospects are in a state of coma and I should at least try to bring them back to life.

My mother's message was the usual one: Why haven't you called? It's been two days since you've called me. Why are you so distant? My two other girls are as distant as you are. Do you have a boyfriend yet? I want you to come over and visit me this weekend. Please call me back.

I'm the worst daughter in the world if I don't call her every single day, according to Ma. My parents are overprotective. Sometimes when I walk around the city with my father, he holds my hand whenever we cross a street. I tell him, "Dad, don't hold my hand! I'm not a kid anymore!" He then looks at me dreamily and says, "You will always be a little girl in my eyes." I want to gag every time he gets sentimental on me.

I also hate it when my mother comes over to visit. She would look around the apartment and run her fingers on the furniture, checking for dust. Although I clean the place thoroughly before she arrives, she always finds dust. She would search the whole place until she finds it. I swear the woman detects dirt from a mile away. She always nags about my empty refrigerator. She would say, "Why is your refrigerator empty? You're twenty-four years old and you can't cook. Your two sisters learned to cook when they were ten years old." I often reply: "Why cook? It is so much easier to order take-out." She would then shake her head as if to say, "What did I do to deserve such a lazy child?"

Halfway through the visit, Ma would then begin her usual criticism of me: the fact that I don't have a boyfriend. I tell her my career before love speech. She doesn't buy it. "Nonsense," she often says. "You're not even close to having a career." I would thank her for reminding me of this. "I'm not telling you this to make you feel bad,

nena

. We both know it's an excuse. You're unhappy and lonely. I would love to see you settle down already. I know that if you were in a relationship, you'd be happy and therefore feel motivated enough to go for your dreams."

I don't have the energy to endure that absurd interaction again. I will not call her back. At least not tonight.

My apartment is surprisingly clean despite the tiny space. Books neatly on the shelves, CDs on their racks, movies and DVDs inside the cabinets, and the futon closed. The kitchen is also clean. The refrigerator, as Ma often points out, is always empty. The only thing I have in the fridge is a gallon of water. The place is small, but comfortable enough to fit just one person. Even though I'd love to have a bigger place, this would do for now.

I just called Bianca and apologized for my behavior at the café. She reluctantly accepted my apology.

I have no idea what to expect at my new job. I'm pretty sure I'm going to be exposed to the celebrity lifestyle. I wonder if Ben and Bianca are right about doing an undercover journalist assignment on Matt Steiner. I could watch him closely and take notes. I should also keep a journal. If he turns out to be the typical rich and famous asshole, it would make me feel less guilty.

I have no energy to think about it now. I'll just have to wait and see how things unfold once I start on Monday.

I should be thinking about the money that I'm going to be making with this new job. I'll be making lots of money, meaning I'll be able to rent a bigger apartment. I plan to decorate my new apartment with beautiful antique furniture. I've always been fascinated with art—I will decorate my walls with beautiful antique paintings. I can't wait.

I study my reflection in the mirror. Will Matt find me attractive? Very doubtful. He dates gorgeous models and actresses. I have what you may call conventional beauty. I have light brown, shoulder-length straight hair, fair skin, hazel eyes, and am petite, only five feet, two inches tall. I weigh about 112 pounds. I've been told that I'm attractive, but I'm not sure I believe it.

My only hope is that I won't be self-conscious around Matt. He is absolutely gorgeous! He's got the most beautiful blue eyes I have ever seen. He has short, blonde, spiky hair. He's about six feet tall and weighs around 175 pounds, with an athletic build. He's thirty years old. I've been told he's very charming, that women often fall for his charm and wit. I've also been told that he is quite eccentric. It doesn't matter, I already know he's off-limits, not only is he my boss, he is also—off-limits. He won't look at me twice. That's okay, though. I'm not one of those stupid women who fall for the first pretty face she sees. I've never been that weak.

As I continue to contemplate myself in the mirror, the ringing phone startles me. Unfortunately it's my mother.

"Hello, sweets. If I don't call you, you don't call me."

"We talk on the phone almost every day, Ma."

"Yeah, if

I

call

you

. You're too distant. How come you don't call

me

?" Here we go. "If I die, you're going to be the last to know."

I sigh. "Okay, Ma. I'm sorry but I've been busy."

She continues: "Any boyfriends?"

"No," I say, annoyed.

"That's too bad. So, tell me, Karla, when was the last time you got laid?"

"Ma!"

I can't believe the way she talks to me sometimes. I didn't know mothers were even allowed to talk that way to their children. But that's my mother, unpredictable. She never fails to surprise me. Her philosophy is, you have to be straightforward with your children because that's how they learn. Tell it like it is, she would say. She's a Freudian nightmare.

"Tell me. When was the last time you got laid?" she repeats.

I sigh.

She laughs.

"You know, I'm fifty-five years old. If you don't give me a grandchild soon, it will be too late."

I make no response.

She changes the subject. "So, when do you start this new job?"

"Monday."

"Good. You know, this might be a good opportunity for you. You'll be able to know this man on a personal level. You say you want to become a writer, or a journalist, or whatever, you should take advantage of this."

I sigh again. "Ben and Bianca already gave me this lecture."

"Well, there you go."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you should listen to them."

"Well, I don't see it that way. Besides, for all I know, this man could be incredibly dull."

"No life of a famous actor is dull." She sounds so matter-of-fact about this.

"You don't know that," I say defensively.

"All I'm saying is, don't shut down this opportunity. Think of your career, your dreams. Sweets, this could be a big opportunity for you. Please don't ruin it. Don't disappoint me."

"I won't," I murmur.

She continues her nagging: "Keep in mind that you're lonely. If only you had a boyfriend, you'd feel motivated and happy. I don't care what you modern girls say. Love equals happiness, period. Oh, and, sweetie, I want you to spend the weekend here with me."

"Ma, I—"

"I won't take no for an answer. I know you're free this weekend, not having a boyfriend and all. You come here tomorrow. I'll make you a nice dinner. And I want you to spend the night here, I was hoping we could go to church together on Sunday—"

"Fine."

"Good," I suddenly hear voices in the background. It's the TV. She's watching the romance channel. "Okay, sweets, I'm going to watch my soapie now. Bye!"

She hangs up before I can say "bye" to her.

I should have screened that phone call. I can't believe the pressure everyone is putting me in. I don't think I have the courage to take advantage of this so-called opportunity. I mean, the agent specifically told me that if I do anything to betray Matt's trust, I would lose my job. Even if I could write a good story on this man, who's going to publish it? I am unknown in the journalistic world.

I know my mother will be bugging me this whole entire weekend. I wish I could disappear. I've been very gloomy because of my lack of resourcefulness career-wise. I don't need people constantly reminding me that I'm a failure.

My two sisters have disappointed my parents. One is a dietitian and a masseuse and my other sister is a housewife. My parents divorced when I was four years old. My mother is a retired insurance underwriter who now works part-time at a school cafeteria in the Bronx. My father is retired and lives in New Jersey with my housewife sister and her husband. Why do they have these expectations of me? It's not fair!

I often hear my father say such wonderful things about me. "My daughter, Karla, is going to be a successful writer," he often says. "She's talented and she has vision. She's very intelligent. She attended NYU. She will make it. She will be the first one out of my seven children to make it."

The sad reality is that they do have high expectations and there's nothing I can do to change that. I can only pray that things work out at this new job. I don't know if I'm going to play the undercover reporter game and watch Matt Steiner like a hawk. All I know is that I start this new job on Monday and I want to be as stress-free about it as possible.