Except for working at the shop and working for Jose, I've put everything aside since Thursday, to work on Dahlia's script. I have struggled with her bad handwriting, and her too-cryptic messages on my machine. I have ridden buses to meet her at the theater, to pick up pages or notes, and waited in the seats while she dealt with actors and other things instead.
At the end of a pretty good yesterday, I came home to the rez hotel, and typed and typed and typed the script. Then I proofed and proofed and proofed it, decided it was ready to print, and called her with the good news.
She was out, and her roommate was snippy and rude, maybe because I was an unknown gentleman caller on the phone. I explained that Dahlia had hired me to type her script, but it made him no less snippy and rude. I asked him to tell her I'd called, and he said, "I'm unreliable about things like that. You should call back later," and click, he hung up.
OK, fuck you too.
I took the script to a copy shop, and got the twenty copies Dahlia had requested, while mourning the absence of free, easy access to the copiers when I'd worked at Macy's. Imagine the injustice of paying for things!
Finally, with the scripts collated and still warm, ready for delivery, I dialed Dahlia's number again. And again her rude roommate answered.
"Is Dahlia there?"
"Why do you keep calling?"
"Uh, you told me to call back later. You wouldn't take a message. That's why I keep calling. I'd love to stop calling, if you'll take a message this time."
"What's the message?"
"I have twenty copies of Dahlia's script. Tell me when and where to deliver them, please, and she owes me $145."
"OK," he said, unconvincingly. "She won't be in until late tonight, so don't call early tomorrow." Click.
Now it's tomorrow, and I called again at about 8:00. That's not 'early', is it? Her roommate answered, again, and said she was still asleep. "Tell her I called again, please," I said, and went back to packing everything I own into boxes because I'm moving from this rez hotel.
Moving is one of the things I've put on hold to work on the script, so I was getting grumpy.
Called Dahlia again at 10:00 and 11:30, and both times her line was busy. Called again at 12:15, and there was no answer. Checked my messages, and there were two voice mails from Dahlia — from late last night, and again this morning — reminding me I was supposed to call. That means her roommate didn't give her my messages. I called again, maybe two minutes after the call with no answer, and aap aap aap aap — her line is busy.
Damn it, I am tired of this all this. I am tired of these phone calls. I am tired of Dahlia's roommate, tired of Dahlia's script. I turned down other work to work on the script, and now my room is almost fully packed and I'm ready to rent a mover.
I want the script to be done. I want Dahlia's boyfriend to be less of a dick, and Dahlia to turn her answering machine on, or get off the phone so we can talk. I want to punch somebody — definitely Dahlia's boyfriend, and Dahlia herself better be quite polite when I finally find her.
Oh, and if me slugging a lady is an ugly mental image, be advised that Dahlia isn't quite a lady. She does drag, and on stage she's Dahlia and she's a she, but at her day job she's Nathaniel and he's a he. Also, either Dahlia or Nathaniel could easily my ass, so there won't be any real violence, only sweet fantasies in which I'm an overweight Bruce Lee. Wooooooo, oooo wahhhh!
Anyway, Dahlia's been decent to me, and doubtless doesn't deserve the bad vibes I've written here. Her handwriting is awful and she has more important things to do than return my calls or see me when I'm at the theater, but I don't hate her. I just need this to end — twenty copies of the script, out of my hands and into hers.
Two hours later, that's what happened. She has her scripts, and I complained about what an ass her boyfriend was. Most importantly, she paid me, so I'm momentarily rich and all semi-smiles. If she wants any further revisions, though, my answer will be no.
See, doing "anything legal for $5 an hour" means I can be choosy. I don't have to deal with dipshits like Dahlia's roommate, and I don't have to do work that makes me mental.
From Pathetic Life #10
Monday, March 13, 1995
This
is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago,
called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but
might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting
things, so parental guidance is advised.
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