Page 5 of Sizzle Reel

“Luna, come on. I mean girls-wise. This is a huge opportunity! You can, like, make things official.”

Somehow, I haven’t anticipated this question. Julia just talked about how this is my process and take all the time you want and have fun with it. We were never very specific about getting with girls.

“I dunno, Wy. I have so many other things I need to be working on right now. I wanted you two to know because you’re important to me, but I don’t know if it’s the right time to pursue anything.”

I’m not in any particular hurry to come out to anyone beyond them anyway. In fact, combined with Romy’s extra-strong drink, the idea of the words I’m bi escaping my lips in the presence of my family, in particular, is vaguely nauseating. If I already can’t properly answer Wyatt’s questions about being with girls, I don’t want to even think about what it’d be like with my parents.

Wyatt pauses a moment, glancing beyond us. “I get that, but are you happy with the way things are right now?”

I’m still contemplating that when Romy slides back into the booth.

chapter two

Wyatt’s words, I’m sure, are meant to instill a deep sense of existential dread. Which they do for exactly several hours before I use the coping skills Julia taught me and make a plan.

I’ve been identifying as bisexual for five days, I’ve been working for Alice for two years and one month, and I’m going to ask her for the next step today. Not in another six months. Today. I’m going to be a straight white man. I’m going to make my life better than it is right now in the only way I fully understand.

I just need to bring my Emergency Xanax to do it.

Yeah, it’s kind of fucked up to have to take supplemental drugs to talk to my boss, but here’s the thing about Hollywood:

Yes, we all know it’s corrupt. But what outsiders never seem to really get is just how nonlinear the process of becoming a creative is. It’s something Romy and I have been trying to explain to Wyatt since we met him. Wyatt wants to be a manager. Nothing creative about it. And thus, his path is similar to a lawyer’s or accountant’s. He starts off at an entry-level position in a mailroom, where he and another dozen or so college grads deliver mail to managers/agents in hopes of actually getting a job on a manager/agent’s desk, then he gets a spot on a manager/agent’s desk, impresses his boss, becomes a junior manager, and voilà, career.

Then you have Romy and me. Creatives. She’s a writer, and I’m a cinematographer. Two jobs that, while, sure, are lacking in women, let alone queer women—heck, even queer people—are oversaturated with eager applicants. Jobs that don’t have a linear path. Instead, they have a few routes. They tell you this in your $60K-per-year film school: There’s no one set way.

The most common route, the one most creatives will throw their hands up in crisis mode to embrace, is the Agency/Managerial Route. The idea is an aspiring writer, director, cinematographer, etc., will sit down with a company’s H.R. rep and lie the shit out of an interview, claiming to want to be an agent/manager. The company hires you. And you then proceed to spend years having to rewire your likely introverted artist personality to be able to schmooze and backstab and answer scary fucking phones in hopes of hopping on to the desk of an agent/manager who represents the same type of creative as you aspire to be. You dedicate your every waking second to them for a year (says film school; the reality is most assistants have to stick it out for around two nowadays), and instead of asking for a promotion, you give a sudden reveal: Oh golly, boss, whoopsie, turns out I don’t want to be an agent, I wanna be a cinematographer.

And your boss has two options: either get you a gig legitimately working toward that creative goal or fire you. All that work and all that stress, and the toll they take on your body, could be for nothing. I’ve developed at least three different physical ailments since I started this job.

I specifically pick Tuesday to drop my reveal on Alice, figuring she won’t have the stress of Monday to use as an excuse to ignore the question. She’s an hour later than she usually is. She’s wearing designer clothing and has full makeup on, but her hair isn’t brushed for some reason. Though maybe it’s a new style, I never really know with her. No demands when she walks in, just “Morning, darling.”

I stand up from my seat before her hand touches the handle on her glass office door. “Can we talk today?”

Alice stops, lightly pursing lips that have definitely gotten fuller in the past six months. “Yeah. Let’s talk right now.”

My heart sinks into my stomach. Not even the Xanax could work that fast. Shit, I was expecting her to push me off until at least the end of her workday. “Yeah, great!”

There is no proper amount of fucks typed across the page of my mind to convey just how much I’m freaking out. Like the expression that the walls are caving in, I feel faint–type thing people did in the 1800s? Ringing starts going off in my ears, and I legitimately might faint taking the three steps to her office. In the back of my mind, I’m looking for a good place to fold myself to the floor so I don’t hit my head and die in this hell building.

Alice keeps her office pretty sparse decoration-wise. Just one abstract painting that probably cost a lot of money. A desk and chairs that aren’t from IKEA (unlike the assistant pod). But beyond that, she’s got papers scattered everywhere, despite the fact that I made her a filing system THREE FUCKING TIMES.

I take a seat in one of her guest/client chairs. And she just sits in her seat, crosses her legs, and makes eye contact with me. Her eyes are a cerulean blue, like what big-budget movies do to Chris Hemsworth’s eyes in post. “What’s on your mind, Ms.Luna?”

I take a deep breath, even though it won’t prevent my fainting spell. “So we hit the two-year mark four weeks ago.”

Her eyes light up. It looks genuine, but I think she can just manipulate her face like that. “Did we? Well, happy anniversary!”

I unroll my blouse sleeve out of her view. “Yeah, and, uh, if you think I’ve done a good job with you—”

“You have.”

A single muscle in my chest loosens. It doesn’t really help. “I was hoping to discuss my future.”

“Yes, I think you’d make a wonderful junior manager.”

Okay. SO.

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