Dedicated because XxDrakeGoesGagaxX is one of my absolute favorite writers and leaves the best comments ever!!! :) Please read Guns, Not Roses to see what I mean!
Chapter 10
May to July was a whirlwind of work with James McCalman.
As far as business was concerned, I maintained an easy-going and efficient work relationship with James. It was nothing like the months working side by side with Jon through the times of his early sobriety, but it was better for me. The dynamic of assistant to the assisted was upheld just as I had planned. I did everything I could to create a boundary to separate my personal life and self from my professional life and self. I was two people and though it could be difficult at times and it felt slightly wrong, I preserved an image of a straight faced and serious assistant that worked diligently but wanted to be kept at arm’s length.
At first James would joke with me, like he had at the black and white party, but once he discovered I was not going to go along with it, he stopped. The casual conversation with him back then had been a slip up and I was determined not to be my normal self with him again. Despite a more regimented and stern environment, I loved my job and I was good at it. James wasn’t paying me to laugh and entertain him, but rather to make his life easier and help him be even more successful. That’s just what I did.
First I learned everything I could about him by asking directly about likes and dislikes in regards to food, drinks, restaurants, snacks, trips, hotels, bed times, wake-up calls, movies, music, and more. I did this through a boring checklist so as not to make it feel like when you make friends or date and learn about each other; that was not the way to maintain a healthy distance.
Once I had the basics down, I learned about all of the people in his life personally and professionally. I had- at the very least- the phone number and email of every family member he talked to and close friend he may need me to get ahold of. For some of them I also had addresses, birthdays, anniversaries, and even- for his mother- a list of her favorite things.
James was confused about the inquiries I made, answering but still insisting that I didn’t need to know most of it. When I had asked the more personal questions about his mother, he answered but seemed perplexed. He was laid out in a similar manner as when I met him- except on his own couch- barefoot in a pair of jeans with holes in the knees and a gray polo. His long hair was tucked behind his ears and I tried not to notice how his biceps flexed as he slipped his hands behind his head. This quickly became the most common position for me to find him in. I silently wished it was winter rather than late spring so that he would be more covered up. There was no denying the raw animal appeal he had; muscles fighting against every inch of his shirt to break free, scruffy face, long messy hair.
“Why do you need to know my mum’s favorite flowers and candies?” he questioned in a puzzled but relaxed manner. His demeanor remained carefree and casual nearly all of the time.
“For her birthday or anniversary or if she goes to the doctor, things like that,” I answered simply, thinking it obvious.
“Are you planning on being her new best friend?” he asked with a twinkle in his eyes- yes, a twinkle, no joke his icy blue eyes sparkled with amusement when he joked around! It was the most ridiculous and sexy thing I had ever seen. The first time it happened I thought I was just too sex deprived and was imagining things. After that I tried not to make eye contact if I could get away with it, but in trying to be my usual confident self, looking him in the eyes was necessary more often than I preferred.
I held back a laugh trying to remain serious, “Of course not, but I assume you’ll want me to send gifts to her occasionally for birthdays and such, right?”
He chuckled lightly at my question. “Of course not, I see my mum on her birthday and holidays and if she’s in the hospital I’ll be there to bring her favorite flowers. I would never have someone else do it for me.”
“You’ll remember?” I blurted without thinking.
“Of course! What kind of son doesn’t remember and has his assistant do it for him?”
Jon, that’s who, I thought. Tilting my head, I stared at him surprised by his answer. I felt the ghost of a smile tug the corners of my lips up lightly, but I caught it before it could turn into a real one and looked back down at my notebook, changing the subject.
It didn’t take long to get the info on all the major contacts James worked with in the business, including his manager Tony Cordova, his doctor and dentist, his trainer, his driver, his gardening service, and his pool guy. Then I took it upon myself to find the nearest plumbing, electrical, and mechanical specialists with high ratings to have just in case he needed them, as well as a grocery delivery. I learned where the closest dry cleaning was for his suits and where the closest coffee places were for me, though I would be heading to Café St. Clare most of the time unless I was in a time crunch.
I spent most of my days at James’ home going over his schedule, discussing future events, reading scripts, and mostly just getting him organized. He was between films so there were no press tours to rush off to and he was using that time to relax. I was using that time to help him donate a plethora of brand new merchandise to the needy that he insisted was taking up too much space. The next major task once that fiasco was over became turning his garage into something functional. At the end of the project I felt like an interior decorator and I admit I had quite a bit of fun.
Every day I showed up in the morning wearing dress pants and a concealing button-up- despite his insistence that I wear whatever I want- with my hair in a ponytail, his dry cleaning in one hand and coffee from Café St. Clare in the other; James became just as addicted to the Clare’s nectar of the Gods as me. In the beginning I had tried to buy or make him breakfast as well, but he insisted he could manage on his own and spouted off that it was ludicrous to make me do it. After much protesting on my part I surrendered to his logic and allowed him to make us both breakfast instead. To my surprise, he was a great cook and he enjoyed it immensely. The way he moved in the kitchen creating delicious meals, it was like second nature and I often had to hide the smile from my face as he whipped around from stove to fridge to cabinet and back. Despite his grace, however, he always sat down to eat with some sort of spill on his shirt.
Much to his disappointment, I always washed up afterwards. He told me that he “didn’t hire a maid,” but I refused to allow him to cook for me and clean up too; It felt like all of that was my job and I was taking advantage of him.
At breakfast I would go over the list of things he had to do that day or events people wanted to schedule with him in the future, to decide what he was comfortable with and what he refused to do. He was decisive so all of this ran smoothly.
Those first couple months we were both feeling each other out and trying to get used to our working dynamic. He tried his hardest to get to know me, but I changed the subject or deflected the questions ensuring all of our time went to work. To his credit, he never stopped probing and the side of me that had been hurt in the past barely won out over the side that wanted to tell him anything he asked. Lucky for me, despite the attraction, I was no longer intimidated by him so dodging his questions became second nature.
What really surprised me after a mere eight weeks was that it was nothing like working for Jonathon Roberts. Aside from both being handsome and actors, they had little in common. Even so, when I was hired I assumed my job role would be the same as it had been in the past; I was very wrong. At night, after an easy albeit boring day with James I would often times lie in bed and think about how different my job used to be.
My days with Jonathon when he first got sober, though following a similar timeline, were a lot more work. I awoke in the guest bedroom that I had moved into early on and got dressed in a comfortable tank top and jeans, per Jon’s wear-whatever-you-want allowance. Then I had his driver take me to get coffee and tea at Clare’s- the latter for Jon- as well as the day’s paper and Jon’s dry cleaning, returning with my hands full, to cook breakfast for the both of us. Once it was ready, I woke up Jon’s grumpy shirtless form myself because he hated alarm clocks and sat him at the table with his tea and breakfast.
I didn’t go over his day with him at this time because he was never fully awake or social the first hour he woke up. After breakfast we would go running together- if I could convince him- and then we would both shower and clean up before I discussed his day with him while cleaning our dishes. He was also not very busy in the beginning; all the bad press had put the media in a frenzy to interview him, but had turned the desirable movie offers fairly cold. He was still too fragile to speak out about his bad behavior so instead we released several statements and I convinced him to do some very public charity work with the San Diego Zoo and several organizations involved with keeping the arts in school for children. Everything he did was about improving his image in the public and looking like the happy and stable guy he used to be so that the offers would start pouring back in.
He was a jerk and needed constant prodding to do anything, but I knew that he expected me to quit and give up on him so I kept at it. Initially I was still a shrew of an assistant; stern, solid, never wavering. I did not want to be, but that is what he needed me to be. I thought about how it was like raising a child; you want to give them everything they request, anything to make them happy. But if you give a child whatever they want, they will be children forever. They need structure, rules, vegetables, and a lot of other things they would not choose for themselves. A bit of tough love can go a long way in the process of turning boy to man.
Over time though, I realized that he no longer needed someone to dictate to him, but rather someone to talk to. He began to take on responsibility little by little. The more mature he acted the more laid back I became. I officially had the title ‘personal assistant’, but was also unofficially the cook, housecleaner, appointment maker, alarm clock, script reader, mediator, and personal trainer. I continued to do all of that and more because with Jon it was all part of the job, but when he started discussing scripts and events without me having to prompt him I knew he was getting better.
I was relieved that he hadn’t fired me and so pleased at all of his progress that I didn’t have the heart to ignore his questions, no matter how personal. That is how our friendship began and how we both began to chip away at the invisible barrier that made our relationship purely professional.
On a cool, breezy day in April, only a few months after I started working for Jon, came the major turning point that led to our friendship. That morning several cars pulled up to the gate claiming to be friends with him. He confirmed and once I buzzed them in he said he was spending the day with them catching up. Apparently he used to be in a band with them before he got serious with acting and being that he hadn’t been very social outside of seeing me, I was all too happy to fill my much-needed free time running errands and allowing him some normalcy.
When I got back that evening, Jon’s was the only car home. I could hear the music faintly as I walked through the door. It was easy for me to recognize the song, though the voice was not the same as what I remember from hearing it on the radio. I could tell it wasn’t just a cd in the background. Someone was playing the guitar and singing the lyrics in a deep, pained voice; a voice more appropriate for the song than that of the original singer, himself. Whoever was playing sounded as though they had been playing for years.
The Styrofoam containers filled with Jon’s favorite Italian food were forgotten on the counter as I let the music carry me through the entry way to the right, then down the long hall to the left, past both of our bedrooms, and then left again to the open doorway of a room more deep than wide. There Jon sat on the third of about eight steps that led to a sliding glass door on the far wall, which was revealing the end of a rather colorful sunset behind him. Aside from Jon, the tan carpet and golden curtains lining the slider, the room was empty. His hair was in its usual disarray and he was wearing a navy blue v-neck under a faded grey hoodie with dark blue skinny leg jeans and tan tennis shoes. His eyes were closed, body moving softly as he strummed.
I leaned against the doorway, one ankle in front of the other and arms crossed as well, engrossed in the music he was creating. I had no idea his voice could be so deep, so full of bittersweet remembrance. Aside from his drunken morose times in the first six months or so, in which he wouldn’t touch a guitar, he has been laidback, carefree, and even sometimes happy, yet still private. Even in the bad times, he was never that vulnerable in my presence. The lyrics flowed to me as he sang them…
“I was broken, for a long time, but it’s over now
You walk these lonely streets that people send, people send
There are some wounds just that can’t mend
And I do pretend
Now I’m free from all the things that take my friends
And I will stand here till the end”
I knew it well; my father often listened to my old iPod when he was bed ridden and it was one of the songs I had on there that he liked the best. I wondered why such a sad song was on Jon’s mind and why, in that moment, he was an absolute stranger to me- deep emotions singing out, eyes closed, seeming to feel every note he strummed from his guitar. I suppose, though I had been through a lot, I had never gone through the kind of heart break he had.
When he looked up, seeing me, I wasn’t ready for him to stop playing. His face was first surprised, then embarrassed, before giving way to the easy, polite comfortability that had slowly become the norm between us. It warmed me deep down, though it shouldn’t, to see someone’s ease at my presence; it reminded me of how much better my father felt, though he was dying, when I was there with him.
I walked toward Jon, sitting down on the step next to him wanting to smile, expecting to feel uncomfortable about viewing such an intimate moment, but only actually staring into his eyes, knowing I wanted to hear more while simultaneously not knowing how to say so. He noticed my expression was off, guessing wrong about why.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” he offered, apologetically.
“No, no it’s ok, please don’t stop,” I replied immediately revealing my eagerness.
He looked down at his guitar, a bit self-conscious, but when he looked back up into my excited eyes, he froze, saying nothing.
“Please don’t stop…” I couldn’t continue. I felt like he was finally letting me in and I wanted it so bad. Even more, the way he sang was comforting and his voice was deep and bittersweet. I was silent. I looked away, focusing on the minute patterns in the frieze carpet, though I could see him staring from out of the corner of my eye.
Something about my face must have convinced him, because he started the song over from the beginning. It only took me a minute for the slight heaviness in my eyes to form as he carried my thoughts back to my father. I didn’t even bother to wipe away the first tears I’d had in months; I just kept trying to solve an invisible puzzle in the flecks on the carpet. His voice- though like a strangers’ when he sang- soothed me as if it had sung me to sleep my whole life. He just kept playing unobtrusively, as if he were alone.
It was an unusually long song, for which I was grateful. I could feel it drift to an end; he strummed the last note and rested his hand on the strings, giving the carpet a once over as I had been doing. Finally, he looked up from under his messy hair ignoring my tear-stricken face into my bloodshot eyes.
I didn’t expect his eyes to be watery as well and even though he was clearly forcing himself not to cry, I appreciated that he didn’t look away and pretend he was fine. We continued our awkward stare until I couldn’t bare the silence any longer.
“I’m sorry…”
I didn’t know what else to say. He looked pained but he merely nodded once as if it were ok to have a nervous breakdown.
He wasn't the only one who'd been going through something those last few months.
“You know what I’m upset about, maybe it’s time you tell me what’s hurting you,” it was a statement, not a question.
I hesitated, only because I didn’t feel it fair to unload on him, but then continued when I understood that one song sung in his passionate voice was able to do what nothing else had since my father’s death; it allowed me to grieve.
Looking back it probably wasn’t the song in itself or the lyrics, maybe even not his darkly angelic voice that cracked the lid on the emotions I had bottled up, but rather his willingness to be so vulnerable, that allowed me to do so.
I told him about watching my father die slowly and painfully without medication because it made him so out of it. He wanted to be there mentally for every moment and while I appreciated the time with him, it was difficult to witness his pain and be helpless to fix it. I explained the guilt of wanting him to live longer despite his pain and what it was like planning the funeral and then running away to Los Angeles.
After I finished he pulled me to him and held me. It felt like the contact I so desperately needed. When I went to pull away, feeling guilty, he merely pulled me tighter and that was the moment I realized it was what he needed too.
From then on our friendship only flourished. We started to joke and tease and discuss our lives at length. I ran lines with him, prepped him for interviews, helped him pick out clothes for events, and became his confidante and finally, his best friend. Before I knew it we were doing everything together; my work day never really ended. Living in his home, one bedroom over, gave him 24-hour access to me and to be honest I didn’t want it any other way.
With one song, one hug we began our journey... One that wouldn't end well.