Gram dropped me off at a truck stop on the Interstate. I’d learned in the past few months that these were the best places to pick up rides. Truckers didn’t mind companions. But she was right. If a ride didn’t turn up, I could always catch a bus into town.
I didn’t have enough money to spend on a hotel, even a bad one, but maybe I could get away with sleeping on the beach. That was certainly something that I’d never done. Nights could get tricky. Sometimes I rode 24-hour buses just to catch some z’s.
I got a cup of coffee at the counter and looked over the customers, seeing if there were any prospects. The drivers were sparse midafternoon. One gruff man with a beard to his chest stared at me with beady eyes. I nursed my coffee for another half hour, then decided maybe I’d take off down the highway.
The doors burst open and a raucous group of four guys tumbled in. The waitress behind the counter paused with her order pad. They didn’t take a booth or a table, but piled onto the stools to my right.
“You got some pie?” One of them, a skinny dude with purple sunglasses, slammed his hand on the counter. “I need some old-school pie.”
The waitress braced her elbow on the counter, making no move to serve them. “I think you need some old-school manners.”
The other guys chorused a “Whoooa” and laughed themselves silly. I suppressed a smirk.
“All right, ma’am,” Purple Sunglasses said. “May I please see your list of pies?”
“I got apple, chocolate, and lemon,” she said.
“I’ll take lemon, thank you,” he said, his face poker-straight, like a chastised schoolboy.
She nodded. “Some coffee with that?”
“No, ma’am.”
The other three gave her their selections. As soon as she moved past the doors to the back, they took up their loud conversation again.
“We’re gonna be late to the gig, man!” one said.
“Nah, no way,” the other said.
I couldn’t stop staring. They made me think of the Beatles in their ’70s phase, all long haired and scruffy, rail thin in polyester pants and colored vests.
Purple Sunglasses caught me looking. “You play guitar?” he asked, tapping his foot against my case.
“I reckon I do,” I said.
“A southerner!” another cried out. “Where you from?”
“Tennessee,” I answered, feeling wary now. I wasn’t interested in being the butt of their jokes.
“That’s cool,” Purple Sunglasses said. “What brings you to Sunny Cal?”
I shrugged. “Just playing gigs across the country.”
“What kind of music?” he asked.
“Probably both kinds,” one of the others said. “Country AND Western.”
I let the joke roll right off me. It wasn’t like I looked country. I wore a Grateful Dead T-shirt and jeans with heavy black boots. It was the accent. I never could seem to lose it. “I mix it up,” I said.
“We’re the Sonic Kings,” he said, gesturing to his friends. “Blues and funk.”
“You’re playing tonight, I take it?” I asked.
“Yeah, a party for some movie dude.”
The waitress brought out the pieces of pie and set them in front of the band.
“Sounds like a sweet gig,” I said. “That in LA?”
Purple Shades shoveled pie in his gullet for a minute, then said, “Hollywood, USA.” He swallowed. “You need a lift or something?”
“I was headed that direction.”
“Right on,” he said. “You can hop in our van.” He turned to the others. “We got us a roadie.”
They followed with a round of “Cool” and “Righteous.”
Sweet. I was on my way to LA.
Chapter 3: Jenny
The evening was going according to plan. I soaked up the glory of walking a red carpet from Frankie’s limo to the Chinese Theatre. This movie wasn’t one of his, but he got invited to premieres all the time.
Reporters shouted questions as we posed in front of a backdrop plastered with the title of the movie we were about to see. An entire bank of photographers was held back by a red rope. Thousands of fans shouted and cheered behind a metal barricade.
God, this was the life. I swallowed hard over the lump in my throat, grief-stricken that it was ending.
“Why so sad, Pink Princess?” someone shouted.
Frankie glanced over at me, and I straightened my expression. It didn’t matter. The gossip sites would speculate over my somberness tomorrow after everything was done.
I smiled and waved.
The reporters called out questions about Prison Hunt, Frankie’s next film. A crew came forward and interviewed him. I stood behind him, smiling, then carefully stepped away at the right moment. I knew the drill. I wasn’t anybody special. Nobody wanted to know anything about some random girl the director brought along. I didn’t act or have any sort of career. Which was why Frankie chose me.
Regular Joes who had scored tickets to the premiere walked down the carpet, starstruck and shuffled along by ushers. Tomorrow I would be one of those people, able to gaze at the celebrities only from a distance.