Chapter 2: Bad Idea

    "What are you doing?!" he barked, as he slammed his coffee cup on the table. I jerked at the booming voice coming from behind me and turned around immediately. Steve Dolton stood before me, anger spread across every feature of his face. He was turning red as each second of tension passed.
"Sorting the scripts.." I trailed off, almost shaking "..like you said."
"After five months, you still can't follow directions?" he asked sarcastically. It only took me one day working with Steve to come to the realization that he was a self righteous, demanding, fake tanned douchebag. To prevent the loss of my only income, I sucked it up and kept it professional.
"I'm doing what you asked, Mr. Dolton, sir."
"Bullshit," he scoffed, walking off the set and glaring at me. I sighed and followed him.
"What would you like me to do now?" I asked, in the most artificial tone of friendliness I could conjure up.
"Go make sure Ellie gets her latte," he barked and with that, he disappeared into his trailer. I laughed to myself at his stupidity, because her name was Ali, not Ellie. Ali Lohan to be exact, shooting her promotional video.

    "Here's your latte, Ms. Lohan," I said with a smile, handing it to her. She stared down at her phone, as if I wasn't standing before her, with her latte in hand. I waited for a few more seconds. "Here's your lat--" I began, before I was cut off.
"Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time," she said waving her hand and grabbing the latte. She continued texting and eventually took a sip and just sat there, lifeless.
"Did you get her the latte?" her mother questioned, walking through the trailer door with a look of annoyance. She was carrying a million shopping bags from the designer stores on Rodeo Drive. "Look, honey, I got you those shoes you wanted!" she squealed, pulling out what seemed to be three inch Versace heels. Ali looked up and rolled her eyes.
"Wrong ones, Mom," she said dully.
"You said you wanted these, so I bought them. You're going to wear them," she demanded.
"I asked for the black ones mom, what part of that don't you get?"
I could smell the argument coming on and slowly started backing out of the trailer. I made my way out and thought I avoided the whole ordeal, only to be stopped in my tracks.
"Where are you going? Get the damn make up artist in here, we need to shoot soon," she added before letting me go. After five months, you'd think I would have quit by now, with all this attitude from Steve and his clients, but somehow my tolerance level had gone up and I tried to control myself from snapping back. Ali was just one of the many clients Steve had that were stuck up, rude, disrespectful, and snotty. Once in a while, I'd meet some nice people who appreciated the lengths I went to. If I spoke to a nice client about anything besides the project or themselves and their needs, Steve hassled me and put me on the spot.
"He's not here to socialize with you, he's here to sing in a video," or "Assistants don't hang out with the elite, stop fraternizing and do your damn job," or he would just laugh and yell for me to go fullfill his needs. Get me this, get me that. No please or thank yous.
    If he wasn't picking on me, he was yelling for something, or criticizing what I did. People in the control room always asked me how I dealt with a grade A d-bag. I always laughed and shook my head and told them I'd let them know if I ever found the answer. The control room guys were sympathetic and tried to make my days better by being friendly, but most of them were stand-offish as well.
    "Don't sweat it, kiddo," Darren, the location director, said, "He's like that to everyone." That was somewhat true. Besides being the world's biggest moron, Steve was great at being fake. He was a brown-noser to all of his clients, tending to their needs. Scratch that, having me tending to their needs. Thinking about it, I had never really met anyone so rude. I guess the industry really was a cut-throat thing.

    "Go look over the list and make sure all the singers this week are notified of their shoots," Steve mumbled, while looking over the schedule for the day. It was a bright and sunny Friday; everyone was dressed for the occasion. Guys walking around in their headsets in cargo shorts and the girls carrying props and other items across the set in summer dresses. My attempt to match the sunny weather was quite disarrayed. A grey v-neck, with a sleeveless deep purple cardigan draping past my waist, skinny jeans that hugged my ankles, and metallic gold gladiator sandals.
"What list?" I asked, politely. He dropped his schedule and glared at me. That was not the question he wanted to hear.
"The fricken list of clients, in the main office, damnit," he said, raising his voice, "You always ask these stupid questions," he added. He picked up his coffee cup and shaked it, to see if there was anything left. He chucked his coffee cup at me, "Refill that, and quick." The cup hit my arm and was about to hit the floor, before I caught it. The cameraman walked by, shaking his head. I tried to control my anger as I turned around. My hands shook in rage as I walked into the main office. I ran to the list, taking down the names and phone numbers. Metro Station on Monday for a promotional video for their new album, Peter Wilkinson on Tuesday for commentaries on a documentary, Mishon for a shoe commercial on Wednesday, and so on. I didn't bother looking for anyone I had heard of, I figured they'd all turn out to be the jerks like all the people I was once a fan of. I ran out, filled up the cup of coffee, and handed it back to Steve, who also didn't acknowledge my presence.
"Ready...and action!" he shouted, as the girl in front of the camera began singing, guitar in hand. I had never heard of her, so I assumed it was for a private record company. I watched her as the fan blew her gorgeous blond hair into different directions. She strummed her guitar and sang, smiling the entire time. She looked so happy. In a way, I wish I could have traded places with her. My thoughts were interrupted when Steve's booming voice rang through the studio.
"What the hell are you doing?" he asked, moving me away from the set, "Go back to the office and put all of the client's files and paperwork together." I didn't hesitate and ran into the office. I spent three extra hours in the office and by the time I got out, all the lights in the studio were off. The control room had it's usual lock on the metal door. The cameras were pushed back to the wall, their covers giving away their shape. I sighed and ran out of the building, exhausted.

Looking up at my chipped ceiling, I sighed in my bed and thought about the last five months. Sure, I was making the money I desperately needed to pay for a higher education, but was all of it worth it? Having things thrown at you, getting yelled at, having your intelligence questioned, was it all worth the money? I shook the thoughts out of my head. It wasn't what I wanted, but it was something I had to do. Something in me was telling me that it was worth it. Maybe things would get better.