Her stage-name was Charlotte Russe, named after the French trifle. She chose the name because it was funny and the director of her first film had about as much culinary knowledge as a pastry bag of Reddi Whip. In a previous life—a life after college but before the, Big Break, she had been a pastry chef—or rather, a pastry chef in training. Before the Big Break she had a house in Berkley, a dog named Chiffon, and a future.
Now she had a film ‘career’ and a stage name.
It was after Charlotte’s first film that she realized she was in the wrong line of work. But now she had an apartment on East 97th in Watts and rent had to be on time. So she stuck around the Industry for about a year before finally having had enough.
Charlotte wasn’t her real name either, but she kept that part of her bizarre new life because she didn’t like looking back at who she had been, before The Industry, before the parties, before everything went to hell—after the Big Break.
She’d left the Industry.
She was unemployed, hard-pressed to find a job for someone with her niche experience, and struggling to make ends meet. She still had rent to worry about—living in LA wasn’t cheap, even in Watts.
Her roommate had landed her this temp job—temp job opportunity. Her roommate had left the card on the bulletin board by the phone of there two-bedroom apartment—pinned it there with the Pikachu pin Charlotte had had since middle school. Her roommate had pinned it and headed out the door to work only to be hit by a bus three blocks from their apartment. She’d made that walk countless times in the past year on her way to the Brew Hause—a hipster dive of overpriced coffee, LA’s attitude condensed down to its purest, most obnoxious form.
Charlotte didn’t see the card until the day after the funeral when she was trying to figure out how she’d be paying for the full rent, plus utilities and if she should try looking for a roommate.
But there was a card, pinned down by Pikachu. Her roommates last wish standing out among the clutter of phone numbers she’d never call—randos in rando bars, the number for a collagen specialist—whatever that was. A recipe from her mother that she would never make. A newspaper clipping for the arrest of a famous Industry actor—apparently his ex-girlfriend was claiming rape. Why had she kept that?
She unpinned the card and eventually found the phone under a pile of bills-yet-to-be paid. She dialed the number. It picked up on the third ring.
“Hello…” the voice on the other end was like the water that melted from a glacier—colder than it had any right to be and Charlotte couldn’t help but shiver.
“Hi,” she said. Why did she feel like a caged animal? This was a job contact. “I’m calling about the job-”
“Computers!” the voice said abruptly.
“What?”
“Can you use a computer?”
She could. She owned a computer. She had an email address and a block list of creeps that she could probably sell for a month worth of rent. She had a smart phone. But the question suggested more than that, yet was also so vague.
“Yes,” she said, unsure if she was telling a lie.
“Four-Thirty, today, 666 Lone Tree Way, Brentwood. Don’t be late.”
The line went dead.
She had a job—job interview.