Fifty-Four
Three Days Later
There is no worse sensation than taking a step to reach for the laundry detergent and feeling your bare toes sink into a fresh
pile of dog shit.
“Little Sister!” I yelled. Coming home from the Capitol Grill on my break to do a couple quick chores, I’d made the mistake
of kicking off my shoes and socks at the door.
Now as I hopped around on one foot, cursing, my phone began to ring. A midday phone call had a fifty-fifty chance of being
spam or the school nurse. A Los Angeles area code. Spam. Still, I was done sending every call to voicemail. I picked up.
“Hello?” I said, jumping toward the sliding glass kitchen door on my one unsullied foot.
“Lauren McClain’s office calling for Tilly Turner,” a young woman said in the bored tone all viciously competitive assistants
in the entertainment industry employ.
I put my dookie-smeared foot down on the back porch to steady myself. “Is it April Fool’s?” I said. “Tell me it’s not April
Fool’s.”
“It’s still March,” the bored-sounding assistant said. “Can you hold while I get Lauren on the line?”
“Okay,” I managed. I hobbled to the hose, turned the water on full blast, and sprayed the bottom of my foot. Irrationally,
I believed that I could not, should not, speak to one of the most legendary comedy producers in the world with dog poop between
my toes.
“Hello?” a calm voice said.
“Lauren?” I said. “It’s Tilly Turner.”
“Are you in the shower?” she asked. “No, don’t tell me. You’ve hiked to the base of a Montana waterfall.” Thanks to the Yellowstone TV franchise, people in LA thought the only thing between Utah and Canada was Montana.
Suddenly I understood that if I was going to do this, I needed to be one hundred percent authentically myself at every second.
I was not going to pretend to be anything but a mother of twins with a not-quite-house-trained dog living in a state that
rang no Hollywood bells. “I’m in my backyard in Idaho hosing dogshit off my bare foot,” I admitted.
Lauren McClain let out a belly laugh. “Did you get a puppy? When I got my labradoodle, I had the puppy blues for a goddamn
year.”
“How could I not have the blues when this thing has chewed up all my power cords?”
“Did you have to go to the Apple Store to replace them?” Lauren said.
“The Apple Store is a soul crusher,” I said. At the exact same time she said, “The Apple Store is hell on earth.”
We both laughed. There was an awkward silence while I waited to see if she’d keep chatting as if she was an old friend or
if she planned to actually explain why she was calling.
“So usually I’d reach out to your manager or agent, but my assistant said she couldn’t tell if you have one,” Lauren said.
“I haven’t had representation since my manager at Circle of Circles dropped me like a hot potato after Mickey Larynx was outed
as a creep,” I said.
“That tracks,” Lauren McClain said. “Tilly, I’ve been a big fan of your work since way back.”
I made a small choking sound. This was news to me.
“Seriously,” she said. “I was in the audience at Westside Comedy Theater when you were trying out your set about coconut oil.”
“The only vagina-friendly lube you can use to cook stir-fry,” I said.
“Or to take off your eye makeup,” we said at the same time and both chortled.
“After that set, I kept an eye on you,” Lauren said. “This is a brutal business. The women who speak out against powerful
perps can lose their careers. But so can the women who don’t speak out. When I have the opportunity, I try to make things
right. At least in my corner of the universe. That’s why I was asking about representation.”
“I don’t have an agent or manager,” I said. “But I do have a great entertainment attorney.”
This was true, though something I hadn’t thought of once in the last year. Nelson Keeling had a calm demeanor, silvery-blonde
hair, and ears so pointed I’d secretly nicknamed him the King of the Elves. He somehow had not one ounce of skeeve.
“Good,” Lauren McClain said. “Because I’m calling to see if you’d be interested in doing an hour-long comedy special for HBO.”
My legs turned rubbery and I sank to the wet paving stones. From where I sat on the ground, my perspective was surprisingly
different. A slat in the fence had come loose. Pollen dusted the pavers. Lauren McClain was still talking.
“Your set that went viral was cut short. But what I saw of it was hilarious, innovative. A really revolutionary blend of physical
and intellectual comedy. And I’ve been loving your Insta reels. The Vagina Monster—” She actually started laughing.
Who knew the Vagina Monster would be the gift that kept on giving? Hose water poured out all around me, soaking my jeans.
Above me, the bare branches of the maple tree showed its first green leaves. Beyond that, the sky was a deep impossible blue.
The cold dark season was ending. Spring was almost here. California had its endless summer. But there was a good feeling to
having survived the longest winter of my life.
“Hello? Tilly? Tilly? Is that something you might be interested in?”
Is Chappell Roan gonna keep on dancing at the Pink Pony Club? Yes! Yes! A thousand times, yes! “I’m interested,” I managed. “Very interested. But I have terms that’ll need to be discussed. I’ve got seven-year-old twins with expensive taste in Barbie clothes.”
“Understood.”
“And if we include backup pole dancers, I’d like professional strippers and I’d want them paid—lavishly. Without strippers,
there would be no pole, and thus no jokes about pole. They should be compensated accordingly.”
In a tone that implied her game respected my game, Lauren said, “It sounds like there will be a lot for our people to discuss.”