Video Slut by Sharon Oreck

Author:Sharon Oreck
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2010-04-22T04:00:00+00:00

10

We’ll Be Together

I accidentally started my own coproduction company back in 1985, thanks to a faux-blond male hairdresser wearing a navy blue sailor suit, who decided to take $2,000 out of my Limelight petty cash envelope in order to procure illegal stimulants for an eighties anthem band named after Dorothy’s dog in a famous children’s film, and then didn’t give me a receipt.

I guess I should’ve known that Giorgio wasn’t being paid a thousand dollars a day for his grooming skills, since he didn’t know how to operate a dryer, use scissors, or employ a brush. On the other hand, he did demonstrate an uncommon flair for random, frenetic hair ratting, which became obvious only after the eight-year-old actors who were portraying 1950s English farm lads showed up on set with five-inch Brigitte Bardot bubble-dos.

I still didn’t understand the precise nature of Giorgio’s real services until one of the band members invited me into his dressing room to order veggie sushi, complain about the sugared soft drinks, and mention that he had recently been saved by the Lord from the cravings of hard-drug addiction while he was in the middle of snorting a big, fat line of fine white powder.

“Er, aren’t you actually doing hard drugs right now?” I asked, confused. After all, the new band member had been brought in to replace the old band member, who was rumored to have been placed in an undisclosed facility for two or three decades of involuntary rehabilitation.

“Cocaine has been proven by medical science to be completely nonaddictive, even if you do it every day, praise Jesus!” said the singer, proving that you can be a deeply devout person who is still a badly coiffed nose tweaker. “Now, please give Giorgio two thousand dollars to go and run an important, er, music video–related errand for me.”

“No way.” I stood fast.

I had absolutely no intention of enabling an alleged narcotics transaction on the part of a style poseur who wanted me to give up my precious production company money to some skeeze with a mullet. Due to an early teen trauma involving a Manhattan Beach Frye boot salesman with offensive body odor and superfluous facial hair, I had strong negative feelings about the pompatus of love. Besides, I might really need that money later, for foam-core, afternoon tea treats, or some extra packs of cigarettes for the grip, lighting, and production teams.

Then somebody threatened to shut down the production and pull out all my battery cables, so the record company told me that I had to allow the hairdresser to “have access to” my production assistants, so they could drive all over the hinterlands of Los Angeles in order to secure several thousand dollars worth of undocumented “beauty supplies.”

“Fine,” I said. “Be that way.”

Life proceeded apace until the following week, when I was called on the financial carpet by the Limelight production accountant, who refused to approve my final paycheck just because my completed petty cash envelope had nothing in it except for

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