The one where I'm supercheap

Mother fucker. Someone’s knocked the wing mirror off my car. Some cocking drunken cocking driver has taken the wing mirror off my cocking car. I’ve got my driving test next week. I need my cocking car.

I head to Moorpark but can’t concentrate. … instead it’s a trip to the airport to return the car and go to Super Cheap Cars. On leaving Advantage, thank you full insurance, I call up super cheap cars and ask them to come and pick me up. It’s a moment I think I’ll remember for a while.

I sat outside Advantage, leaning against the wall. Oh for a cigarette. It’s been about forty days now. Maybe 43. Without. Anyway, this car pulls alongside me and this man opens the passenger window.

“Super cheap?”

Er? Not me. I'm not some whore.

"Super cheap?"

Oh. Perhaps he IS talking to me. That's the name of my new car rental company.

Brilliant.

I got in his car.

Naturally, my phone didn’t stop. Mr X needs nine tickets for a Broadway show. A sellout Broadway show at that. I’ve got 13 emails while I’m on the freeway. I’m trying to talk to the company manager, sorting out house seats – I call his writing partner.

“Can this wait til 1pm? I’m just at the airport returning my car…”

I explain about the crash – obviously someone drunk during the night, they probably didn’t even realise they’d clipped my car.

Two minutes later. Mr X phoned, filled with concern about the crash. The co-writer had squealed. He asked if I was okay. I said I was. Nice of him to call, really nice BUT I don’t like talking about personal things with Mr X. I somehow don’t think it’s appropriate. I don’t know why. I’ve heard about other assistants. You’re not meant to have a personal relationship – surely he’s not meant to know about my life and my problems. He just needs his shit sorted. Not thinking about my shit. But, still, he asked if I was okay. Which was nice. But… again, nothing that happens to me is his problem. It’s a weird scenario.

Back in LA. I go home for an hour to do the tickets and send the emails – it’s all go. All go. I’m sorting them all out. Then… off to the library to do some research for Mr X. I’m trying to find books about FBI manhunts. How they do it. The procedural stuff. Everyone’s very helpful. Then. Shit. 2.30pm. I agreed to see a friend at a potential new flat – for him. Near Hollywood and highland.

But first. Pep boys. Mr X’s BMW needs oil. The saga of BMW. I have now phoned them over three days. That’s my life now. Phoning BMW. Finding out if anyone can pick up the car. They can’t. So. It’s me. On my own. I get the oil they recommend and then… off to meet the friend.

As ever, he’s not picking up the phone. I’m waiting in a parking spot. Finally he picks up the phone. I’m off to meet him. At the block. It’s modern. It’s posh. It’s big. I don’t think I can live with him though. But, it’s a nice place. A bit eastern European for my liking – identikit loft conversion places then… shit… I’ve got to meet Mr X’s writing partner – he’s got a script for me to give to Mr X.

I race across LA. The script? Jesus. He made it sound like it was a huge drama and emergency. It’s a script I’ve already sent Mr X when he was in Vegas. Anyway, it’s a good chance to get to know the co-writer. He used to be an assistant writer on a hit TV show. He wrote a script. Mr X liked it… and now he’s off. Doing deals at Paramount and the like. He’s been here five years but it’s finally becoming the Hollywood dream for him. Interesting. But… now I’m late. Again.

Meet up with the Brits at La Cienega Park. There’s a fittie there. Irish. Been here for years. Boxer. Now, god knows. Anyway, we all go out dinner to the King and I. Then, walking back to the car… afterwards. I finally get to talk to Seamus. Slightly smitten. I gave him my number. I never heard from him. Oh well. Nice to meet a hetero. Especially one who’s been in the ring with Evander Holyfield. We chatted for about an hour. And then that was that. Ho hum.

Mr X’s due back tomorrow.

Another day
It’s 9am and I’m in the office. I get to Tam’s office by 11am. Pick up some films for Mr X. Then… then… off to Zuma to deliver it all before he arrives. Ms S is there. She's the housekeeper. We finally meet. I drop the stuff. Then run. I’m looking for oil. I go everywhere. All the garages. No one can help. It’s a nightmare. Eventually, I go to BMW in Santa Monica. I’m a mess. I’m a shrill bitch. I need the oil. No one’s able to help me. I’ve gone a bit mental. I have the eyes of a crazy lady. OIL! OIL! HELP! ME!

We phone up BMW to get the make of his car and the VIM number. I’d got the wrong oil from Pep boys. Argh. I’m a frazzled mess. The older man, Cliff, takes me outside. We go to another BMW model, same as Me X’s and he talks me through how we measure the oil level. It’s intense. I’m horribly grateful to him.

The phone rings. It’s Mr X. He’s shouting. And then he stops. He has to get off the phone. What was that?

An hour later. He calls. He’s shouting down the phone. What the fuck’s going on with his car? Why isn’t his freezer working? Then Ms S gets on the phone. Everyone’s getting antsy about the fact the freezer isn’t working, well, the ice machine, because Ms S hasn’t defrosted it. Not my fault I want to scream (I don't). And then BMW. Why can’t they see his car? What the fuck are they doing? "Not my fault" - I want to scream. I don't.

“When you come over tomorrow, we’re calling BMW and seeing what the fuck’s up with them. This isn’t good enough.”

I’m freaking out. I’ve done nothing wrong but yet it’s all kicking off. I really have been doing my best. Having Ms S AND him shouting at me is all a bit much.

I meet up with a friend and we go to a meeting which is full of gays. I can’t concentrate on anything. I’m upset about being shouted at. I’m upset that I can’t seem to get exactly what he wants. And I’m upset that I’m upset about BMW oil and an ice machine in the fridge. Pathetic. But I’m trying to be professional so I’m horribly affected.

Then… I get home. I forgot that Judy’s got someone coming in tomorrow. I need to move out tomorrow. I need to pack. Sheeeeeeet. I text Mr B. I can move into his tonight. However, I’ll go there tomorrow. I’m a bit of a mess tonight. What with people shouting at me and whatever.

Panic packing and panic texts.