When my cousin Emered got her first Golden Globe nomination our whole family was pretty excited. She had been working in Los Angeles for about five or six years doing foley and sound editing on network television, doing pretty well, but mostly just treading water. It was a day-in day-out kind of career. It was intense, sure, more intense than defragmenting your hard drive on a weekly basis I have to say, but it was still a job when you got down to it. The glamor or whatever you wanted to call it came before and after, in between jobs, when the Fear seized you.

I was living in Los Angeles too. I had exited the film industry some years before. It wasn’t exactly working for me. I don’t feel like getting into why. Working in film, and I mean really working in film, was something you don’t know if you’re cut out for until you make The Move and actually make it happen. I think I did all right (I was a screenwriter), but ultimately it wasn’t for me. I suppose you could say I Saw Too Much. We can tackle that one in another session.

Anyway, this isn’t about me. Not yet it’s not. We’ll bring it around but for now we have some lore to fill in. Emered had to hire a publicist once the nomination came in. The initial adrenaline was wearing off as she realized the amount of work required to slip into this side of the media machine. The Golden Globes were a big deal to some people. In certain circles, they mattered.

So Emered got a delicious taste of publicity. Basically if you want do it right you pay an up-front fee to an agency and they set up a bunch of interviews to get your name out there, get on the circuit, and work on your showbiz-smile. Her publicist, Sevarra was her name, could guarantee 8 interviews for $6000. Standard package. She could guarantee no more, but you know what, if you rolled double sixes, something could lead to something.

Emered had a pretty fun time as far as I could tell. She would tell me all the revelations that came with leveling up in Hollywood as though imparting forbidden knowledge. This is just part of it, she would say, in part awe and part frustration. As far from her actual craft as she could get, but in all the ways that mattered the most important.

So anyway the big event approached and we all got ourselves our fancy dresses and rented tuxedos and took a LIMOUSINE to downtown Los Angeles. The Staples Center was a comprehensive superstructure on the corner of Olympic and Wilshire I think, one of those famous intersections, and after we filed out, Emered was whisked away by Sevarra the publicist, who met her there.

Next time we saw her, she was being paraded down a red carpet, guided by minders and security guards and all kinds of human infrastructure: advertisements on one side and a tsunami of photographers on the other. The carpet parted like a red sea of noise, light, and whatever else existed in the air that made the event seem like magic on a television back home. If you squinted you could convince yourself you saw all the cinematic fairies dropping golden dust from above. I have to admit there was an electricity shooting around. There's a schedule for these things. The stars arrive one by one and are funneled through the gauntlet, processed, interviewed, and set loose at the other end to wander around for an hour before they stumble into the theater.

I’ll fast forward through this part because it was mostly just a wash of sound and light and people more beautiful than god. We waited at the end of it and watched cousin Emered bounce from camera to camera, gesturing as she’d been trained, giving the same excited but rehearsed lines to each reporter, pantomiming the whole thing. The red carpet petered out and she emerged at the other side, dazed and euphoric. It was something. It certainly was. I have to say I felt something and I wasn’t even the one bombarded by the missiles of the media machine.

Anyway, Sevarra the publicist was there and Emered introduced me to her. She was this slim blonde smiler and wanted to meet me. Apparently Emered had noticed so she facilitated a quick intro. She looked like a publicist I guess, that is to say, she had grace and class and everything else that makes the myth work. Her long blonde hair was tied in a loose ponytail and her artful eyebrows slanted downward in an expression of polished beauty. A necklace of some fiery brimstone glittered on her neck.

She walked up and offered her hand to me. “Emered’s cousin, yes? So lovely to meet you.” She inclined her head.

I took her hand and nodded appreciatively. I might not have a GOLDEN GLOBE nomination but I knew how to play this game. It was Los Angeles my friend, do you understand? Do you see? This is how you reply to that: “Yes, and likewise, lovely to meet you, Sevarra. Beautiful necklace, by the way.”

Sevarra headed back to Emered and she stole her away, apparently to prep her for the rest of the evening, coaching her on what to expect if she won, lost, passed a kidney stone, whatever. Every scenario would be accounted for. Everything is scripted except for the winner haha you must believe me nobody knows beforehand haha.

Emered did not win. I’ll spoil that for you. Jork Jorkerlan won for his work on The Braffles. Nobody was actually surprised but the place was full of actors. Afterwards Emered told me Jork’s publicist was sleeping with somebody or other and somehow that meant Jork could get some extra airtime in the weeks leading up to the event. All that stuff mattered apparently. Emered was conflicted. She was sad she didn’t win and glad she didn’t win. She said it was difficult to explain.

So what I’m trying to say here is I couldn’t get Sevarra out of my mind. Here’s where we bring it around back to me. I know it’s a weird thing to fixate on but it was the way she introduced herself, her posture and bearing, the faint Hollywood-themed glow that captivated me. It was what happened when practiced poise met minor uncertainty. Body language pays for all. It was her bearing and the beauty it radiated. In the moment I figured it was just professional politeness but a day after, or two days after, she asked Emered to give me her number.

“I dunno, why do I need a publicist?” I asked her, still flexing some of the subtext muscles I had built up while working in this mercurial city.

“You don’t need a publicist, jackass,” Emered answered, “just text her.”

I have to admit I was excited to go on a date with Sevarra. I was more or less crushing the dating scene in Los Angeles at this time, which I humbly confess is just SoCal-speak for "I hate dating in this city but I'll keep doing it.” A guy can lose a few years going from one first date to another out here. You should give it a shot. You might like it or you might not. I don’t know your personality. It beats defragmenting your hard drive again.

I picked a nice wine bar down in Santa Monica. Freep’s I think it was called. Big rustic wine bar on the corner of Arizona and 11th. You know the place? Happening spot for a Friday night which if I had been paying attention was the bell of doom’s first death knell.

This place was packed and bright. Harsh yellow light belched out of the foyer area. Had I made a reservation? Nope. Had I eaten dinner? Nope. I’ll just squeeze in here and find a nice spot to sit and wait for Sevarra.

I couldn’t find a table. Everywhere I looked I saw stylish 20-somethings "crushing the dating scene." The electricity in the air reminded me of the Golden Globes red carpet. There's just something about this city, man. I made the rounds like a friggin’ police hawk or something, waiting for somebody to evacuate so I could swoop in on their vacant nest. Man I was hungry.

Okay finally I spied a small table, a two-seater nestled in between two boisterous groups on either side. LA’s soulmate, hysterical anxiety, slithered in through my ears and settled contentedly in my stomach. What kind of fuck planned a first date at Freep’s on a Friday night? Holy shit. Another clang from the bell of doom.

Sevarra walked in and I flagged her down. She wore a denim jacket, dark red skirt, and the same necklace I had complimented at the Golden Globes. In the 10 seconds it took her to sidle over to me from the entrance I played the entire Star Wars opening fanfare in my head to give me a boost of heroic confidence and welcomed her in a friendly but brief embrace. Time to start reading down the good ol’ first date script, yes indeed, here we go again.

“Have you eaten yet?” I asked after the rote pleasantries settled down. Yes traffic sucked, yes parking sucked, sorry I'm late.

“Yeah, I have.”

“Okay, do you mind if I order some food? I’m pretty starving.”

“Sure, yeah, go ahead.”

I ordered a shitty greasy salad and two glasses of wine. We would start the night off slow. There was an arc to these things. You must gracefully transition from one phase to the next. Like any script, it has beats.

“So how long have you known Emered?” I asked lamely, hating myself all of a sudden. I knew how long she had known her. I just could not really get comfortable with all this god damn noise.

“Oh just for as long as we were on the interview circuit. She's really good.” She was jovial and attentive and pretty. I hoped she would laugh soon.

“Yeah, she’s awesome. She’s really good,” I echoed, feeling like a wraith and waiting for my salad to arrive. Must be the hunger.

“She’s pretty funny too!”

“Yeah, I agree,” I agreed. “Her husband is a blast too. How well do you know him?”

“Glarbort? Oh, not so well, but they seem great together.”

“Yeah, they’re great,” I repeated. I felt the titanic weight of a dying conversation pulling me down into the dark. We need to get out of this death spiral. Black holes are real my good man and they exist in the form of exchanges like this. How to do it?

Before our date could unravel further our wine arrived along with my salad. “May I?” I asked, gesturing to my pile of wet leaves.

“No, by all means, go ahead!”

She was very beautiful, even more so in this scorching yellow light, but I was secretly irritated that Sevarra had not eaten beforehand. Why had I not confirmed the specifics with her? Another miss. As you are aware one person eating and one person not eating creates an irreconcilable power dynamic at a table of two. It’s just something that exists. We were perilously close to a collision with that hated date-killer: awkwardness.

“So how long have you been a publicist?” I asked between mouthfuls of vegetation.

“About two years, I’m still pretty new,” she confessed.

“Yeah, how’s that been going for you?” I was going through the motions. You’re always going through the motions on a first date. It’s just the script. But at some point you depart from it. I was waiting for that signal.

“Well I love it,” she said immediately. “I love working with such talented artists.”

“Yeah, well, Emered must have been a pretty good client,” I said thoughtlessly, bringing the topic back to my stupid Golden Globe-losing cousin. What was my problem?

“Oh she was great, honestly so easy to work with.”

“Yeah.”

“So what do you do,” she asked me, leaning in. Finally a fucking question but I could tell it lacked a question mark.

“Well I used to be a screenwriter,” I said with just the right amount of self-deprecation. You can dial that in with a bit of practice.

Her perfectly symmetrical eyebrows lifted slightly. “Oh really?”

“Yeah… but I’m sure you know plenty of those. Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to read my latest script.”

She laughed then, but we all agreed in the debrief afterwards that it was forced. “Yeah trust me, I know enough bad screenwriters.”

“Well now you know one more.” Okay we’re getting a little stuck here. Disparaging yourself goes from charming to pathetic real quick. This is going to show a lack of confidence soon. Those bells were clanging again.

“I actually don’t think I want to do this forever.” She was talking about work. It was the safe topic. This indicated a myriad of things none of them good in this situation.

“Oh, no? What do you think you’ll want to do?”

She sighed then. “Believe it or not, I think I’d like to be a writer.”

“Oh I can help you with that.” Yep, still talking about work. Safe comfortable secure topics. “I mean that’s the thing in Hollywood, isn’t it? You kinda age out of careers before you realize it. Though I guess you can be a writer until your hair turns gray.”

Her still-symmetrical brows furrowed imperceptibly. “Wait, what’s that mean?”

“Nah I just meant time moves weirdly quick here. Has to do with the lack of seasons I think. Years go by without any change in the weather to help you keep track of them.” If this was an airshow, one of the planes would be a smoking stack of wreckage and the others would be also.

We went back and forth like this for maybe twenty more years. Freep’s was quieting down by this point. There was a little more room to breathe. My plate of twigs was gone and so was our wine, so I asked if she wanted another glass.

“Actually I think I’m good, thanks though.”

“Okay yeah I think I we can wind ‘er down for the night.” It was 8:30pm.

We shivered a bit as we left Freep’s and felt the night air. I walked Sevarra to her car and made some unfocused remark about how it sure does get chilly at night in this city at night doesn’t it in this city when it’s night? Yeah it’s a chilly one.

“I know a pretty good whiskey bar downtown, stocked full of great selections and even has cigars if you’re into that stuff,” I said, lifting the world onto my shoulders. "We should totally go there sometime."

“Yeah that could be fun,” Sevarra replied as she got into her car.