Studio Temp in the Devil's Castle

Temp

Definition: a noun - a temporary or contract employee (usually in an office). Temps receive fewer benefits than other employees.

I loved being the "noun" described above. As a former temp at a well-known Hollywood studio, my experiences ranged from slacker-status to high-stressed mania, all in the company of some of the most ego-centric executives you have and will ever meet. 

My favorite experience happens to be one of my most traumatic. I remember the phone call, "Stephanie, we know you are the best temp on the Lot, but this job might be a little...well...difficult." Whatevs. I can handle anything, but I started to worry when the head of Human Resources gave me her personal cell phone number as a "call me at ANY time if things get tough." Who was this guy? The Godfather? Close enough. He was the dictator of one of the most fruitful divisions of the studio. His name was known by everyone, except by me. When the temp agency told me his name, I naively asked "Who's that?" Ignorance is bliss, but after this experience, I beg to differ.

I dressed in my Sunday best and walked in with my head high, shoulders back, and lips pursed sternly giving off an air of confidence as I entered the old Hollywood executive building. You know, the one's you see in all the movies? The infamous building where 1950s movie stars apparently had affairs with the head honcho back in the glory days of Hollywood. I was enthused! How amazing! So close, yet so far from fame.

I walked into the oppressive office expecting to see Mr. Hitler himself, but no one was there. Hmm...perfect time to snoop. Everything was leather clad, mahogany hued and delicately touched with green velvet. The grand appearance was stuffy and expected to make you feel intimidated. The vibe was so thick, you could churn the air with a wooden spoon-the only way Hollywood would have it.

I glanced around the shark's office seeking out something, anything redeeming. Innocent 'til proven guilty, unless you are German and then its the opposite. There it was, the light at the end of the tunnel - pictures of his family. Awww, he's a family man! I was so excited he was someone human, that I called my mom at work to let her know I thought this might be the key to his soft side; family. "Human" resources just hadn't gotten to know this person's pillsbury doughboy soft side.

I peeked into his private headquarters and photos of his teenaged daughter, his two infant children and his young blond wife, obviously his second marriage (a Hollywood law) caught my attention. I turned to my right, and I saw even more pictures, and before I knew it my glance in every direction focused on picture after picture after...uh oh. Re-wind. This guy was a work-a-holic and needed pictures to remind him of what his family looked like, because he was never around to grace them with his Stalin-like presence. In my opinion, lucky wifey-poo and kids. This all meant, he was miserable and I was now screwed.

I glanced at his over-booked schedule only to be satisfyingly relieved that he was in New York for the "Diablo Wears Armani" premiere and then he was off in a couple of days to TomKats wedding. Wow. This guy was bigger than I thought. My only task that day was to call his cell to give him his schedule. Easy enough, yet still rather intimidating. I shakingly dialed his digits and was answered, after a short ring, with a brash "WHAT!" on the other end of the line. "Uh...hi, I am your assistant today and I just wanted to introduce myself." He seemed disinterested as I was merely a flea on the ground, so I skipped the introduction and headed straight for the goods. He then asked me to patch him into human resources and I immediately figured I was fired for not pronouncing "schedule" properly. By accident, I stayed on the line and listened in, ok not by accident. I was curious. I overheard him say "this new girl seems ok, why don't we hire her?" and the HR rep didn't miss a beat when answering "Sir, we have someone else more suitable in mind." More suitable! What am I, chopped liver? I was livid! I wanted to pipe in and announce my heroic 80 words per minute typing skills, damn it! I just wanted to have the opportunity to work for the gestapo if I so desired.

Then, the horrific moment came. The moment when I realized his assistant, who was obviously being replaced for a reason, forgot to leave me the password to the computer. The computer which housed his entire rolodex with every Hollywood celebs personal cell number. A gold mine for a stalker. HR didn't even do a background check on me. Scary. Lets hope Prison Break Anonymous didn't get the temping memo.

I called Miss ASSistant and I was furious. She didn't answer. F*%$! What if he calls for some Hollywood big-wigs number? I calmed myself down saying "he won't, he's sitting with the Devil as we speak." Then, the phone rang and up popped his call-display. Oh God. OH GOD! "Mr. Swimming with Shark's office, this is Stephanie?" I perkily squealed. "Get me Martin Scorsese!" the Devil squaked. OH MY GOD! There it was. The exact moment I had been dreading. What? Martin? THE Martin Scorsese? Zero access to his rolodex meant zero tolerance by the Chinese water torturer. I assertively stood my ground and told Mr. Great-White, "I'm sorry, your assistant didn't leave me the password to your rolodex, but if you have an extra copy somewhere..." I was curtly interrupted with "F*#&$$* then call Martin Scorsese yourself and tell him I'm going to be late!!!" SLAM goes the phone and I colapse in desperate frustration. Call Martin Scorsese myself?! Who has his number? Do I dial 411? Do I call the HR reps cell? I call my mother. Logical, right? Seeing as I am not part of Hollwood's club of nepotism, I'm not calling her for Scorsese's digits, but she was and still is my current 911 speed dial operator who happens to have all the answers no matter how paranoid mothers can be. She'll know what to do. She just said "oh well, what can you do?" I laughed. Its true "oh well" is the optimistic mind frame a buddhist would have taken, but I was not a buddhist, I was a temp so it was perfectly acceptable to carry-out the anxious drama and glass half empty mind-set in this particular situation.

Buddhism aside, I was entering the danger zone within the Top Gun's office. The phone rings again and its his incompetent assistant. I tell her the problem and she's silent, says nothing. Her heart probably stopped, as did mine! I finally get into the rolodex with her missing password and dial Mr. Scorsese's number. I anxiously await his answer only to get his assistant. Slightly relieved, I leave the "late" message and breathe a sigh of relief.

The phone rings again and its Joaquin Phoenix. Yes. YES! The only moment in my life where I thought "I love Hollywood!" We actually chatted a bit...well...I told him Mr. Hammer-Head wasn't there and he said "thank you." As far as I'm concerned, he and I are now BFFs.

To add insult to embarrassing injury, I really needed to use the bathroom, badly. I drank too much diet coke out of nervous infused energy that somehow didn't allow me to run down the hall fast enough, so I decided to use Shark's private bathroom. Not really allowed, but I was already in his bad books, so in the words of Juno, how many more shenanigans could I possibly get into?

The toilet wouldn't flush. WOULD NOT FLUSH. It was broken? Oh Lord. I frantically fiddle with the flusher, open up the top portion of the toilet only to find...well...nothing I could fix. DOOMED!! I call my mother, again, out of panicked desperation. How was she going to help me all the way from Canada? If he found out I used his PRIVATE bathroom, "off with her head!" I call my mother every five minutes to give her the toilet update. This guy was full of crap anyway, so it was perfectly fitting that the toilet would break. I decided to go to the fridge to look for comfort food, but as soon as I opened the fridge, the door falls off. What is happening?! The negative energy is causing a massive influx of break-down central. Alice ain't in Wonderland anymore. Wow. Gotta get out of here. What's next, peeps?

OH, Mr. Shark Tooth decided to head home early from the Big Apple and jet into the toilet-plugged, fridge-broken, computer-jammed office. Lucky him to be heading into such Hollywood glamour. His dramatic entrance was not a greeting of niceties. He sarcastically asked if I "finally figured out how to work A computer." Gee, thanks. I rudely replied with a very fake "yes, thank you for asking. Your assistant finally called me back." No response from Mr. Wicked Witch of the West. He was giving me the silent treatment...how machiavellian of him. He then gets on the phone and yells at his assistant saying "I have two F*&@## assistants and not one of you could figure out how to use a F*&@# computer? You two are F$#%#%@@ useless." I had never heard so many profanities come out of a family man's mouth. Maybe those photos in his office came with the frame. 

Was I really one of the "two" F-ing assistants he didn't like? How could this have happened? I type 80 words per minute! Doesn't anybody care? Didn't matter. Where did I make that wrong turn in the road? This couldn't possibly be the road less travelled, because I didn't feel as though I was the only one who had experienced his vulgarity.

That moment probably wasn't the best time to plug my actress status as I had already plugged his toilet. One plug a day gives plumbers their pay. At that moment, I hear the toilet flush by itself. A metaphor for my perfect temp record being flushed down the loo. What should I strive for now? I have to admit, if we do have guardian angels, there was one on my side right then. He didn't even seem to notice the toilet flushing on its own. Thank God. I just wanted to scram, and I had no shame in telling him "I need to leave early" and that I did, never seeing the guy ever again, and never telling anyone I plugged his toilet except for maybe EVERYONE I know.