Hollywood Ass. Read Free

lunchtime,” I said and switched on the espresso machine.
    Beautiful dark java slipped out into my cup and I looked at my phone again, expecting Julianne to call at any minute, wanting to discuss the damage or chat to B . On my employers behalf, I had become a filter when it came to unwanted calls and most people knew there was no point in calling her directly, which made my phone vibrate more than a nymphomaniac’s sex toy. I was okay with it and according to a test I did many years ago, I have a really high stress tolerance, a requirement for anyone working in the insane entertainment business.
    I managed to just about finish my morning shot before I heard her cracked voice calling me, like a crying child begging my name. I took a deep breath and headed out to the pool.
    “How are we doing today?” I said, feeling like a caretaker in an insane asylum.
    “I’m feeling great, full of energy and ready to take on the world, what do you think?” B said, sarcastically. We had thankfully progressed beyond the polite in our communication. Now we were more like an old married couple.
    “I hear you. So...I expect Julianne to call any minute you know. You feel like taking that or?”
    “I’ve got nothing to say to her. I know she’s great at turning things around, but right now my world is pretty much painted black as you can understand. I of course knew that things weren’t great, but this bad? I mean, Charlie Sheen is probably rubbing his hands somewhere.”
    I sat down next to her and put my hand on her shoulder, “I know it’s shitty and I’m not going to give you some bullshit cliché to feel better, but I just want to say that when you’ve hit rock bottom there’s only one way and that’s up.”
    “You’re such a fucking Teletubby sometimes, Darryl, but I still love you,” she said giving me a rare smile. Not rare when judging by how she normally was, but sadly seldom those last few months.
    I returned her smile and gave her some good advice: “I don't think it's such a great idea for you to lay in the sun and drink smoothie cocktails when you're hung-over. What do you say I have Jorge fix you a nice lunch and then we'll go for a drive or something? How does that sound?” Our drives and walks usually made her feel better and somewhere deep down I hoped even such a disappointing situation could be remedied by exercise and good company.
    “Okay,” she said, “I’ll have the one Fredric is preparing and then I’ll take a shower. Deal?”
    “Deal. But no alcohol this time, just a regular smoothie, okay?”
    “Mhmm,” she mumbled like a kid refused her candy.
    I went back to the kitchen to check on Fredric, who was struggling with the mixer. Fredric had green hands and knew styling and make-up like it came in his breast-milk, but couldn't tell the stove from the fridge, so I helped him by clicking on the wall-switch.
    “She's really off the tracks, isn't she?” Fredric said above the mixer noise and gave me a concerned look.
    “Yes, it’s bad. We need to do something, but I don’t know what.”
    “Why can't we call AA? Or a psychologist? We need an intervention!” Fredric’s voice traveled up to a pitch I thought wasn’t known to man, at least a man. I think part of him got really excited about the drama B ’s life provided. After four years together, I wasn’t excited by it, just worried.
    “I don't know. We’ve tried to talk her into therapy, counseling, even some holistic stuff, but she’s not budging. This goes deep and if she’s not seeing it as a problem herself, then we can’t force her to do anything.”
    Fredric poured the thick green mixer liquid into a glass and said, “Can we at least get her to drink some water and do a facial? If she keeps this up her skin will be hosting next months blackheads-fest.”
    He was right. B ’s star glow had been hijacked by the evil Dr. Vodka and his mischievous cousin Deep Depression and we needed to guide her towards a better, brighter