This begins in 1976 in Beverly Hills, a city I recently moved to due in large part to having “divorce brain,” a condition in which seemingly off-the-cuff, instantaneous, life-changing decisions are made, the kind that makes total sense to the person having them, but leaves other people scratching their heads. I was 27.
Even though nobody could figure out my reasoning, moving to Beverly Hills turned out to be the exact right thing to do.
As part of my life-changing interests, I signed up for the est training. I also registered because Sandy, someone I was dating, said, “You need to do this because the chrome around your jawline is starting to gleam.”
While waiting for the course date, I periodically checked mirrors for possible gleam.
Three weeks after finishing the training, I had lunch with Linda, a new friend who managed public relations for internationally known people, mainly in entertainment. Five minutes into chatting, she said, “Something is different about you. You seem more open.”
I smiled and sipped my wine. “Really?” I could see her thinking.
“Yeah. You know, I have a client who is looking for a personal assistant. Would you be interested?”
“Sure. But I’m not a very good secretary. Who is it?
“Flip Wilson. This job is more of a do whatever comes up. I’ll schedule the interview and let you know the details.”
His famous line got stuck in my head while I waited a week to meet with him: “What you see, honey, is what you get and nothin’ else. Humph!”
I called Linda right after the interview. “Linda, he seems nice. But our conversation lasted three minutes. It seemed like he was just checking me out to make sure I wasn’t strange. He didn’t even look at my resume. We don’t know anything about each other. He said, “If Linda likes you, then I’m sure it will work out. And that was the end of my interview.”
“Just take the job.”
“I did.”
***
My first day arrived, and I still didn’t know what my job actually entailed. I hopped in my Fiat with everything I thought I might need. I drove down the empty canyon of the Palisades Highlands, and headed to his house on Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu. I can always quit if I don’t like the job, I thought.
I parked on a narrow strip of dirt between the highway and his house that sat on the beach side and knocked on the door. A woman in her 60s opened it. I thought she might be his housekeeper. “Hi, I’m Heather, and…”
“Oh, right, Flip said you were coming. I don’t know where he is. You’ll have to find him,” she said, waving for me to come in while turning to walk away.
Hoping she would guide me to him, I asked, “Would he be in an office, maybe?” I was uncomfortable walking all around the home of someone I didn’t know. He might not want me looking everywhere.
“No idea.” And she left through a swinging door into what appeared to be a large pantry.
So I stepped into the living room. Each time a wave broke, spray flew at the windows. I’d hate to wash those floor-to-ceiling windows every week, I thought. I looked right and saw four steps leading up to a hallway. It seemed the only place to go, so off I went calling, “Flip. This is Heather. Are you here?” Silence.
I gingerly opened every door and called for him before stepping in. I found an office, a small theater, and a closet the size of a living room full of Geraldine garb. The master bedroom was dominated by a raised platform covered in a thick Chinese rug with pillows tossed loosely against a wall.
I returned to the living room and stood wondering what to do. Then, a sniffle and a rustling came from the vicinity of the windows. The only thing in front of them was an empty vanilla-colored leather sofa. I knelt on the couch, peered over the back of it, and looked down. On the floor was something, no someone, flopping around, completely wrapped head to foot in a sheet. An image arose of a still-alive fish wrapped in butcher paper.
“Flip. Is that you?” I asked over the back of the sofa.
“Of course, it’s me. Who else would it be?”
“This is Heather. I’m here to go to work.”
“Oh, right. I’ll get up in a minute. Go set up your camera and backdrop and whatever else you’ve got.” He said through the sheet.
“Um, I didn’t bring a camera. Linda didn’t mention that in my instructions. I can bring it tomorrow, though.”
This isn’t starting off well, I thought.
“You’re an idiot. How can you do your job without a camera? If you don’t bring it the first day, you are not coming back.”
“Why do I need a camera today?”
“So you can do my headshots, you idiot.”
“Flip, I don’t do headshots. I’m your new assistant.”
“I interviewed you to do my photos. They are horribly out of date. I hate taking those things.”
Then he pulled back the sheet to inspect me as I leaned over the back of his sofa.
“Okay. Starting over. Go get us some coffee from Marilyn in the kitchen. And find me a photographer who can get good shots in 10 minutes. And call my interior designer and find out when our offices will be finished. It’s been three months. What are they putting into those two rooms that’s taking so long? I’m done working out of my house!”
And then he went back under as if flopping around, covered entirely under a sheet behind a sofa, was something everyone likely did.
That was the beginning.
Oh, and lastly, no one mentioned an additional part of my job description, security detail– something requiring a well-honed sixth sense, because what was about to happen could never be anticipated. And I had to see it coming before anyone else.
You have no idea the kind of stuff that happened to us.
Peace & Love,
Heather
“The Devil made me buy this dress.”
DISCLAIMER:
Nothing I write is meant as personal advice, so please be discerning. Do not believe anything I write without first seeing if it is true for you. If it is, fine. If it isn’t, put it aside.
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