over her shoulder.
“I guess you could stop reading YA,” I try helpfully.
“It’s a love story about teenage half-angel warriors . . . I’m not made of stone.” She says this through a giggle, like it’s the most absurd thing I could ever suggest. She finally finds the lip balm she’s looking for and dabs it on her lips.
“OK, where are we getting the drink?” I ask, watching as she drops the balm back into the black hole of clutter in her bag.
I will never understand how people can live with such chaos. The inside of my bag is a collection of smaller bags, each with its own special purpose in the organizational hierarchy.
“You get to choose; you’re the one who got dream-crushed today.” Miko opens the door to the lobby and lets us out onto the sidewalk. It’s early October, and back home it’s already chilly, but here it still feels tepid. We walk along the sidewalk in silence.
“What do you mean I got dream-crushed?” I ask.
Miko takes a deep breath.
“I mean that today you learned that this job isn’t what you thought it was going to be. I mean that you can already tell how terrible Selah is, and it’s only day two. That makes you wonder what that means she’s like on day 22 or day 137. It means you realized that you’re working for one of the worst people you’ll likely ever meet and that you understand if you want whatever future you dreamed up for yourself, you’re going to have to keep working for her for the foreseeable future. You had a vision for the way this was all going to go down, and today that got blown to hell and back.”
She finishes succinctly: “ Dream-crushed .”
I stare down at my heels eating up the pavement beneath me.
“That sounds about right,” I finally concede.
“Yep. Let’s find you some vodka!”
Since I haven’t actually been out yet in LA, I pick the only place I even know the name of.
Gander, as it turns out, is a restaurant inside the Buchanan.The large wraparound bar that services both the restaurant and the hotel lobby at large is gigantic and sleek and surrounded by an eclectic mix of people who can afford the overpriced cocktails. It’s a place to see and be seen and the ideal locale for anyone starting or ending a night in Hollywood. I’m thankful I haven’t picked out something supremely cheesy, and I owe my knowledge of this cool location to the gorgeous but annoyed-looking bartender rocking a now perfectly styled pixie cut behind the bar.
Max looks up from the cocktail she is mixing just as Miko and I find seats at the bar. She calls down to me.
“You finally decided to come in?”
She is dressed the same as all the other bartenders here: skinny jeans, tight linen button-down shirt, thin suspenders. If I were wearing the uniform, I’d look like the ride operator on Big Thunder Mountain. On Max it looks flawless.
“Desperate times,” I reply as she walks over.
“What can I get you guys?” Max asks.
Miuko pipes up. “Any kind of cocktail involving liquor, and then we’ll also need a sidecar of more liquor. I’m Miko by the way,” she says, tossing her neon bag onto the floor at her feet.
“Bad day?” Max is already pulling unknown ingredients from below the bar to mix us something.
“Decidedly not the best day I’ve ever had,” I sigh.
“I told you she’s an asshole,” Max says.
“You did in fact.”
“How’d you know she’s an asshole?” Miko asks.
“I know some guys who’ve worked with her,” Max answers while sliding us two tall, sleek shot glasses filled with an opaque pink liquid.
“What’s this?” I ask, sniffing the shot dubiously.
“A new creation. I call it Cereal Milk. It tastes just like milk left at the bottom of the cereal bowl. You seem like a pink-shot kind of girl.” Max’s voice is sharp but her smile is teasing. I’m beginning to suspect her bark is worse than her bite.
I smile at my shot and the girl who made it, then down it in one swallow. She’s right; it tastes
“I guess you could stop reading YA,” I try helpfully.
“It’s a love story about teenage half-angel warriors . . . I’m not made of stone.” She says this through a giggle, like it’s the most absurd thing I could ever suggest. She finally finds the lip balm she’s looking for and dabs it on her lips.
“OK, where are we getting the drink?” I ask, watching as she drops the balm back into the black hole of clutter in her bag.
I will never understand how people can live with such chaos. The inside of my bag is a collection of smaller bags, each with its own special purpose in the organizational hierarchy.
“You get to choose; you’re the one who got dream-crushed today.” Miko opens the door to the lobby and lets us out onto the sidewalk. It’s early October, and back home it’s already chilly, but here it still feels tepid. We walk along the sidewalk in silence.
“What do you mean I got dream-crushed?” I ask.
Miko takes a deep breath.
“I mean that today you learned that this job isn’t what you thought it was going to be. I mean that you can already tell how terrible Selah is, and it’s only day two. That makes you wonder what that means she’s like on day 22 or day 137. It means you realized that you’re working for one of the worst people you’ll likely ever meet and that you understand if you want whatever future you dreamed up for yourself, you’re going to have to keep working for her for the foreseeable future. You had a vision for the way this was all going to go down, and today that got blown to hell and back.”
She finishes succinctly: “ Dream-crushed .”
I stare down at my heels eating up the pavement beneath me.
“That sounds about right,” I finally concede.
“Yep. Let’s find you some vodka!”
Since I haven’t actually been out yet in LA, I pick the only place I even know the name of.
Gander, as it turns out, is a restaurant inside the Buchanan.The large wraparound bar that services both the restaurant and the hotel lobby at large is gigantic and sleek and surrounded by an eclectic mix of people who can afford the overpriced cocktails. It’s a place to see and be seen and the ideal locale for anyone starting or ending a night in Hollywood. I’m thankful I haven’t picked out something supremely cheesy, and I owe my knowledge of this cool location to the gorgeous but annoyed-looking bartender rocking a now perfectly styled pixie cut behind the bar.
Max looks up from the cocktail she is mixing just as Miko and I find seats at the bar. She calls down to me.
“You finally decided to come in?”
She is dressed the same as all the other bartenders here: skinny jeans, tight linen button-down shirt, thin suspenders. If I were wearing the uniform, I’d look like the ride operator on Big Thunder Mountain. On Max it looks flawless.
“Desperate times,” I reply as she walks over.
“What can I get you guys?” Max asks.
Miuko pipes up. “Any kind of cocktail involving liquor, and then we’ll also need a sidecar of more liquor. I’m Miko by the way,” she says, tossing her neon bag onto the floor at her feet.
“Bad day?” Max is already pulling unknown ingredients from below the bar to mix us something.
“Decidedly not the best day I’ve ever had,” I sigh.
“I told you she’s an asshole,” Max says.
“You did in fact.”
“How’d you know she’s an asshole?” Miko asks.
“I know some guys who’ve worked with her,” Max answers while sliding us two tall, sleek shot glasses filled with an opaque pink liquid.
“What’s this?” I ask, sniffing the shot dubiously.
“A new creation. I call it Cereal Milk. It tastes just like milk left at the bottom of the cereal bowl. You seem like a pink-shot kind of girl.” Max’s voice is sharp but her smile is teasing. I’m beginning to suspect her bark is worse than her bite.
I smile at my shot and the girl who made it, then down it in one swallow. She’s right; it tastes
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