Page 2
January 8, 2003
I'm gonna get calluses on my fingertips from turning pages, reading all this shit related to the Callahan chaos. This is my second day trying to wade through it. Roughly half of it seems to be records of business we did with various suppliers and contractors who have since been dismissed, so it's all irrelevant, but I have to go through it anyway. I'm doing this between fielding calls from Callahan himself or one of his flunkies. This is after I told Callahan that I wouldn't institute any changes unless they came through him personally or through verified channels, like the company email account or snail mail. That pissed him off royally, but I finally managed to make him see what a mess it could be if someone wanting to give him grief decided to call up.
It could happen, too. There's been publicity about the shelter he's having built. Some tabloid hired a helicopter and flew over it and took zoom photos of the construction site. I think they even managed to get a blurry shot of Callahan himself delaying the workers by insisting on screwing around with the machinery and tools. He's apparently treats them like toys. I think I read somewhere that he owns his own bulldozer, and personally knocked down some sets after one of his movies was finished shooting. Weird. I don't trust people who enjoy destroying things. They might move up from things to people.
I'm looking over the basic blueprints for his underground castle now. Christ, most people I know would sell their grandmother to Bedouins for something like this above ground. I've seen group homes that were smaller than this. Five, count 'em, five sleeping rooms. Oh, hell, bedrooms. I seriously doubt if Callahan is gonna have Army cots or bedrolls in them. Sure, most of them are about the size of a double walkin closet, but that master bedroom is nice by any standards.
They wouldn't have been able to do anything this large if they hadn't hit that granite shelf. Usually something like that would have scotched the project, and they'd have had to find another location. Not Callahan. No, he isn't going to let a little thing like Mother Nature slow HIM down. He just had them blast and chisel out the space. Actually, not the shelter is going to be even more secure than most other designs, since the floor and sides are going to be solid stone behind the steel and lead linings. Once they pile that twenty feet of earth and gravel on top of the steel and lead roof they'll practically have to drop the bomb on top of his living room to make a dent.
Of course, the company had to replace the construction crew two times getting that done. They couldn't convince Callahan that even double pay wouldn't tempt men to work ten hour shifts, seven days a week, for very long.
They're going to start putting on the roof tomorrow, and I've been invited to supervise. Invited by Callahan, directed by Tabitha. I'm pretty sure that the site boss would rather not have hanging around his site a woman who knows only enough about construction to put up a decent Lego building, but who is expected to goad him on to even greater efforts.
Christ, it's at least a three hour drive out to Callahan's Retreat (what an original name. I don't think that man has retreated from anything since he first hauled himself up on his chubby, bowlegged legs and took his first wobbly widdle steps). The distance means that, since I didn't drive out tonight to sleep over at a motel, I have to get up at five so I can leave at six so I can be there at nine because I'll be damned if I'm gonna get up any earlier! Not unless they decide to grant me a fucking commission on this thing.
I just hope he doesn't keep me there too long, but I have kind of a bad feeling about this. He flew in all the way from Los Angelas for this 'confab'. I doubt he'll let me go before four or five. He won't feel like he's gotten his money's worth unless I'm hounded through a typical business day time period, and I doubt he'll include travel time in his estimation.
Note to self: Keep close fucking tabs on milage and gas. I'm deducting this puppy of next year's income taxes. And if I have to go on ulcer medication or sedatives, I'm deducting that, too.
January 9, 2003
I sat with this book on my lap for ten minutes, staring at the blank page, trying to think of something to write that wouldn't be hostile, vulgar, or obscene. Then I thought 'Fuck this shit! This is what journals are for!'
I have known Arthur Callahan, face-to-face, for well under 24 hours, and I can't for the life of me figure out why someone hasn't killed the motherfucker already!
There's one thing I like about working at Seguro--loose dress codes in the office. As long as it wouldn't get you a ticket on the street and it's clean, they don't gripe. Tabitha told me I needed to 'dress nice' whenever I met with Callahan. I told her I'd wear my t-shirt with the sequined cats on it. She said that wasn't suitable. I told her I needed a raise if I had to buy a whole new wardrobe. That shut her up. When I left this morning, though, I was wearing a dress--my one dress, reserved for funerals and weddings.
I got up on time. I put on the damn dress. I put on fucking pantyhose! I haven't worn pantyhose since I graduated high school. If I have to wear skirts I wear them below the knee and pull on some dress socks, but I bought the L'Eggs, and I wore them. It felt like I was wearing a tourniquet from the waist down. I wasn't in the best mood to start with when I arrived at the site.
The Retreat was about three miles outside the nearest small town. I was expecting the usual dirt turn-off. I almost passed it, because it was paved better than the highway. It ran back through an increasingly thick stand of pines for about another mile, then it opened up again and BAM! There it was.
Damn.
I have stayed at hotels smaller than that place. I couldn't believe that one family (hell, one couple--they don't have kids) lived there. Oh, yeah, I forgot. There'd be the servants, too.
There was a gate across the road, and I saw now that it was set in a very respectable looking fence that ran off into the pines on either side. There was razor wire on top. I considered turning around and going back, then calling from town and telling Callahan that I'd had car trouble, but I figured that the little delay I'd get wouldn't be worth the shit storm it would raise.
There was an itty-bitty guard booth at the gate, with a not so itty-bitty guard in it. Unlike most rent-a-cops I've run into, this one looked like he might be capable of handling more than a snotty 14 yr. old. In fact, when he came out and gave me the eagle eye, I noticed that he was packing. There was a gun there on his hip, in front of God and everyone. And, by God, he had a hand on that gun till he got a good look at me.
I showed him my DL, and he compared it to a clipboard. I got a look at what was on that clipboard. It was a picture of me, apparently taken at the New Years party. Oh, I am gonna have to think of something seriously nasty to do to Tabitha.
He told me to follow the road around to the back of the house, and I'd see the shelter site from there. There was a fucking parking lot behind the house. Granted, not a big one, but still... There were a couple of vans with company logos on the side that must've trucked in the workers. There were also several high end luxury cars, including a Jaguar I know would have given most of the guys I knew wet dreams.
I'd seen one or two other shelter construction sites, and I'd expected this one to look pretty much the same. They're always a real mess, with the ground all rutted and churned up from the heavy machinery. Well, they'd laid down a thick gravel patch around this one, so that the traffic area was barely visible. I parked, got out, and started crunching my way toward the big hole in the ground--the shelter.
There were several piles of thick sheet metal, each one taller than a good sized man, and a man was standing on top of one of them, fastening a sheet to the chain of a massive crane. There were other men standing about, dressed in work clothes and steel-toed boots, waiting for the roofing sheet to be placed so that they could begin welding and riveting. There were a few other people who, judging by their clothes, were obviously not there to work. A woman and two men were standing to the side, observing, so I approached them.
I recognized Callahan immediately. That thick shock of hair and full beard, both salt-and-pepper, was hard to miss. The woman was a handsome woman in her mid-forties, her hair a frosted blonde heap. Hm. She was a little old for that 'just out of bed' look. She was wearing high heels. I wondered how she'd managed to get out there without breaking an ankle, walking through that gravel. The other man was in his early thirties, with thick, dark hair. He was wearing those Rayban sunglasses Tom Cruise made popular in Risky Business. Looked good on him. Hell, just about anything would have looked good on him.
Callahan and the woman were busy talking to each other, but the cutie in shades noticed me approaching. He smiled and lifted his chin in greeting as I came up. The woman noticed me, but Callahan just kept on talking. Sounded like he was bitching about a certain company liaison being late. Great.
I didn't bother with the 'Hello?' crap--I hate it when people do that. I just stuck out my hand and said, "Mr. Callahan, I'm Zima Feely, from Seguro Shelters."
He paused and stared at me for a second. "You're late."
I didn't drop my hand. "It's a three hour drive." He stared at me. I didn't drop my hand. He was going to make this a pissing contest. If I didn't show him that bitches could compete, too, I wouldn't survive this job.
He finally shook hands. "This is my wife, Margo, and our friend, Colin Baxter."
I thought, yeah, sure. Then the dark haired guy pulled off his shades and hello! H. Colin Baxter in the toned and luscious flesh! Good Lord, the other girls at work were going to drop their panties over this! Zima Feely, office wallflower, shaking hands with People's Sexiest Man Alive of 2002! I decided that maybe God didn't hate me after all.
Callahan started grumbling and questioning what seemed like every decision that had been made since the start of the project. I tried to answer some of them, but he has this tendency to just talk right over you before you can finish a sentence. I gave up after awhile and just let it wash over me. I realized after about forty-five minutes that he was trying to 'break me in'--let me know who was in charge of this barn dance. I thought about just turning around and walking off, then I thought about the stack of bills at home on my coffee bar, and stayed.
Came lunchtime. The crew brought out lunches and settled down to eat. Margo said something about getting back to the house or the cook would have a fit about having to wait lunch. Callahan said I had an hour, and started toward the house. I was thinking, an hour to drive to the town, get lunch, and be back here? Then Colin said that Callahan had better make it two hours, or we wouldn't have time, then asked me if I'd seen any place I'd like to eat in town. Callahan said he'd assumed that Colin was going to be having lunch with them. Colin stared at Callahan. Callahan got the hint and said of course he'd assumed that I was going to stay to lunch, too. Note to self: Remember to pack a lunch if I ever have to come back up here. Baxter might not always be visiting.
I found out what rich people eat for lunch: French onion soup, quiche, and Waldorff salad. Rah rah. Margo ate the soup and a salad, dressing on the side. Callahan made some snide remark about the number of crackers she ate. I was silently rooting for her to dump the soup in his lap. She didn't, darn it.
Baxter had to leave after lunch cause he was due to do a segment for Entertainment Tonight in the evening. The rest of the day was a total washout. Bitch, gripe, gripe, bitch. I finally decided that Callahan wasn't going to be happy with anything that wasn't completely his idea, that he didn't do completely himself, and since he wasn't into common labor, that just wasn't gonna happen on this project.
He kept me till five-thirty; a half hour after the construction crew had quit. Then he told me that he couldn't give me any more time, and he was going back to Los Angeles for a couple of weeks, so he couldn't be here to supervise me personally.
I managed not to cry at the prospect.
I've decided that my revenge on Tabitha will have to be visited unto the fifth generation.
January 10, 2003
I'm bleary-eyed, but I'm almost finished with reviewing the Callahan material. This guy had almost doubled his cost by changing his mind so many times.
Actually located some Triple X rootbeer at the corner store. Snagged it and some Cracker Jack for a snack while I finished the reports. I needed serious sugar to get me through it. When did they stop putting cool prizes in Cracker Jacks. You used to get all kinds of neat stuff like itty bitty plastic harmonicas and tiny drop-the-beebee-in-the-hole games. Now you only get paper shit, like fake tattoos and lame jokes. I think it's because they're afraid some idiot is going to just tip the box up and swallow the prize and choke, thus setting up a lawsuit. Either that, or it got expensive enough to cut the profit margin. Yeah, Corporate America lives by two three word phrases that rule everything they do--'it would cost' or 'cover your ass'.
Didn't get a single call from Callahan. Things are looking up.
January 11, 2003
Actually felt motivated to clean house, now feel virtuous--one benificial side effect of domestic ambition. Good thing I did. Mom came to visit, no damp towels on bathroom floor or dirty dishes in sink, tra la. She's still looking for my journal, either that or she was checking my housekeeping skills--caught her looking under the sofa cushions when I brought her some coffee.
Told her about Callahan. She said she wasn't surprised that he was a fascist, judging by the way his movies pandered to the bourgeois. I asked her if she and Dad had finalized that time share thing in Jamaica. Love Mom, but don't see how she can pick up on sarcasm, but irony goes right over her head.
Mom was impressed that I met H. Colin Baxter. Mom almost twittered. I haven't seen her this excited over anyone since she got within twenty feet of Abbey Hoffman at a book signing. Turns out that Mom has seen all his movies, some of them twice. She mentioned his bare butt scene in that bank heist movie! I thought it was noteworthy, too, but I never thought Mom would have noticed it. She blushed!. Boy, it's weird to think about your Mom maybe getting damp panties over a celebrity.
Peaceful Sunday, other than Mom's visit. No more visitors, no phone calls, just me and the satalite dish, and a horror movie marathon, yay! Gotta remember to go to sleep early enough so I don't nod off during the sermon. It's a heck of an insult to the pastor.
Life is good.
January 12, 2003
Motherfucking Tabitha gave that bastard Callahan my home phone number! God, that has got to be illegal. I swear, I'm going to check regulations or laws or something.
I come home from church and the light is flashing on my answering machine, and there are eight messages--all from Callahan, getting increasingly pissed that I'm not answering. And I'm not answering, dammit. This is my time. If it isn't a fucking disaster, then it can wait till Monday.
Shit. I may have to get an unlisted number and just not tell them the new one.
January 13, 2003
There was a small pile of faxes in the office machine Monday, all addressed to me. The phone rang five minutes after my butt hit the chair behind my desk. When I picked it up, Callahan started off with, "Who the hell do you think you are? I will not be ignored..."
I hung up on him, and unplugged the phone jack just enough to keep it from connecting. Then I spent a relatively peaceful half hour settling in, reviewing some bank records pertaining to the project.
Tabitha came in, said Callahan had called her, and asked me why I wasn't answering my phone. I innocently told her that it hadn't rung. Well, I wasn't lying--it hadn't rung. She checked the phone, found the loose jack. I did big, innocent, surprised eyes, seriously doubt I fooled her. She said she'd route Callahan's call to me.
He wasn't quite as rabid as I expected. Funny, I would have thought that frustration would have kicked his bastard factor up a notch. He wanted to know why he hadn't heard from me. I said that I had listened to the messages, and that we couldn't change the type of gravel that was going to be layered over the shelter roof, because it had to meet a ton of specifications, and none of them involved its aesthetic value. And even if we could change the type of gravel, I couldn't do it over the weekend because most companies like that didn't work on Sundays. Sensible people didn't.
He was quiet for a little while, and I was wondering if I'd let my Monday morning, ain't-had-enough-caffiene bitchiness get me fired. Then he laughed and said I had more balls than the other two men who'd been on the project combined. He only kept me on the phone for another half hour, obsessing about what type of landscaping he could have over the shelter, and I had to tell him that any type of tree was out because the wouldn't have deep enough soil for their root systems. It looks like I'm not going to be fired.
I wonder if maybe it wouldn't be easier to just go on unemployment.
January 14, 2003
I was so miffed yesterday I forgot to brag to the folks at work that I'd met H. Colin Baxter. They didn't believe me. Bitches. Suggested I get his autograph next time. Yeah, right, like there will be a next time. And I'm not going to do the giggling, gushing fangirl thing. That can't be attractive. What the hell am I doing, thinking about what he might and might not find attractive? I need something to occupy my mind.
Callahan is thinking about blanketing the top of the shelter with imported Dutch tulips. Fine. Great. Get scarlet and white and put them in concentric circles. Give the folks who drop the bombs something to aim at.
January 15, 2003
He's considering a Japanese style rock garden. Wants my opinion on whether or not he should hire a Japanese gardener to maintain it? Do I think that only they can give the raked pebbles the right Zen effect? Knew he didn't give a damn about my opinion, just wanted a chance to listen to his own again. Refrained from making some comment about 'Zen my ass'.
He wants me to drive over and consult about interior finishing materials. I get to drive three hours each direction to look at fabric swatches and paneling slats.
Wonder if my car will develop something minor but disabling if I pray hard enough?
January 16, 2003
No, it won't, dammit. He didn't suggest I go into town for lunch this time. I got to eat in the house--in the kitchen--with the cook.
I don't care how fucking talented this man is--how has he survived in Hollywood, the land that perfected butt kissing, with this attitude?
Did you know that six hours of driving, even if it's in three-hour shifts, would give you a numb butt?
We went through several thousand swatches and carpet samples, and paneling examples and paint smears. He narrowed it down to about fifty of each. I figured at least that was some progress. Then he said we'd look at the rest of the available samples next time.
I managed to get out of there without whimpering. My idea of decorating has always been 'paint the walls white or beige, then just get everything from the same primary color group'. I didn't have too many absolute 'nos', except for no avocado green shag carpet, or orange beanbag chairs. Callahan didn't want either of those. I think I might have liked him more if he had.
January 20, 2003
One of the first weekends in my memory that hasn't been relaxing. Of course, that's probably because I spent most of it at my Mom and Dad's, trying to avoid calls from Callahan.
I'm going to have to figure out some other way. I don't think I'm strong enough to spend that much time with them on a regular basis. I had almost forgotten that they had 'Woodstock' on tape. Mom claims that you can see her and Dad in the movie, but I still haven't managed it, despite the number of times they've run it for me, even using slow-mo and freeze frame. It just looks like a couple wrestling under a blanket on the muddy ground--you can't really tell who it is.
Callahan wants me over tomorrow. He has the next batch of samples ready. Joy.
January 21, 2003
I'm going to have to go back out there, but I've managed to convince him to wait till Friday, so I can sleep in the day after. WHY do I have to come back? Because we didn't get a chance to examine all the samples. He was debating whether or not he should scrap the rock garden in favor of a more natural landscaping, one that wouldn't draw attention to the shelter. Managed to not faint from shock that he was actually having a sensible idea.
Talked him into a mixed covering of bluebonnets and Indian blanket. Those will be perfect, because they're natural enough to not attract attention from a more-than-casual observer, and they start blooming in mid-March, which is about when the shelter should be finished. Took a look around the area behind the house where the shelter will be. It would actually look pretty nice.
January 25, 2003
I'm not telling them at work. They won't believe it, anyway. I had a sleepover at Arthur Callahan's house and saw H. Colin Baxter in his underwear! Excuse me while I scream like a thirteen year old girl at a Hanson concert. Briefs, by the way. Navy blue, I think, though they could have been black.
He was at Callahan's when I arrived that morning--him and his agent Michael Underhill. Turns out they're there negotiating Baxter's next picture with Callahan. Very hush, hush. If I was a mouthy sort, I could rake in a ton, selling the story to the tabloids. Still have some ethics kicking around, though.
I get there, ready to compare brocades and nubblies, and find out that he's completely forgotten about having invited me. Callahan needs to conference, but doesn't want to turn me loose without getting some work out of me. I'm not about to turn right around and make another three hour drive back.
Callahan parks me in a room with piles of fabric, sample books, carpet squares, tile examples... you get the idea, and his wife--Margo. We look at each other when he leaves. We both know that we aren't going to settle a damn thing, because he isn't going to approve of anything that isn't his decision. She offers me a sherry. It's 9:30 am. I ask for a Coke instead. It's going to be a long day.
I get to eat with the cool kids again. Margo is drinking wine with lunch. Callahan and Underhill keep talking about billing, on-set perks, foreign distribution... Colin is sitting next to me. He doesn't want to talk about 'the biz'. Asks me about my work. I tell him not to talk dirty. He laughs and says he knows different ways of talking dirty, and he'll have to show me sometime when we don't have mixed company.
H. Colin Baxter was flirting with me!
Holy shit.
A storm rolled in during lunch. Big storm. We're talking thunder rattling the picture window so bad you move away real quick big.
After lunch Margo and me went back to the swatches. Colin came in and said he was bored; he'd take a look at the final decisions with his lawyer later. Would we mind if he joined us? Would I mind if someone handed me the keys to a Jaguar for the weekend? I moved sample books so he could sit next to me. He put his arm across the back of the couch behind my neck and leaned in to examine upholstery samples. He breathed on my cheek. I didn't give a damn that he had garlic dressing on his salad at lunch.
Margo hit the hard liquor. She was drinking scotch before two o'clock in the afternoon. I noticed she's older than I thought at first. I thought forties, but I got a good look at her close-up. She's mid-fifties, at least. But she's trying real hard not to look it. I remember some rumors about Callahan and some starlets in his movies, and understand why she's trying so hard. She ought to divorce his butt. They live mainly in California--they have community property there, right?
Margo gave up pretending to consider decorating options and went to drink and stare out the window at the storm. It wasn't easing up. Colin asked me about my name. Said I looked too young to have been named after the drink. I explained about my flower power parents, and that Zima meant 'trustworthy'. Thanked heaven that I'd gotten out of school before they came out with that damn malt beverage--I caught enough grief for the weird name as it was. He told me I didn't know from being teased for my name. I'd forgotten that the H. stood for Honeywell.
I asked him what the next movie was going to be about. He said they had to be careful about information leaking out before anything was finalized. I told him that I only read tabloids for stories about Chihuahuas who save their owners from pit bull attacks. He confided that they were negotiating for him to play Remus Lupin in The Prisoner of Ahzkaban. I'd heard they were talking Ewan McGregor, but hey, Colin would be fine by me. Decided not to mention werewolf fetish I've had since seeing Peter Lucas as Baron Freiderich von Glower in the Gabriel Knight PC game.
Weather did not get better. Callahan and Underhill came in and said there was bad tropical storm moving through, and it would get worse before it got better. Contemplated having to drive three hours in storm. Didn't like the odds. Callahan said everyone had better stay the night. Well, why not? It's not like he doesn't have room. Besides, it meant I'd be sleeping under the same roof with Baxter. Yay! Fantasy fodder for months, if not years, to come.
Power went out. Callahan chose then to start asking questions about the proposed solar powered energy system for the shelter. I refused to discuss anything in the dark.
They couldn't locate a flashlight (naturally), but Margo believed in candles as a decorative motif. There was enough for us all to have one. Everyone headed for bed. I got an upstairs bedroom. Gasp! No servants' quarters for me!
Room was nice. Sheets probably cost more than what I earned in a week when I was fresh out of high school. Don't usually like trying to sleep away from my own bed, but the rain helped.
Woke up sometime in the middle of the night, storm still going strong. Needed to use the potty. My room had its own bathroom, so I didn't have to go stumbling around in the hallways. Good thing, because I was sleeping in just my panties and my shirt.
Groped over to bathroom, opened door. Flash! Boom! Lightening. Suddenly found out that this bathroom was shared with the next room over. Standing on the other side of the bathroom, hand on the knob of the other door, is Colin, hair sticking straight up, eyes almost round, looking as surprised as I felt. Wearing bikini briefs. Whoa.
I realized I was staring. Then I realized he was staring. Then we both took a step back and shut the door. I think I heard him say sorry, or something. I waited a minute, then went in. I made sure I locked the door to his room before I did my business, though. Nature cannot be refused for long. I didn't sleep much afterwards, though.
I'm not telling anyone about this! That sight is gonna be mine, and mine alone. Gloat, gloat, gloat.
Storm thinned out and stopped by this morning. Felt pretty damn rumpled when I came downstairs, and didn't even have night of wild sex to justify it. Damn.
Margo was still asleep. Big surprise, after all the booze she put away. I think I drank less than that the night I agreed to take on this white elephant of a job. Underhill and Baxter were getting ready to leave, had to catch a plane back to the coast, as they were running a day behind. Callahan started making noises about maybe my hanging around to go over the projected work schedule. I asked if he really wanted to pay me triple time. That killed that suggestion.
Before we left, Baxter apologized for the bathroom incident. Said he'd been half asleep, and hadn't really thought about the rooms being adjoining. I told him I didn't see anything that was likely to strike me blind. He blushed. It's kind of nice to find out that a superstar can be a pretty nice guy, too.
