The one where it's finally over...

I’m in the car, ready to go on my way and… I realise. Hang on. My GPS has been taken. I suddenly remember when I got into the car that my perfume was on the seat, which was weird. And… hang on. My UK cell phone which I left in the car has also been taken. What? I’ve been broken into. I can’t believe it. What is up with my luck? I’m so not having it easy in this city. Seriously.

Yesterday I smashed up my computer. I haven't even started on the fact that my car was surrounded by Coyotes the other day. Yep. Coyotes. They were growling at Max (who was in the car coming back from the vet). I've been shot. I also failed to mention I was in a car accident as well. A five car pile up. That was completely terrifying. Oy. I've had two court appearances due to two traffic offences. Okay, so I got off one and I'm due in court for the other to get an arraignment. Great. And now... my car's been broken into.

I cancel my phone. I realise that all my numbers have gone. I’m glad Mr X’s in New Mexico on a location scout. Now I can deal with my stuff. . Hooray. But now I have to deal with my shit. MY SHIT. Aaaargh. All this stuff. Why can’t things be easy? I just don’t know. I also have to fix my computer.

I put out a plea on facebook for a new blackberry and a new computer. Someone’s got a blackberry I can buy. Perfect. $65 and I’ll pick it up at lunch time. Then… a computer place so I head there. I need a new computer. I stop at a radio shack to get a GPS. They’ve run out. I get back to the car and I’ve got a ticket. A bloody ticket. I can’t stand it. When will things go right?

I get to the computer place and they have them at a reasonable cost but I have no money. Instead I get a new lead and a new battery. That appears to work. I can’t believe I got a ticket though.

I race over to see Jonathan and he clones my blackberry. HA! Now I have Johnny Depp’s email. I know. It’s sad. Very sad. But I want that email. I'm ready to leave gavin. I

I still can’t believe that my car’s been broken into. Jesus.

I find out that there’s a GPS for sale in Westwood at RadioShack so I head over there. The parking’s a nightmare. Nightmare. I get there. I’m so close to tears but I get the GPS. It’s only money. Only money.

I ring MW. And he calls me back. He makes me feel better and it’s all good. I like having people like that who cheer me up. Make me feel better. Who laugh at me. With me. It’s all good.

I’m all over the shop. I can’t wait for bed. I look in the boot. The thieves took my hair straighteners. They were brand new. And... some Serge Lutyens perfume (brand new, $120 - they have no idea what they've taken!) and... poker chips. They really went to town... they popped my damn boot. I'm livid.

Bed awaits. I’m going walking with ED in the morning. That’ll clear my head and tomorrow I face Mr X and tell him I’m leaving him. Bye bye Mr X. Bye bye.

The next day...

8.30am. ED’s outside the door with her two dogs. She’s dragging me up Runyon. She’s lithe, fit and beautiful with two big dogs. This should be interesting.

We get to Runyon, I can’t help but notice people deliberately steering their dogs in our direction. She was skipping along while I, on the other hand, was sweating. Sweating like a dawg. But, the dogs themselves seemed fine. Nothing wrong with them. We went down the hill and then ED knew this ‘shortcut’. It involved a sheer rock face and we ended up pushing the dogs over the rock. I had to scramble. Not dignified. ED gleamed as she skipped up the hill while I felt distinctly sweaty. Ew.

We make it home and now… now I’m nervous. Not long before I set out and see Mr X. We’re meeting at 1pm. At the house. A fifty mile trip there to tell him I don’t want to be with him anymore. It’s been FOUR months. That’s it. Seems longer. I think I'm going to be sick.

I take the slightly longer route to Mr X’s. Las Virgines. Love that road. I feel slightly sick.

I arrive at Mr X’s – he’s on the phone. I decide to retry calling Spike TV. I go outside as he’s on the phone and sit in the sun. Mr X calls me in.

“What’s going on?”

Er. Nothing.

He sits down, we have some general chitchat and then…

“Noam… do you want to go to Pittsburgh?”

me: “No. Pittsburgh’s not my dream.”

Mr X: “Good.”

So. That’s that. It’s over. We talk. He decides to tell me that I’m not a good assistant. I’m too over qualified. Everyone has been telling him that, while I’m nice, I don’t want to be an assistant. They ‘could all tell’. Apparently it was obvious to everyone. The thing is I really wanted this to work out. I like him. I really do. As a person. His talent is immense. His vision is incredible. I believe in him. I do. But I've really struggled just getting straight off a plane and into this world. I feel I've failed and I have nothing left to give. I know, deep down, I really didn't try this last month. I did, let's say 100% but this job needs %120. That extra mile.

The problem is that when I arrived in LA, I knew no one so was happy to turn my life and my will over to the power of Mr X. But, four months in, I've begun to get my own social life and am on a different path. One that doesn't want to go to Pittsburgh.

We decide that it’s over. I’m off. I don’t have to do this anymore. He says that I can have til the end of the week but I’m not working for him anymore. In fact, he wants me out of the house straight away. Just out of his sight. He's disappointed in me. I can see that. And I'm really sad now. Maybe I should have stayed. Maybe I should have worked this out and seen it through.

So… by 1.20pm I’m released from duty. Free. Naturally he had a few things to say – that I didn’t do things immediately - I really did. I really did. That things weren’t done fast enough. That I should have gone to South Bay that evening the moment he said go pick up his notepad. So… now I see my error while working for Mr X. I can't be a robot with no life, someone who wants to live and breathe the business while being his slave. Not me. No thanks.

He started comparing me to Ms J and that’s when I really felt sick inside – talking about Ms J’s enthusiasm and her drive. Thing is, Ms J’s been doing this ten years, this is her life. It’s not mine. She knows what to expect and where things can go. I just feel too old right now. Useless. Mr X starts telling me about how Ms J maintained her enthusiasm, even at 4.30am. While me? I was tired. I was a no-show.

Is it really meant to be this hard? Really? Truly? Are all assistants meant to be run ragged? Leaving them with no feeling of self worth?

By 1.45 I’m back on the PCH heading home. I’ve never felt such liberation. Maybe after school, perhaps? When it was all over. I felt free then too. And a bit teary. But right now, I’ve never felt so free. I’m just past Zuma and on the phone to MK when I consider exactly what I’ve done. What the fuck have I done? I pull over to look at the sea.

“I’m FREE! FREE!”

So now what? That’s the problem. I have nothing set up. No life. No scripts. No nothing. I’m stuffed. I’m working for the Telegraph though, still, as their interim LA/West Coast correspondent. Still.. I’m a bit scared.

No. More. Mr X.

No more tenderwipes, no more zuma, no more shouting, no more drama, no more failure, no more verizon, no more blackberry, no more texts and emails at 6am or 1am, no more studio, no more yoga, no more spruzzo, no more ex-wife, no more girlfriend, no more BLS, no more diva, no more executives, no more housekeeper, no more pool man, no more gardener, no more broadbeach, no more hows, no more bk, no more Mr H, no more film, no more km, no more me, no more DTV, no more UFC, no more MMA, no more TR, no more PR, no more mexico, no more FG, no more cigars, no more vitamins, no more Malibu vitamin barn, no more drafts, no more shooting schedules, no more ADs, no more line producers, no more parking issues, no 100 round trips, no more pay packets, no more finance departments, no more VV, no more paramount, no more BMW, no more oil changes, no more tension, NO MORE MR X!!!!

I’m absolutely terrified.

I drive back a scenic route. I just don’t know what to do with my life now.

I’m in the palisades and stop in at a shop. Can’t buy a thing as I have no money but I look.

I’m due to be a press junket now. So I race across Hollywood and check into the hotel. Valet. Race upstairs.

Wrong hotel. I should be at Hollywood and Highland not La Cienega and Beverly. Doh. It’s the junket and there’s a dinner later that evening. I register and then head to the internet café. I’ve got work to do for the Telegraph. A bunch of writing and I have to get online.

At 6.30 I’m at the mandatory dinner. My head’s not there. Having just quit my job I just can’t handle it. I listen to the speeches, say hello to TB from London and then, bump into my old friend from Mexico, EM and then… I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.

My head. My head is fucked.

I meet up with the Brits over in West Hollywood. I’m scared. But PMc introduces me to a few people – perhaps they can help me. I go to dinner and wonder just what’s going on here. I need to write. That’s what I need to do. But I need to eat. I really need money. And I need a home. REALLY need a home.

I go home elated yet deflated. For the first time I’ve been to LA I can turn my blackberry off now.

Shit. The Blackberry. I've got to give it back.

What have I done? What am I doing?

I've not been this scared about my future for a while. I've always had a plan. Always. And now? A leap into the unknown and I'm terrified.

The one after I got shot...

I haven't moved into my new home yet... you know, the place where I got shot. The Palazzo. Now. The Palazzo. They're being awful. So so so unhelpful. I drove back there and no one even knew I'd been shot. The manager didn't know. The security didn't know. I went back there to find out what was going on. I have to say I was a bit shaky but... well... what to do eh? Just move on with your life.

Still no drugs. I don't know what to do. I have a bullet in my back still as I don't know if I can get it out with my insurance. Thing is. I'm not a bloody rapper. I don't need metal in me to be someone... I want it out. OUT I tell you. But I have no idea what to do.

Lisa in London came up with some nicknames for me in the meantime: Jew-Pac, 50 Shekel, Jam Master J-Date, Ol' Dirty Bagel. Hmmm. Again. I'm not a rapper. I don't need a bullet floating around in my back to make it in my crew. But, I appreciate the names and start calling myself Jew-Pac. It's sort of catching on.

I bumped into my 'friend', who was horrific. I think he thinks I've done this all for attention. yep. Like I went out in West Hollywood to just get shot. Sure. That's normal. Jesus. He told me I wasn't in 'the solution' and got really angry with me. I burst into tears. I'm in a lot of pain and have this thing in my back... Thing. You know. Bullet. One of them. Thankfully my friend's friend Lisa gave me her doctor's number. I went back to Judy's and called the Doctor who put me in touch with the surgeon. His name? A piece of genius this... Dr Moses... Fallas. Only I could get a Fallas as a doctor.

Then it's on the phone to the insurance company in England again to sort this all out and get it all approved. We arrange surgery, I get some vicodin and... I'm booked in for surgery the following day.

Vicodin. Incidentally. Shit. I thought it would be more fun. I want some more. Good thing I gave the packet to someone else to dispense really. But... seriously. I thought they would do more... Very disappointed.

SURGERY

This is my first general anaesthetic. I'm going to go under for two hours but first... the insurance isn't coming through. This is a disaster. I have to pay. It's thousands. I argue and argue and argue. Finally. They agree. My operation is in half an hour. Just as I'm getting changed and prepped... it's the blackberry.

Mr X.

Mr X is not happy.

"Noam... your work has been slipping this week. Why isn't my heater fixed in the pool? What's going on NOAM? This isn't good enough."

Yep. He's really not happy.

I try and explain. You know. I've been shot. IBS as it must be called from now on. But he's not interested. He's got his shit. "Where's the meeting tomorrow?" I don't know. I'm getting whoozy. "What's going on Noam?" I really don't know. I feel like passing out. I'm pretty sure he knew I was getting surgery today but he's convinced I was shot with a BB gun and think I'm being a pussy. Well, it wasn't with a BB gun and the police are investigating this for attempted murder... I'm a little freaked out.

He gets off the phone and I call someone else and cry. The doctors are trying to remove my blackberry from my hand but I won't let it go. I call Ms J, who works for Mr X's brother and Ms S, the housekeeper, and as them to have a quiet word... I'm just a bit under the weather at the moment. You know. I've been shot. IBS. IBS.

I call Christian, the pool guy, about the heater. Again. He says he'll deal with it. I'm grateful. And now... the doctor has removed my blackberry... they're trying to put me under now. I'm freaking out... But the blackberry... the blackberry...

I don't remember much more.

A few hours later

I'm coming round now. That was good. I just passed out.

I have more stitches now. And no bullet. The police took that for evidence and I have no idea where it's gone. I wanted that bullet. BUT.... nope. It's gone.

Judy comes to pick me up. I'm so whoozy. I don't really know what's going on. I check the blackberry. A missed call from Mr X.

I get given some vicodin a few hours later. That night was a bit of a blur.

The day after the day after I got shot

So... now I'm moving into the place I got shot outside. Good. Great. But... it's my own place for a month. Shame I can't use the gym or anything - what with the old seeping wound and that. Nice.

My friend Dawn meets up with me and takes me to get my nails done. Her treat. Nice. A bit of pampering. Sitting in the chair with the vibrate back thing was probably, in hindsight, a mistake... but ... no stitches burst and my nails look good.

Back home and Roof's round to take the last of his stuff. And... he's gone. I go to bed. I'm due at Mr X's to do some work in the morning. The blackberry's not really stopped. Course not. I mean. Really. Why would it? I've only been shot with a .22. Not a 'proper' gun but... for the record... it was scary. I didn't like it. And the bullet was still metal with a sharpened bit at the end. Hardly something to ignore. It wasn't some kind of pansy pellet. People have been a bit dismissive... they thought I was shot with a shot gun or something. No. Sorry to disappoint. And thank god!

The day after the day after the day after IBS...

I've been running around for Mr X. And... then I get to the Malibu County Market and I got accosted in the carpark by some wannabe. Brilliant.

Now this was ridiculous. I thought I’d burst my stitches while on the drive to Malibu. So… I stopped at the CVS on the PCH by Malibu and bought some plasters. I was taping up the wound and this guy went ‘you got it’. Was he a handsome stud? No. A middle-aged podgy man with a comb over. “Thanks” I replied. Mustering up some dignity despite having displayed my backfat to all and sundry there… He didn’t move away so I gave him my line of the year: “I’ve been shot”. And then told him the story… He was shocked.

He asked me what I was doing in LA. I told him about working for a director. Before you knew it he said: “oh? Really? I have some headshots in the car. Is there a project he’s working on that he’s casting right now.” Dude. Seriously? I just told you I got shot and now you’re pitching your sorry fat arse to me. Fuck. Off. I was stunned. Apparently that’s the way of LA. But. Really? You think you’re going to get a part in a film by talking to a girl in a car park? Fucking loser. I deflected him and got in my car and headed back to LA.

I went to the Grove... and decided to do some shopping. I thought that might cheer me up. I've been feeling a bit, well, down... You know. IBS and all. So I found this dream dress. I mean it's just perfect and I hate shopping. It was reduced from $250 to around $80. Whil I was paying for the dream dress this woman appeared out of no where.

“Do you remember me?” Hard to know really. I meet a lot of people. Turns out she was the nurse that put me under a few days ago at the surgery. Perfect. I showed her my stitches… Poor thing. There she was buying a dress for a party and there was me exposing my back fat. Seems the stitches are healing nicely. Always good to know. Even though they are UGLY...

Back at the ranch, Ms J came round and we came up with a film idea. Good. Finally. Something creative for me to sink my teeth into rather than all the food I've been eating recently. Seriously, giving up smoking as led to a HUGE appetite.

After Ms J left, it was a case of some skyping with Tash in London and then bed. I'm still oozing a bit and can't have a bath yet... Nice.

The one where I spend a few days at Mr X's in Zuma

Tam is still sleeping... and I'm up. It's 6.30am. 7am. 7.30am. I decide to walk on the beach as Tamara and I have Mr X's place for a few days. We're taking a break while he's away. It's a beautiful morning. I've not been this happy in a while. Then... I get a call.

Panic. Is it Mr X? Please don't be Mr X. Please. I know it's my job but please.... I glance down at the phone...

It's only Tamara. "Where am I?" She comes down and joins me as we walk along the beach... Bliss. We're the only people on the beach as we enjoy the early morning.

We spend most of the day eating, the pool's freezing but we decide to jump in. I'm so cold I go on the trampoline to warm up. Tamara, meanwhile is in a wet suit in the pool (yes, it is that cold). So while I'm bouncing and she's swimming... in come the pool men. Boing. Boing. I don't know who's more embarrassed. I think it's me.

Turns out the fuse box is needed to fix the pool. We look for it but nothing so I call the landlady who screams at me for disturbing her. "Sort it out, you're the assistant...," is her scream.
Jesus. I don’t know where the fusebox is. How am I meant to know? I was sorting it out. Hence calling her. But... no joy.

Tamara, thank god, can cook and she whips up salmon, cauliflower cheese, cabbage, carrots and sweet potato mash. I decide, post food, to take another walk along the beach. I try running. Whof. Out of shape. Really out of shape. I think the pumpkin pie didn't help my cause.

Early to bed tonight.

THE NEXT DAY

Up. Breakfast. Starbucks. Then... Ms S turns up. Mr X's housekeeper and I get the riot act about Mr X. How he's going to let me down... the full works AND she's highly suspicious that we're both staying there. She doesn't trust me one bit! But she's been with him for years and loves him dearly (everyone who works with him is amazingly loyal - he inspires incredible loyalty from everyone around him) and I'm just some newcomer in his life. Ha. I think. I'll be sticking around lady so you'd better get used to me. That's what I thought anyway...

I escape Zuma for a while and go shooting with Mr B, Patrick and Ms J. Randomly, well, not that random, Jack Osbourne's there too. He's a friend of Mr B's and has a big gun. Shooting was fantastic. I'm a good shot. The kickback is incredible. I mean, you think you know what to expect and bam, it hits you in the chest.

Next time I go, however, I'm wearing a poloneck. The bullets kept jumping out of the gun, I mean, sorry, the SHELLS and flying down my cleavage. Great. Good. I'm covered with burn marks above my chest. Not pleasant at all. But Mr B thinks it's funny. He's not seen this happen before. And he's been shooting a while. Thank god he was so patient.

Then it was time for my first ever target thing and I was goooooood. It felt gooooood. It's loud as hell though. I really enjoyed my first time at a shooting range and then... it was back to Zuma. Tam’s got cabin fever. We need to leave Zuma again - but where to go?

So... we drive to Mr J’s and go to the world's dodgiest bar. It's so the other side of town. Somewhere on Vineland. I don't even know. I just know that it's around 44 miles away. The bar's fun. There's line dancing and the works. We're the only people there under 40, apart from Toni, the waitress. The reason why I call this bar dodgy? It has a racist statue for a start...(see below). Anyway, we play darts. I'm rubbish. Then Mr J and Ms L get stuck into the line dancing... I'm still looking at the statue (see below).


Jeremy joins us and I leave the bar at 1.30am. It's a 44 mile trip back to Zuma. Aaaargh. By 2.30am Tam and Jeremy turned up... 16 Candles on the big screen before passing out on the sofa.

I might be staying at Mr X's but there's no way I'm sleeping in his bed. Wrong. Very wrong.

Tamara goes back to Jesse's the next day and I'm alone in Zuma. A friend turned up. He freaked me out turning up at 10.30pm. He left quite swiftly but I hardly slept that night.... I think Zuma on my own is not a good idea. No matter how idyllic. Still, it's all over soon, Mr X's back tomorrow which means nose + grindstone. Or... do my job. That's what I'm paid to do. This is Hollywood - I have to remember that.

Bliss while it lasted though...