Max Goes Hollywood - Mile High Club

"Are you alright sir? Can I get you a drink? Maybe some cookies?"

When Tabitha, my agent, shows up at my actual door, I get worried. That usually means she's got news that she thinks I need to have in person rather than a phone call or, even better, by text. That sort of info is rarely considered good.

Just to clear the air before we go any further- this isn't going to be one of those stories where I'm knocking boots with Tabitha. Ours is a strictly business relationship between a writer and his agent. She's in a very stable, loving marriage with her long-suffering wife Karen (Who is the ONLY Karen I've ever met who doesn't deserve the meme by making me want to castrate myself with a dull spork. With the notable exception of Playboy Playmate Karen McDougal because fuuuucckk she was hot when I was 12 and sneaking my Dad's Playboys and I'm really hoping she's still hot today. But I digress.). Plus, I knew Tabitha back when she was called Phil and, even though I'm fully supportive of trans rights and find her mildly attractive in a conventional sort of way (Her makeup game is, as they say 'on point'.), there's still that primitive lizard part of my brain that says 'no thanks'. I make no apologies for that. I can be supportive and selective at the same time. It's allowed.

Where was I? Oh, right- Tabitha at the door.

When I'm in a writing groove and things are clicking just right where I'm knocking out thousands of words a day at the keyboard or filling in the blanks of my talk-to-text sections, my sleep schedule goes all to hell. I forget to eat, bathe and will often be working through some scene and find myself staring at a blank screen for hours writing and rewriting it in my head instead of actually...

Fucking.

Typing.

Because I'm a dumbass that way too.

So there I am, answering the door at four in the afternoon, in the same shirt and shorts I put on three days ago because I've been on a tear and haven't slept and look it, to find my smartly dressed literary agent standing there, fumbling with her key to my apartment (She looks after the cactus when I'm away.). She took one look at me and blanched.

"Shit Max, you look like hell."

"Hi Tabitha, nice to see you too. What's so important that you couldn't just call?" She pushed past me into my apartment. Look, I'm not an efficient housekeeper. I sweep once in a great while, clean my dishes. I think I own a mop and more than one set of sheets. What I know I have are lots and lots of books. Like stacks of them. I buy old research books and local legends by the pound if I can. There hasn't been a library book sale in the last ten years I haven't been johnny-on-the-spot for. You never know when some weird little bit of information is going to completely turn your plot and I like to have it all at my fingertips. Wikipedia is great, but they can't really tell you some obscure bit of local history to hang a plotline off of. When I die, it will be because I got buried under an avalanche of Encyclopedia Britannica from the 1800's.

In other words, my place is a librarians' disaster area.

"I tried calling." She groused, looking around for my phone and finding it on the lone corner of the dining table not covered in old take-out containers and stacks of printed material. "YOU kept sending me to voicemail."

Which, it turned out, was technically true but mostly because I'd forgotten to plug my phone in and it was now an expensive paperweight needing juice. Naturally, as soon as it got a trickle of power going to it, my notifications went berserk.

"So, 'he said again' what's up that you couldn't call?"

"Have you been talking with someone in Hollywood behind my back?" she bluntly demanded, picking up some of the obvious trash lying about. Including an empty bottle of Fireball I polished off days ago still sitting on the edge of my desk. Shit, was I that bad that I couldn't even throw away trash that re... you know what? Nevermind.

"Huh?" Yup- tired, brainfogged now that I wasn't at the keyboard and confused by the question. Winning combination.

"I got a phone call while you were in Missouri from Screamdreamer Studios wanting to set up a meeting between you and a studio exec about turning one of your stories into a film." She sighed, already making plans to bring in a cleaning crew to commit a neatness on my apartment. I already knew it would take me weeks to restore my carefully planned out non-filing system.

"Screamdreamer?" I replied, taking a gallon bottle of OJ from the fridge and drinking straight from it. Great part about living alone? No need to dirty a glass when chugging works just as well. And no, I don't entertain much, why do you ask? "Never heard of them."

"Neither had I until I looked them up. They're a small studio that mostly does cheap horror films like 'Campground Killer' or 'Red Light Murders'. Teen slasher stuff. Lots of jiggling bare boobs because topless women are a major plot device." She started looking at the writing on the screen, growing a little concerned as she read. "Max, what the hell is this? It's all over the place. You've got the same character called two different names in the same paragraph."

I took a glance over her shoulder and saw she was right. I'd been doing some pretty straightforward stream-of-consciousness writing for a while now and it looked to me like I had kept bouncing back and forth between my vanilla mass-market novel and one of my smut serials. I definitely needed to knock off and get some sleep then.

"Oh boy. Looks like I lost the plot and started free-associating there. Rough draft and all that." Okay yeah, I was lying. "Going to have to go back and do a complete rewrite. Obviously though, I need some sleep first."

"Not right now you don't," she snapped, jumping up from my chair and shoving me towards the bathroom. "Right now, you need to get cleaned up and packed. You have a meeting to get to. Without me."

She sounded pissed about that last bit.

"What?" I let myself get propelled into the bathroom where she glared at me until I started the water to shave and brush my neglected fangs. "What meeting? And why without you?"

"The studio rep I spoke to was very clear- they wanted to talk to you directly first and were willing to pay fifteen grand for you to sit down with them, in-person, just to talk it over before 'getting lawyers involved'- their words." I'd never seen Tabitha straight out pout before and it was... unsettling. I cut myself shaving level of unsettling.

"Really? Fifteen grand just to talk with a studio exec? Damn." I scrubbed at my teeth glad I had chugged the juice before toothpaste rather than afterwards. "Wish I had that kind of money to throw around. Where am I going? Hotel downtown? Baltimore? The drive to New York's going to be a mess at this hour."

"You aren't driving Max. They want you on their turf. Tomorrow. In Los Angeles." She leaned on the doorframe in that casual 'I'm about to drop a bombshell and fuck up your whole day' sort of way.

I stabbed myself in the back of the throat with my toothbrush.

"Tabby!" I cried out once I'd stopped choking and silently cursing at her for being a petty bitch over something I had no idea was even happening. "You know damn well what flying does to me!" I went over all this before- headaches, fucks with my nerves, tedious and so forth. I'm not a good flyer.

"I am aware," she smugly replied, satisfied that her need for vengeance was sated. "That's why, when they offered to pay First Class round trip, I made sure it was the last flight of the day both ways so you could sleep and MAYBE be your more normal, almost civilized self instead of a pissy orangutang."

"What? I don't rate 'gorilla'?" I pulled off my shirt, the one I'd been wearing for three days, and thought about tossing it at her but she kicked the door closed between us before I could.

"You don't rate 'spider monkey', but as your agent it's my job to stroke your ego from time to time." She shouted through the door before I flipped the shower on.

By the time I had finished showering and packing my toiletries, she'd make a quick copy of my desktop work and shut it down, tossing the thumb drive into the really nice leather writer's satchel I gifted myself when I sold my first novel where I normally carry my laptop. In the bedroom, I quickly got dressed before dumping the small suitcase I'd taken with me to St Louis onto the dirty clothes pile and refilling it with clothes suited for the California weather. Then Tabby came in, removed some things and replaced them with other, more dressy clothes, including my lightest sport coat, reminding me I'd be meeting an executive and I should look like someone knew how to dress me.

"Ok, but what about," I started asking before there was a knock on the door. On the other side stood a DoorDash delivery driver, who handed me a warm cheesesteak sandwich and a fresh bottle of OJ. Tabatha thrust him a twenty while I fumbled for my wallet. Then she handed me an envelope full of fifties. Food and spending cash. I had not hit an ATM since...

Yup. Nope. Not dwelling on it. She's probably off having a great time living her life. Good for her.

"I guess that's those two questions done then." I stood there like a fool, still a bit brainfogged, holding the food and the envelope like I was surprised to see them. Which, ironically, I was.

"Come on," Tabby prodded, kicking my suitcase towards me while shouldering my satchel. "I've got to get you to over to PHL and make sure you get through security. Your flight leaves at 10pm. Karen wants me home before eight, so you're just going to have to deal with the wait this time."

Eating my sandwich on the way, I talked with Tabitha about her plans with the missus for the weekend and other generic small talk. I promised I would call her the minute I got back to talk about this trip. According to my return ticket, I would be home 5am on Monday morning.

Revenge would be sweet. And early.

She saw me off through First Class security, breezing through the Rapid Check-In the studio had been generous enough to upgrade me to. Alright then. I could get the hang of this.

I wandered the terminals for about an hour, slowly drifting towards my gate. I dodged parents dragging exhausted kids back from Disney, two elderly nuns trying to figure out how to find their flight to Chicago and one very large group of college-aged people heading somewhere tropical for the weekend by the way they were dressed. And there were the usual business people on their way home after a long week stacked up in the terminal bars, the ever-present guy in pajamas ready for his overnight flight (You know the type- the guy that old souls look at and long for the days of 'classy air travel when you could smoke on the plane'.) and the two girls yapping into their speaker phones while carrying on a conversation with (As near as I could tell!) each other from a distance of about ten feet.

My autograph found it's way into the flyleaf of three of my novels in the newsstand under the message 'Blue Skies, Fair Winds, Safe Travels. Eat the Cookies' before I bought a bottle of sleeping pills and a drastically overpriced package of lemon cream cookies. I couldn't justify trekking all the way down to the International terminals just to try and buy a bottle of Fireball. Curse PHL for not having a liquor on hand, though t's probably a blessing smome people DON'T have easy access before boarding.

Honestly, it's not even a good whiskey and doesn't have the alcohol content to really get me drunk. What the hell is wrong with me?

Finally, I'd dicked around long enough and wandered over to my gate, finding a seat near a charger and jacking in my phone. It wasn't even worth the time to pull out my laptop and dicker around with hooking into the wifi. Instead, I pulled out my reliable notebook and fell back on the old writer staple of people-watching. I'd filled about a page and a half on my observations just getting to where I was sitting when She walked by.

Alright, I'm going to preface this by saying that what follows are my impressions of her and not directly evidenced by what followed as far as I can be certain. That said-

She was HAWT in that 'Daddy's Money Paid For All of This so I'm Going to Show it Off All The Time' way. And, quite honestly, I mean that in the most negative way possible. Sure, She had a Porn Star Body with big, round fake Boobs and an Ass that jiggled like Jello when She walked. It was hard to miss when She'd walk fifty feet, then Stop, Pose a few times like She was expecting paparazzi to be Following Her At All Times, Toss Her (bleached) Blonde Hair before walking another fifty feet. Only thing missing was the...nope, there it is- rhinestone covered cell phone and duckface selfie. There was no way in hell She wore panties or a bra under that super-tight Lycra crop top and tights combo that had to come from Somewhere Expensive and Exclusive. Not with the way it Rode Right Up Her Crack and Camel Toe. I'd never actually seen someone wear one of those silly half-torso White Fur Jackets, but She did. Shoes, Purse and Sunglasses all Matched of course. If I were to hazard a guess, I'd say She was heading to LA for a tune up- change Her plugs and points, Get Something Worked On (Almost cracked a smile, more Botox!) and so forth. This was not a woman who Dated. This was a woman who was Always Looking for the Headline. I'd lay even money that She's Screwing either a Rapper, Basketball Star or Football Player because They Have a Reputation that Causes a Scandal.

You'll no doubt have noticed I'm using a Lot of Unnecessary Capital Letters when talking about Her. This is me trying to illustrate how I feel people like Her talk about How Important They Are and Everything Has To Read Like A Headline. Bugs the piss out of me personally. Was She fuckable? Oh hell yeah. She was quite literally the stuff of a teenager's masturbatory fantasy- a rich blonde who is all tits, ass and not a shred of personality.

Attention Whore! That's the term I was looking for!

Setting the record straight though, you should all know by now that I'm all for Sluts and Whores on a general basis. I've learned a lot from Whores, both good and bad, about sex, relationships and life in general. And Sluts? Cue up that William Dafoe Spider-Man meme- "I'm something of a Slut myself."

But Attention Whores? You want me to think you're 'special' and 'higher' class because you've spent your vast wealth only on yourself? Bitch, go fuck yourself.

So naturally, She's on my flight. And demanding that she be seated as soon as possible. Didn't even tip the porter bringing along her carry-ons.

My phone pinged in that 'SI App' sort of way just seconds before She looked down, scowled at Her Phone and stabbed at it emphatically with a

overly long and manicured nail. Brainfog put 2 and 2 together and said 'no thanks either bitch'.

When the flight crew started boarding us, She pushed to the head of the (very short) line ahead of me. I had taken a seat close to the gangway itself, so was right there when they called First Class boarding. All the way down the ramp, I was treated to the 'Two Greased Melons in a Small Sack' jiggling of Her Ass ahead of me and I was sorely tempted to pull out a stopwatch and time how long it would take Her Cheeks to Stop Moving When She Stood Still. However, as much I wanted to do that (For SCIENCE!), I was further put off by Her Inability To Shut Up- Complaining the Whole Time about having to Fly with the Common Dirt-People and Not on Daddy's Private Jet and the extended wait while She Settled For the First Seat on the Plane to Be As Far From The Rest of Us As Possible. She even pitched a mini-fit because I was seated in First Class and She Didn't Have the Whole Cabin to Herself. Even though I sat at the rear of the section to avoid Her.

I just shook my head, pinched the bridge of my nose and begged the universe to send me the drinks trolley quickly so I could down my pills and sleep through the irritation headache I was developing. At least boarding didn't take long as there were only about 20 of us on the overnight flight.

I blinked up at the flight attendant leaning over me a bit further than I would expect and managed to see down her blouse enough to see a lot more than I'm sure is regulation. I couldn't immediately tell, but I had a feeling she wasn't wearing a bra. Her smile stayed pretty neutral, but the way she slyly licked her lips said something else entirely.

Brainfog gone. Dickfog growing.

"Club cookies?" I ventured, trying to talk in a code that had never been discussed between us. If she was offering what I thought she was offering, I wasn't going to pass up the opportunity.

"Chocolate chip," she smiled prettily, which I think is a requirement for being a Flight Attendant. Identified by her name pin, Joyce gave my seatbelt some personal scrutiny, making sure it and the growing bulge of my pantleg were secure. She lingered over the latter, making it bigger under her fingers. "But I'll see what I can arrange once we reach the right cruising altitude."

Surprisingly, my normal flying headache was gone. I could get used to flying if this happened regularly. Somehow, I doubted it though.

Joyce brought me two airline packages of those little chocolate chip cookies you get when you fly, a bottle of OJ and a nip of gin, which I mixed watching her walk back down the aisle to get the Bitch Princess a second glass of champagne. From what I could see of it, under that skirt she wasn't wearing panties either, but her ass didn't jiggle half as much. Benefits of being on your feet and dealing with the balance issues of heels on a plane I guess- a nice, firm backside and the grace to make it move just how you want it to.

She caught me watching and smiled knowingly, bending slightly at the waist to hand the Bitch Her Drink.

I had to adjust myself a bit by then.

Safety briefing (I stole one of those little laminated instruction flyers. You never know when that sort of info can come in handy. Yes, I'm a bit of a hoarder like that.), taxi and take-off were all by the numbers. I even heard a little cheer from someone in the commercial cabin when the landing gear retracted with that loud 'clunk' sound. The Fasten Seat Belt sign finally went off and the captain came on to make her little announcements about flight time, cruising altitude and so forth. The Bitch Princess Called for More Champagne.

I couldn't be sure, but I think I saw Joyce slip something into the glass. She handed over the glass, then came back to sit on the arm of the chair opposite and chat with me for a bit about my trip to LA. She was from Seattle but her hub was in LA despite the airline having hubs in both cities. We flirted, mostly keeping an eye on the Bitch Princess, who slurred a request for another drink.

"Damn Party Bitches and their high tolerance for alcohol," Joyce confided when she got back.

"Did you put something in her drink earlier?" I had to know. I didn't WANT to know, but I had to.

"Don't tell anyone, but yeah," she confessed, still side-eyeing the more and more lethargic passenger. "It's not a common thing, but sometimes you just gotta 'help' some people be undisruptive passengers when they promise to be trouble."

"This or duct tape?"

"This or tossing her out the wheel well." Joyce had a very pleasant evil grin. "But that's, like, a MOUNTAIN of paperwork and you've got to aim just right or you take out someone's cattle barn from thirty-thousand feet and ugghhh, just such a mess. Dropping a roofie in her drink is so much easier."

"And if I get out of hand?" I asked smugly, shaking my juice bottle. "I don't tend to gulp champagne like water."

Her grin got wider and more playfully wicked. She got up, leaned in and licked my ear before whispering-