Always Carry a Wardrobe Change

"Thanks," I say, as he bows and sits back down, next to his shopping cart, whistling "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain."  

I look at the bottom of my right shoe; there's a thick smear of (let's hope it's) dog poo layering my beautiful wedge. With a little time and obsessive scraping with a pen I found on the ground, most of the poo seems to vanish (at least I hope it does), and I'm power-walking to my rental car to meet up with Mr. Film Industry man- key to my future. 

After a half hour of swerving, gagging, and sweating through the highway, I park in a lot where I could probably get towed. As I exit my car and walk through the parking garage, my stretchy jeans glue to my sticky, hot legs, while sweat trickles down my spine and across the bottom of my feet, making my wedge heels suddenly feel like I'm trying to walk barefoot on icicle stilts. Between pulling up my jeans, using my right hand to keep the buttons in the back of my shirt from unhooking, rubbing my poo shoe against the ground, and trying not to fall down, I wonder how I've made it this far.

I make momentary peace with my outfit, and look around the converted warehouse. The website made this marketplace look really charming. I pictured it to be full of barrels of fresh dates, and old Jewish ladies wearing kerchiefs on their heads, selling rugelach in threes; a hidden cheap escape from the usual overpriced, trendy boutique LA restaurants. Apparently this is not the case; this marketplace is just smaller, kiosk versions of said restaurants pressed next to each other, dispersed intermittently with fish stands.  

After purchasing an egg sandwich and a teaspoon of 6 dollar orange juice, I find the coffee shop where Mr. Film Industry man, who's actual name I suddenly realize I can't remember (fuck) told me to meet him. I stand in the back of the line, behind a girl slightly shorter than me, with a butt thinly veiled with yoga pants that I can't help but stare at.  

She is 50 shades of chemically-induced dark; piercing black hair, dihydroxyacetone skin, false eyelashes. Her default face is pursed lips; as though she's waiting for the moment where a photographer will burst out of the barrel of dates and snap her picture, elevating her to instant fame. She is the type of girl who bleaches her butthole and has an agent. I'm the type that has untamed crotch hair and eats salad with my hands.   

She sees a guy with pink pants and a creamy Ralph Lauren polo and screeches. "Oh my gawd, Bobby! It's been, like, forevs!"

He comes up to her and they give each other a hug that says "It's good to see you, but you might have Ebola."

He puts his hand on his waist. "Oh my god, I know! LOL! How have you been? Did you get that part?" 

"No, but my agent already has something else lined up for me, so I'm like, whatevs."

Just as I'm like whatevs with this conversation, I feel a tap on my shoulder, and I swivel around. 

"Are you June?"