I was hired around the same time my mother was inaugurated so name recognition was at a crescendo. Alan Shiro was already a giant in the industry so I was caught off guard when he offered to give me the key to a back door entrance so I didn’t have to slink by the paparazzi staked out at the front door every day after hearing of my hire. He even offered to send his personal driver to my apartment each morning so I could skip the subway. I remember thinking at the time that he didn’t have a clue what he was suggesting. Did he really think shuttling the ass of the twenty-four-year-old newbie in the company limo would go over well?
I kindly, but firmly rejected all his offers and even had my dad call him personally to ask him to back off. Alan is a good man, but I know he was angling to watch his stock rise by employing the daughter of the vice president. In the end, he had the most successful business in town, with the most exciting up and coming writers to preview, and it just worked. I’m always granted first glance at the new manuscripts that come in and usually have the final say before Alan or one of his partners signs off on a contract. It’s a small but satisfying sense of purpose that I have grown to really appreciate. It makes me so proud when a nondescript author surfaces on my watch and becomes a star. It’s almost like I had a hand in molding the future of a perfect stranger.
I really do love my job. It’s just me and my manuscript, and when it’s a story worth telling I can kick back and read it all day long. And, of course, get paid for my bliss.
Does it get better than that?
When I left a voicemail for Alan, I explained I’d be away from the office for awhile, but I’d finish proofing and editing and email in any changes directly to the authors. He quickly texted me back saying no problem, take as long as I need, and call him if I need anything from him.
See? Job stress is definitely something I don’t pretend to deal with.
It’s almost like God said, “Let’s give her the office with the view and the famous family, but make her path cross directly into a giant pile of dog shit.”
Best of all, let’s name that dog Cancer.
I have a small window to book my flight before my mother becomes aware of my airline transaction. We are supposed to alert Secret Service whenever we travel on commercial planes, trains, etc. My brother gets a pass on this because he generally flies charter to and from his games. Kelby follows the rules, but does so grudgingly because it’s just another step in the process and any extra work pisses her off. When I book my ticket, I’ll use a fake name but I’ll have to charge it to my real credit card and it will only be a matter of time before the numbers ping the watchers in Washington. I’ve learned that it can take up to twenty-four hours for the transaction to process so I will wait until the absolute last minute to pull the trigger. That way, I’ll already be in the air when my mother gets the alert that one of her chicks has flown the coop. As soon as we land and we’re allowed to turn on our electronic devices, mine will be screaming at me all the way from the White House.
The whole notification of movement thing can be such a bitch. I’ve left a message for Lauren letting her know I’m on my way.
She puts in super long days on the set so I know she won’t get back to me for several hours, factoring in the time difference. I will be on my own getting to her house; she can’t just skip out of work to meet me at the airport.
I arrange to rent a car at LAX, again using my fake name but my real credit card, another security alert that will take my mother from zero to ten in a heartbeat. I do believe, however, that once I drop the C-word, my travel transgressions will be forgiven.
Part of me feels a twinge of guilt that I’m about to disrupt Lauren’s world with my big announcement. I can almost see her happy grin slowly slip downward until her chin trembles and she struggles to keep it together because she will want to be strong for me. I absolutely despise having to do this to the people who love me. Watching their faces go from concern to dread to fear and then struggle to climb back up to the surface. What I would really like to do is keep this little secret all tied up inside and put the next year on fast forward just like my TiVo. Skip right through the battle scene and pick it back up at the victory party.
I punch in my credit card information, hit confirm, then print out my itinerary and shut down my laptop. Flight is booked for Friday morning leaving JFK at 9:45. I will only fly direct flights, especially anything over two hours. I also splurged and booked myself into first class, where the seats are bigger and I can help myself to some sweet bubbly to pass the time and quell my nerves.
Honestly, I can’t stand flying. I feel every little bump, every drop in altitude, every punch of power when the engines accelerate. I can never fall asleep, can’t focus on a book, and anxiously await the pilot’s voice booming through the cabin when we reach our cruising altitude. I need to hear his voice telling me he’s doing just fine, we’re not going down, and he’s got it all under control.
Even on those rare occasions when I’ve been onboard Air Force One with my mother, I still need to have confirmation from the pilot that all is well at the front of the plane. If I don’t hear from the pilot, I swivel frantically in my seat looking for the flight attendants to pop up and begin hoisting their drink carts down the aisle. That’s another signal to me that everything’s okay.
Of course, these days I also find myself scanning the faces of my fellow passengers. I’m looking for potential terrorists and for the thick-muscled men who will jump up and take back our plane if they dare pull out a box cutter or begin muttering under their breath about impending jihad.
It takes a lot of energy for me to get through a flight, and I always end up with a raging migraine once I finally get off the plane. I remind myself to pack some aspirin. As I head to my closet to pull out my suitcase, my cell buzzes from my kitchen counter. It’s my “government issued” phone, so I hustle over without hesitation to see who is calling. Just like Pavlov’s dog, this is how well we’ve been trained. I feel a moment of relief when I notice it’s not my mother’s line or my father’s, but then tense right back up when I recognize the number as Kelby’s. Because she’s calling on this line I feel like I have to pick up, even though she’s burned me before with phony private line calls that are supposed to be strictly reserved for family emergencies. Kelby’s “emergencies” have included a broken zipper on her favorite jeans, and a less than flattering write-up on Perez Hilton’s website.
Why do I trust this time will be any different? I pick up the phone and give her a quick hello.
“El-La, where in the frickin’ world have you been?” she shrieks at me. “You’ve left me with no choice but to call you on this stupid line because I knew you’d pick up.”
I think I hear panic in her voice, but I can’t quite tell yet if it’s real panic, or just Kelby panic.
“Hey, Kel, been busy, what’s up?” I keep my tone light but firm to discourage any dramatic prelude leading up to the purpose of her call.
“Seriously?” she begins. “Seriously, El-La?” Kelby tends to separate my name into two syllables when she’s got a bone to pick. “You are sooooo inconsiderate to not even think for a moment that I might neeeeed you,” she whines, stretching out every other word like an immature brat who thinks the world has just let her down again. My fault for indulging her for far too long, yet I step right back into the role of her personal enabler. I curse myself for having a weak moment and actually answering her call. I try to maintain my patience as I ask her what’s wrong.
“Well, Jesus Christ, El-La, what do you think is wrong?” I shuffle through a mental list of the possible disasters that have just unfolded and I zero in on something I suspect might be spinning her out of control.
“Uh,” I start, “is it your dress for the state dinner?”
I hope I got it in one guess because I think I can disentangle from this conversation fairly easily. The dinner is still over two months away but Kelby’s wardrobe selection process is already well