Not-So-Happy Hour

The "farewell drink" with the British star that almost got me fired from my PA job...

It was my first Hollywood job. And like most everyone else in Hollywood, I got it through nepotism. My cousin wrote a movie and “asked” the producers if they’d hire me on as a PA. Visions danced in my head of hobnobbing with the stars, making valuable contributions to the production and a network of contacts that would have me established as a screenwriter in no time.

The reality was a little different. Most of my job consisted of driving our cast around. For some reason there were several actors on our production that either didn’t know how to or didn’t feel like driving. And it was far cheaper to have me do it than a highly paid Teamster. Besides, they were all busy napping in their trucks.

One of the guys I drove a lot was a mid-level British celebrity. I guess this guy didn’t know a lot of people in LA because he kept asking me to score him weed. If I could do that, I wouldn’t be driving him around. He also kept inviting me to do things with him. I didn’t know if he was lonely, gay, or both.

His last day of work, I drove him back to his hotel. He asked me in to have a farewell drink. I told him I had to get back to the office. “Come on, mate. It’s me final day. One drink.” I gave in. He tried to get me up to his room, but I wasn’t going to fall for that again. We walked into the Wyndham bar, sat down, and toasted the movie. He said he’d miss LA, but rambled on about getting back to London, eating curry, and not brushing his teeth again. I finished off my drink and got up to go.

“No, mate. Have another. I’m back to ol’ Blighty tomorrow.”

“I really can’t. They’re going to get mad at me.”

“No they won’t,” he muttered. “You’re with talent.”

Using the word “talent” to describe this guy was a bit like calling a stripper a “dancer.” It was technically correct, but not really accurate. But I couldn’t argue with his logic. So I had another drink. And another.

And another.

We’d gotten there at noon and it was now four o’clock. My cell phone kept going off, but I ignored it. Finally, I remembered that I was supposed to be working, so I got the hell out of there.

Back at the production office, everyone was furious at me. My boss and her boss, the Unit Production Manager, wondered where the hell I had been. Drunk and confused, I stammered something about the hotel valet-parking my car despite me telling them to keep it out front. Soon, this spiraled into an elaborate tale of refusing to pay for the valet charge on principle and getting into a heated argument that involved the valet, the hotel manager, and the police. I got myself so worked up, I was almost started to believe it happened.

“What was the valet charge?” the UPM asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. Then I realized that wasn’t a good answer. “I told them I didn’t even want to hear it. I wasn’t paying. And I didn’t!”

For some reason they believed me. Or maybe they just didn’t have anybody else to go down to Costco to pick up 30 cases of Snapple for Iggy Pop.