Playing for Julia Read Free Page A

Julia, you look great—really pretty and well-dressed, not like some of those flaky hippie girls.  You might as well start at the Chronicle .  Or the Examiner .  I can ask my boss there for you once I start work.  And there is a weekly shopping paper called the Progress .”
    Ali’s suggestions lift my spirits.
    “And how about Rolling Stone ?  Its offices are here, but it has national distribution.  It’s not just a local magazine.  That could be really neat.”
    “Rock ‘n’ roll?  I don’t know…”  My voice fades.   The image of Mr. Austen Honey-Voice pops into my mind and I dismiss it immediately.  I can’t allow myself to think about him.  I have to focus on landing a job—a real job.  I don’t want to get stuck working as a temp answering phones or filing paperwork in the basement of some dreary insurance company.
    “They do serious articles, too.  And what do you care—you’d be working on the graphics side.  You wouldn’t have to interview crazy musicians or anything like that Tommy Obnoxious.”
    I’m smiling now.  Life looks better.  Ali’s pep talk has worked.

Chapter Three
     
    No and No and No.  The Chronicle , the Examiner and the shoppers’ weekly turn me down cold.  No openings.  None anticipated.
    I decide to walk all the way up to Rolling Stone ’s offices.  On the way I pass a record store and on impulse go in.  I learn from their newest album that Mr. Honey-Voice-and-Black-Hair’s last name is Raneley. Austen Raneley. He writes all the lyrics for their songs and some of the music, too.  He wrote both for “Night Ride”.  Tommy is listed as the vocalist on it. Then I catch myself:  What are you doing, Julia?  You’re acting like a ridiculous teenage groupie. Get out of here. You have to get a job—a real, adult job. Stop wasting your time.
    By two o’clock I walk into Rolling Stone ’s door.  It does not look much different from the TV Weekly offices in Seattle.  Except for the people.
    The receptionist has long wild auburn hair; she is wearing jeans, a lacey blouse and an armful of jangling bracelets.  A couple of guys stand in a hallway off the reception are a, talking.  One in jeans, the other in khaki pants and a long-sleeve blue shirt with a beige folder under his arm.  I see them glance at me.  I feel slightly over-dressed in a short slim black skirt, a pink blouse with the collar turned up and low black heels.
    I explain to the receptionist that I am looking for work doing layout and I have experience.  She smiles a very sweet and understan ding smile and says they are fully staffed right now.  Sorry.  But she will take my resume and they will keep it on file.
    Then I hear one of the guys say:  “She can do layout for me any night of the week.  Little honey in pink and black.”
    I spin around to face him, glaring:  “Drop dead, you stupid jackass.”
    I turn and storm out the door in a fury.  Standing on the sidewalk in front of the building I can feel the adrenaline surging through my blood.  A day of “Nos” and now that stupid idiot—I can’t take any more of this.  I am going to get an espresso at my new favorite coffeehouse. It’s not far away. That’s what I’ll do.  Right now.  It will make me feel better.  I know it will.
    I start walking fa st toward North Beach and about a half a block later I realize that the guy who said ‘Little honey in pink and black’ is walking right beside me, the folder in his hand.  I keep my eyes straight ahead.
    “Hey, Julia. I’m sorry.  I meant it as a compliment.  You’re really cute, you know.”
    I stop, turn and glare at him.  “How do you know my name?”
    “I looked at your resume .” An infectious grin spreads across his face. “Come on.  I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
    I narrow my eyes at him.  People dodge around us as we block the center of the sidewalk.
    “I won’t bite.  Really,” he says.  I don’t move, still glaring at him.
    “My name’s