Call Me Floor Lamp

Every once in a while, I'll be doing something mundane. Watching television. Eating a sandwich. Staring at inanimate objects waiting for them to move so that I can finally have the proof that Beauty and Beast is based in reality. Showering. And, I'll stop. Very suddenly, and without warning. I stop everything I'm doing and think, What am I doing here? And, I mean that in more ways than one. What am I doing here: in Los Angeles, in this job, in the shower? And, what am I doing? Period.

I don't know. That's the best answer I can come up with on a consistent basis. I just. Don't. Know. My life is like the road trip between Tucson and Phoenix. I made that drive so often in the last three years that I stopped paying attention altogether. I leave my house in Tucson and two hours later, voila! I'm opening the garage in Phoenix. There is no inbetween. Those are the moments when you know you don't really exist.

This is why so many twentysomethings claim to be lost in their lives, in their minds. Whether they're unemployed or employed but just hoping for that next break, they're all living with me in the inbetween. At some point in the future, we'll all be sitting in glass-walled offices staring at our Oscars, waiting for them to move just a tiny bit so that we can finally have the proof that Beauty and the Beast is based in reality, and we'll think, How did we get here? All evidence of our struggles and youthful ambitions will be as hazy as the outdoor shopping center in Casa Grande.

And, perhaps that's what keeps me moving. The knowledge that this moment, the moment when I have so little to do at work that I've managed to complete a softball sized rubber band ball from scratch, will not matter ten years down the line. Or maybe five years. Or maybe less. One can only hope. Because right now, I don't exist. I am useless as a floor lamp on a nightless beach. And, I've accepted that.

The way I figure, as long as I'm here, I might as well enjoy myself. I work in the Universal Studios back lot. A place that, on my first entrance, was as magical as walking from regular Disneyland into the Toonville section of Disneyland. Magical. Just magical. Everything is more exaggerated and colorful. People ride around in obnoxiously loud, gas guzzling golf carts. There are celebrities. Somewhere. And, I get paid to sit around and do nothing. Or in this instance, right now, as I write this sentence, I'm being paid to write a blog about how little I do at work. And in life. I'm in a tornado of self-reflexiveness, and I can't get out. Help.

Whew. Out.

Life's not too bad, I guess. Not right now, at least, when I have my internship. It's the "after now" that worries me. The time when my supervisor will say, "All right, Katie, you can leave now." And I'll say, "Eh. That's okay. I think I'll stay." And she'll say, "No. Seriously. You need to leave." Then, as I stare into her eyes, trying to get that one built-up tear to exit my tear duct and stream down my cheek, a string quartet will appear and begin playing me off stage. And, I'll forget to thank Sarah and Monique for all the good times before I exit to the side stage. Then, I'll forget my award, and I'll run back on stage to claim it, only to realize that it's not a stage at all. It's a bungalow on the Universal back lot, housing a production company that I previously worked for. Emphasis on the previously. And, there is no award. Just the looming threat of unemployment. I'm stuck again but, this time, in a different tornado.

I will survive.

Somewhere, some strange woman is staring at the floor lamp that holds my subconscious, waiting for it to move, just slightly, so that she can finally prove that Katie Gault is based in reality.

Behind Door No. 2

I have this recurring dream. I'm a contestant on a game show. A game show where the host is all teeth and a bowtie. He walks me into a room with no cameras, no walls, no ceiling. Just three doors standing side-by-side. He says, "Behind one is your dream. The rest are filled with emptiness." He points to door number 2. It swings open, revealing a warm light. This is my dream. It is a recurring dream of hope and happiness and fortune. And, it's behind door number 2.

But, then there's a twist. There's always a twist. As I lift my arm to point at door number 2, five more doors drop from the darkness above my head. They land next the other three. The host widens his grin and waves his arm. Door number 2 slams shut. The doors begin to shift, faster and faster, weaving in and out of each other. Door number 2 is now door number 4, and then it's door number 1. And, then door number 5. The host laughs, "Keep your eyes on your dream!" And, I do. I follow that door with a mighty will and strained eyes.

But, then, I blink.

It's that easy. A blink, and everything is gone. My hopes, my dreams. Everything. This is my recurring nightmare as I end my career as a student and begin my career as a . . . well, at this point I just need something that pays. "Dream big. Aim high. No goal is unattainable! I'm going into the entertainment industry!" Katie screamed from the mountain top moments before being struck down by a bolt of lightning. I'm going to become a walking cliché. Either that, or a waitress.

I've been searching for a job for a month now, but to no avail. I tell myself it's just the economy. There just aren't any jobs out there for a poor pale Arizonan girl right out of the college womb. Especially when that poor pale Arizonan girl doesn't quite live in Hollywood yet, and her connections are sparse. That's what I tell myself. But, then every once in a while, a tiny ounce of insecurity creeps in and I think, Maybe it's just me. Either way, I'm unemployed.

It took my new roommates and I a total of two weekends, four days and 6 tanks of gas to find a place to live. The first place we so-naively applied for turned us away because we were all unemployed. "Well, of course we're unemployed. We can't get jobs without a place to live!" "And, you can't get a place to live without a job." That's what I sound like when I become schizophrenic. It happens often. No worries.

But, finally, in our last bout of desperation, we found a place. A perfect place. Why perfect? Two words. Wet bar. Now, I don't drink. Not since the sangria at my brother's wedding. But, when I think of fancy, I think "wet bar." What's not to like about a wet bar? It provides extra storage for anything that doesn't fit in the kitchen, and it's great for displaying cheap wine bottles. Plus, the name itself: "Wet Bar." It sounds like a particularly slippery brand of soap. Or, perhaps, the filthiest strip club in Europe.

Wet Bar.

With new hope and a place with a view (of an alleyway), I continued my job search, only to some avail. After spending an hour on Google Earth searching Ventura Blvd. for a coffee shop or restaurant that might consider my years of office work an admirable quality, I checked my email. I still receive emails from the Media Arts department at UA, and I never read them for obvious reasons. But, something about this particular batch of emails peeked my interest. An email titled "Paid Internship." Click. I'm there, and I'm submitting, and I'm hoping. And, BAM! Four days later I'm woken up (at 11am) by a receptionist at the production company. She says her boss is going to interview me over the phone. I say, "Great!" And, then I wait until 2pm (with no bathroom breaks, just in case) for that phone call.

There's always a moment during any interview process when I wonder, Is forwardness obnoxious or likable? Or, is it just expected? In this case, I suppose it was expected. The woman didn't call at 2pm, so I waited ten minutes past the hour and called myself. She was stuck on a conference call, and her assistant said she'd call me back in five. Three minutes pass, and then a ring.

Me: "Hello?"
Her: "Hi Katie. How are you?"
Me: "How are you?"
Her: "Oh, I'm good. Thank you."
Me: "Oh, gosh. I'm fantastic by the way."

If I were more flexible, I would kick myself in the face. Sometimes I get so concerned over being polite that I end up acting just the opposite.

We spoke for a few minutes, and she asked me to come into the office on Monday. I agreed. We exchanged verbal handshakes and hung up. And, that's when I realized that I hadn't breathed in nearly five minutes.

So, I have an interview. It's a start. If I get this job, I'll still need to get another just to have enough to pay for anything other than rent. But, it's all good. Things are looking up. I'm looking up, and I'm not seeing any of those surprise doors falling out of the darkness. Door number 2 is standing right in front of me, and this time it's slightly cracked open.