Playing for Julia Read Free

It is big enough for two twin beds—but, of course, there were no beds. We bought mattresses and put them on the floor, then hung a lace curtain on the one window. The bathroom downstairs is really from another planet.  Bright orange tiles half-way up the walls.  Bright orange floral wallpaper the rest of the way to the ceiling.  And a purple shower curtain.  The kitchen has yucky olive green tiles around the sink, one wall painted fire-engine red and a green Formica table with shiny chrome legs. The refrigerator is avocado green.
    I think this strange interior is why the rent is relatively cheap.  Well, cheap enough that we could pay the first month’s rent in cash, which made our Italian landlord, Mr. Bianchi, happy.  He said we could pay the security deposit with our next month’s rent.  What a nice man.
    So , now, here I sit on a dingy dark blue sofa that came with the cottage, waiting for the man to come and install our telephone.  I’ve already unpacked everything I brought with me.  My clothes, my records and record player, some books, a big pillow covered with beautiful Indian fabric I found in an import store near the docks in Seattle.  And, of course, the matchbook.
    When I finally opened it I read:  Lady of the Lake, call me.  Austen.  And a phone number.
    I haven’t called him.  I won’t call him .  I found out when we were looking at a map of San Francisco that Lake Street—where that drunken Tommy said they were living—is a few blocks from here.  Almost every day I catch myself thinking about his honey voice and black hair and his smile.  But I won’t call him.  That’s what silly teenage girls and dumb groupies do.  Not me.  And what if he didn’t remember who I was?  That would be beyond embarrassing.  So I won’t call him—but I don’t seem to be forgetting him either.
    A knock at the door snaps me out of my daydream.  It is the man from the phone company.  Our telephone has finally arrived.
    An hour later Ali , dressed in her blue interview suit, bursts in the front door.  “I got the job!  I got the job.  Thank heavens they need someone at the Examiner .  I’m sure that phone call from my old boss helped.  The receptionist said they get dozens of applications every week, but most of them don’t have any experience.”  She slumps down onto the sofa.  “I start next week.”
    I guess red-haired Audrey was right about how difficult it is to get a job in San Francisco these days. Now I wonder what she had meant by having something for me after I had a place to live and a telephone.
    I find out the next morni ng when I call her.  “Julia Weslan,” she says as if searching through her memory.  “Oh yes, you’re the dark-haired one from Seattle.  You worked for TV Weekly —right?”
    “Yes, that’s me.  I have a phone number now and a permanent address.”  I emphasize ‘permanent’ and give her the number and address.
    “Well, dear, I already filled the job opening I mentioned to you, but I will keep your registration on file, in case something comes up.  Thanks for calling in with your phone number.”
    As I hang up the phone I wonder:  Now what am I going to do?  Maybe Ali has all the luck.
    Ali reads the disappointment on my face.  “No interview?”
    I shake my head.  “She already found someone for the job.”
    “For get that woman and her dyed red hair.  You should do what I did.  Call up the newspapers and magazines directly.  Skip all that employment agency stuff.  You have great experience on a national magazine, for goodness sales.  There’s bound to be a job out there waiting for you.”
    “Not exactly national.  I wor ked on the local editions,” I add, knowing full well that Ali knows this already.  She is just trying to make me feel better.
    She frowns at me for a second and then her face lights up.
    “New idea.  Don’t call.  Take copies of your resume and just walk in the door and apply for a layout job.