Part 1
"BECK! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!" The sound of her shrill scream could have been picked up by a deaf man. I rolled my eyes and turned my attention from sorting out her shoes. From high heels to ballet flats, color coordinated and by designer. Is it necessary to have 200 pairs of shoes? Who the fuck was Christian Louboutin anyway? She came flying up the stairs with a clear take out container with the salad I just drove downtown to get because it has to come from a specific a greek bistro... "What the fuck is this?" She spat.
"Somethin' wrong, Ms. Moses?" I asked her. Heather Moses... I had her first poster in my bedroom back in at my parent's house in Fort Worth. A picture of her in a catholic school girl uniform advertising Sketchie's sneakers. She was so gorgeous. Her spirted and girly face was the first thing I woke up to in the morning and the last thing I saw at night. But reality hit me in the face hard as she stood before me in navy blue tank top and jeans, her facial expression as mean as ever. Her long black and blonde hair pulled up in a ponytail, one hand on her hip.
She shook her head as if she were in disbelief. She chuckled, "Is there anything wrong..." Frustrated, she dropped the plate into my hands as I stood there before her. "I asked you for a Cherry Tomato Feta Salad. That is not what I asked for. That has Orzo pasta in it?!" I opened up the container and looked over the food. "It's a pasta salad. I thought that you would like it. The owner recommended especially for you."
Heather knocked the food up into my face. I shouldn't have been phased, I was used to her temper-tantrums. "I don't pay you to think Beckham. I pay you to do what I tell you to do." Heather stated. All I could do was sigh and begin picking bits of vegetables and thin pasta off my T-Shirt. Heather turned on the heel of her shoes and stormed out the room shouting, "And when you're done with my shoes, go down to McGee's and get the Napa Chicken. I've changed my mind about the salad."
Her luscious figure disappeared through the archway of her bedroom door. Sigh. I turned my attention back to cleaning. With tantrums like that, it was hard to say I loved my job. When my buddy Mark put in a good word for me with his boss, things were starting to look up. I'd come here to be a musician. But I have turned into a starving artist. I thought I was in for a treat when Mark gave me the name and address of my first employer. Okay I'll be honest, I nearly blew my load when I read Heather's name and address in my email inbox. The girl that's been the star of dirtiest dreams; I couldn't wait to meet her. You can only imagine my heartbreak when I got to her home and she immediately berates me and starts barking ridiculous orders at me. Yet here I sit eight months later, still working for this bitchy wannabee actress.
To make matters worse, yesterday Mark had been smoking a bowl on his day off, passed out, and forgot that he was deep frying twinkies on our GAS stove. He was fine but our townhouse went up in flames. We were left with nearly nothing. I'm just thought to put all my clothes in the trunk to do my laundry that night, my guitar was in the backseat as well. Thank god. It was the one-time I had all my things in a safe place. However this all meant one thing... I had to find a place to stay til we could get a new place. Granted I had two options, pay for a room or...
"Yes you can stay til you clear things up, Beck. I'd rather you stay here anyhow. It'd be so convient to have an assistant 24/7. Just don't think you're staying here rent free. Think of it as a work exchange program." She grinned maliciously as I stood on her doorstep nights ago asking Heather if it was okay to crash there for a bit. Boy she wasn't joking when she said I had to work off my debt. She went from barking about sorting her clothes in order by the type of item, season, and color to tirades about why her car needed to be washed every 2 days and how she needed to have food from a particular restaurant at a certain time of day, prepared the way she wants it. Usually that was at some bistro clear across town and in LA traffic? She was clearly losing her marbles. But everything had to be done "Miss Heather's" way of she was like 5 year old throwing a tantrum because she couldn't get her way.
That woman is something though. She's able to play the part of a nice, normal girl every now and then. In between bellowing orders, she's actually not a terrible conversationalist. Usually our little talks are just that, little; short 3 – 5 minute conversations about other upcoming actresses or how young these new models are dominating the industry. Ususally not anything I care to talk about but it's just to pass the time. I overhear her sometimes going over scripts and overanalyzing them. She needs up talking to herself, trying to make sense of the role she wants to play and if she has the capabilities to get the part. It's kinda cute. It leads me to believe she's not completely made of tin and her heart's in there somewhere. Hell, she wouldn't have let me stay here if she didn't have one.
However this is my reality: Beckham Travis Williamson, 28 years old, Libra, homless, would-be-rockstar, and mostly a snobby model's personal bitch.
Sigh. The more I think about the position I'm in the more depressing it gets. I came to LA to catch a break not this... I reckon I'll have to hit the gym soon. I could use the stress relief. I wasn't relieving it any other way. The chick I was hooking up when I first got out here decided to go back to her husband. I reckon she decided the grass wasn't greener on the other side. She wanted someone to spend the night and cuddle. Working here I didn't have much time for that. So it was it whack it in the privacy of the shower and when I got in the guest room or bench something. I wasn't used to this.
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Later that night
