Chapter 4 Frankie
FRANKIE
Possibly the only thing more disheartening than working at a crappy job in LA—when all you really want to do is the thing that you moved out here to do—is looking at listings for new crappy jobs because you keep getting fired from the other ones.
I’ve already gone through the current industry job list, and I know it would just be a waste of time to apply to be an assistant again.
It’s not that I don’t have the right kind of personality to do whatever someone tells me to do simply because they’re paying me.
It’s that the people who tell me to do things for them have the right kind of personality for dictators and the wrong kind of personality for engaging with people who have a sense of humor and find their narcissism boring but also really funny.
I am also not sure that I should write for another company that doesn’t think outside the box.
I am starting to think that I should just be a waitress, even though I’m not very good at carrying things while I walk. Or being friendly to strangers. Or being around food without eating it.
But maybe I can get a job where I work with dogs!
The kind of job where I literally only have to work with dogs though.
Not their owners or potential owners or people who’ve rescued them.
That’s gotta be a thing, right? Homeless dogs need to be walked and groomed too.
I just don’t think they’d pay very well.
My phone buzzes, and my body tenses up because I’ve seen too many movies and TV shows where characters who are unemployed get calls from debt collectors. I pay my bills. I have no reason to be afraid of my phone. Aside from the fact that I hate talking on the phone because I’m not sixty.
The Caller ID tells me it’s my uncle Martin’s office.
Which means my mother told him I lost my job and need help. Again.
Which means I’m going to have to tell him why I lost the other job.
Which is going to suck.
I clear my throat and attempt to answer the phone like someone who is living her best life while hanging out with people who are also living their best lives and laughing about it because we’re all so happy and successful.
“Hahahahahaha—hello?!”
“Hello… Is this Frankie Hogan?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. That didn’t sound like you. I thought maybe I called the wrong number,” says my uncle’s assistant.
“No, it’s me. I’m doing great—how are you?”
Except you didn’t ask, but whatever.
“Totally. I have Martin Hancock calling for you. Can you hold?”
“Sure, I’ll take that call and I’ll hold.”
“Great. He’ll be so happy to hear it. He’s just finishing up with a client. Hang on.”
And then I get to hear the on-hold music that is designed to cheer you up and make you forget that Hollywood is a soulless industry that you are desperately trying to be an important part of while trying not to appear desperate or interested at all.
I hate being the troubled niece. My mum’s younger brother is a hotshot talent manager at a big, shiny management company.
He specializes in representing comedians, which you’d think would be great for me, but it’s incredibly awkward.
His clients are all big glittering stars of comedy—not the terrible ones either.
He took me to lunch at a private club called Soho House when I first moved here a couple of years ago.
The restaurant was filled with celebrities just hanging out, no big deal, meanwhile I shamelessly ordered half the menu and wrapped up the warm bread to take home with me.
That was when he told me—very nicely—that he wouldn’t be able to help me directly as a comedian but he will always help out with day jobs and money if I’m ever in dire need of it to pay the bills.
He’s gotten me three jobs since then, and I’ve been fired from all of them.
For being too hilarious and awesome. Most recently for being a junior copywriter that is way too hilarious and awesome for a supposedly hip and fun live entertainment conglomerate that sells tickets to overpriced shows performed by overrated entertainers of all kinds.
I just need to figure out how to sell this to Martin, who is mostly cool but also probably not convinced that I’m as hilarious and awesome as I seem to think I am.
Mia thinks my uncle is hot. Obviously I don’t see him that way. I happen to think Crocodile Dundee is hot, but Uncle Martin is, like, get away with wearing a velvet suit with a T-shirt and loafers kind of hot.
“Frankie, you there?”
“G’day, Uncle Marty.”
He sighs, and I can hear him scrubbing his stubbly, tanned, poreless face. “What do I always tell you, kid? Nevah evah call me Mahty.”
“But that’s your name. Mahty Hancock.”
This has been our schtick ever since I was a teenager.
Do I only call him that because it pisses him off and it sounds like mighty hand cock?
Yes. That is why I do it, and people should be paying me to have the sense of humor of a twelve-year-old boy instead of sighing and scrubbing their faces at me.
That is one of the many, many things on my list of things that is wrong with this world.
“Yeah, let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”
“Sure! My roommate Mia says hi, by the way.”
“Oh yeah?… G’day, Mia.”
“She’s not here right now, but don’t flirt with my roommate. That’s gross.”
“I wasn’t flirting. That’s just how I am.”
“Yeah. You’re gross.”
“Listen, kid. Donna told me you need a job. What happened to the copywriting gig I got you?”
Deep breath, here goes…
“Great question! You know how it was my job as a copywriter to come up with innovative ways to help the company promote events on digital fan-facing platforms?”
“Uh-huh…”
“Well, the most innovative way to promote a stadium concert for a certain young male pop star was to highlight how entitled and talentless he is because clearly only people who hate themselves and have no taste in music would want to attend the concert of a spoiled brat who’s been insulting to his fans, abusive to his ex-girlfriends, and is probably still an asshole even though he claims to be making amends by posting apologies on social media. ”
Another epic sigh, followed by more audible face-scrubbing. “Right.”
“I’m not saying they were wrong for firing me, but somebody had to say it.”
“Okay, kid. Believe it or not, I do care more about you and my sistah than I do about my contacts at a live entertainment company. But maybe twenty-six is a bit too old for someone to be a little shit—you think?”
“I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to pull this off for the rest of my life actually.”
“We’ll see about that. Here’s why I called—one of my clients, Owen Brodie, needs a short-term nanny for his kid.”
“Say what now?”
“A nanny. Is that not how they pronounced it in Florida? Nawnny? A caretakah for his child.”
“No, I know what a nanny is. Since when is Owen Brodie your client?”
“’Bout a year now, I think. He had a fuckwit manager before me. You know him?”
“Not personally.”
“He’s funny.”
I have to literally bite my tongue to stop myself from saying not really.
“He’s starting a month-long cross-country tour soon, and he wants to take his seven-year-old son with him.
He’ll need someone to look after Sam occasionally before they leave town too, actually.
He ended up having to take the kid with him to the Comedy Shop this weekend when he did his set.
And he bahfed on the rug in the owner’s office. ”
I am way too pleased to hear this. “Owen Brodie barfed at the Comedy Shop?!”
“No. His son did.”
“Oh.”
That is very disappointing.
“Anyway, he’s in a bit of a fix. None of the nannies from the agencies are willing to travel for an entire month. But you would be, right?”
“I mean…yes?”
“And you’ve looked after kids before, I told him, right?”
“I paid for half of my tuition with the money I made from babysitting.”
“Well, you’d be making more than any of the other jobs you’ve had because you’ll basically have to be available to look after Sam at all times. Owen would pay for your meals and accommodations, and he can pay for medical benefits. For approximately a month and a half.”
“That is very generous. So this is a headlining tour? Like what, at comedy clubs or at theater venues?”
“Theaters. He’s already sold-out in some cities.”
I’m not jealous I’m not jealous I’m not jealous.
I need a job I need a job I need a job.
Just because Owen Brodie is an unfunny, overrated, overly handsome asshat, that doesn’t mean I won’t like his seven-year-old son.
“Well, that is so great for him. I guess I’d have to meet his son. To make sure we don’t hate each other. His son and me, I mean.”
“Yeah, of course. My office will set that up for you. I’ve met his kid actually. He’s a good kid. Grumpy little arsehole. But funny. Likes to take naps. He’s got red hair like his mum. He’s basically Gahfield, but without the fur. Or the tail. Or four paws. Probably likes lasagna, though.”
“Marty! You can’t say that about a child. That’s so mean.”
“It’s not mean. You’ll see. And stop calling me Mahty. Listen, I know it’s not your dream job, but you’ll be around a successful comedian, so you might learn a thing or two. Most likely make some new contacts through him on the road. You interested or not?”
“I’m interested. Have you, uhhhh, have you already told him my name?”
“I think I just called you my niece, Frankie. Why?”
“Nothing. He’s probably assuming my last name is Hancock.”
“Yeah, my assistant will give him your information.”
“No, don’t! I mean, you can give him my email address, but I don’t really want men I don’t know to have my full name and phone number.”
“Owen is my client, and he’s a good guy.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
He sighs once again, long and loud, and I feel his frustration deep in my soul.
“Listen, kid. I know you’re a talented person, and I want you to succeed.
But this is the last time I’m gonna help you get a job.
I know it sucks to be where you are in life when it seems like every undeserving arsehole around you is doing bettah than you.
But you need to fix that attitude. We all have to pay our dues, but nobody wants to fall on their sword for a cynic. Y’know?”
The hot sting of tough love is making my eyes water.
I don’t even seem to have a snarky comeback.
So I guess…I do know.
“Yeah. I know. I do really appreciate your—"
“What? Hang on, hang on.” He puts me on hold for three seconds before hopping back on with me. “Kid, I gotta go. Dave Chappelle’s on the other line.”
“Oh, give him my love. I gotta go too—Tina Fey’s trying to FaceTime me.”
“I’ll have my assistant email you about the meeting with Owen and the kid.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate it, Uncle Martin.”
“Sure. Just promise me you won’t be too…y’know…you.”
“I will do my best. Or someone else’s best, I suppose.”
He doesn’t respond because he’s already hung up on me so he can talk to Chappelle.
Which is fine.
Or maybe it’s terrible.
Maybe I should call him back immediately because there is no way in hell Owen Brodie will want to hire me when he finds out who I am.
And if he does want to hire me—well then, what does that say about him?
And do I really want to have to look at his face all day every day for over a month?
Oh, but maybe his adorable son just needs someone to love him while his dad’s telling awful jokes to crowds of people who just want to look at him.
I stare down at my phone.
Instead of calling my uncle back, I redownload the Twitter app.
Maybe if I reread every single one of Owen Brodie’s tweets with this new life-changing non-cynical perspective, I will find something funny in them and find something to like about him as a person.
But wait…
There’s a message…
From Owen Brodie.
From a few days ago.
OWEN brODIE: That just confirmed that you think I’m hot. Thanks and have a nice day ;)
Shit.
Shit shit shit.
There is literally nothing I can respond with that will make our forthcoming meeting any less awkward.
So I will ignore the message and delete the Twitter app again.
It’s the only logical move I can make.
ME:
Shit.