Read Online Lucky Stars by Jane Heller - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jane Heller
Tags: hollywood, Movie Industry
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it’s not only the store. I’ve got my auditions.”
“You could miss one of those, couldn’t you? Just this once? Just for your old mom?” She said this not in her five-star-general voice but in her five-year-old-child voice, the voice that made the guilt kick in. “Besides, a day away from all those show business types would be good for you, a nice change. So listen to your mother and come with me.”
“All right, I’ll come with you,” I said, because I knew she’d wear me down eventually, so why not knuckle under early.
She smiled. “You won’t regret it, dear. You’ll see.” She was incorrect. As you’ll see.
O n a bright and sunny Monday morning, we waited out the rush hour traffic on the 405 and headed down to San Pedro at about 10:00 a.m. It was actually a more scenic drive than I’d anticipated, sailing over the Vincent Thomas Bridge to Terminal Island, the Port of Los Angeles and the hundreds of ships docked there in full view from the car. If it weren’t for my mother’s endless rants about her sunglasses that kept sliding down the bridge of her nose and the garbage truck that woke her up at five o’clock that morning and the call she’d gotten from Cleveland from her friend Rosalyn, inviting her to her daughter’s wedding (“God forbid my own daughter should be having a wedding.”), it wouldn’t have been a torturous trip.
‘This is kind of cool,” I remarked as we wound our way from Ferry Street to Terminal Way to streets with names like Tuna and Albacore and Barracuda—all home at one time to the various tuna companies. When we arrived at Fin’s on Cannery Street, we parked in their lot and walked to the front of what was an enormous, cavernous building.
“What’s the plan here?” I said. “You don’t have an appointment, right? You’re just planning to breeze in and announce yourself and hope they’ll remember your letter to them?”
She tapped her handbag. “I brought their letter with me. I’ll show it to the receptionist and she’ll see to it that we get the tour I was promised. If she doesn’t, I’ll have to go over her head.”
I nodded, pitying the poor receptionist.
“Hello,” my mother said to her. She was about my age and had a harelip. “I’ve been summoned by your director of public relations, a gentleman named Mr. Corbin Beasley, to come here and inspect your plant.”
The receptionist gave my mother a quizzical look. “Summoned?”
“That’s correct. It’s all in this letter.” She reached into her handbag and handed the letter over to the receptionist, who read it without enthusiasm, as if she’d seen such letters before. They were probably boilerplate responses to consumers with complaints. Just as probably, my mother was the first recipient to ever follow up on one. “So you don’t have an appointment with Mr. Beas ley.” This was more of a statement of fact than a question.
“No, but I assume he’ll make time for me. I’m one of the Fin’s consumers about whom he’s supposed to care so deeply.”
“It’s not that he doesn’t care, Mrs.—”
“Reiser. Helen Reiser. My daughter and I have driven almost forty-five minutes to come here this morning. We have no intention of leaving until we’re given a tour of your operation. Understood?”
Again, I felt so rr y for the receptionist She was no match for my mother, who, although not as rude as the customers as Cornucopia!, was just as pushy.
“The thing is, he’s in the conference room with the advertising agency this morning,” she explained. “It’s an important meeting and all the executives are in there.”
“So? They have phones in conference rooms, don’t they?” said my mother. “Call him and tell him that Helen Reiser has arrived for her tour. Oh, and be sure to add that I’m the one who nearly choked to death on the bone I found in my can of Fin’s premium solid white albacore a few weeks ago and that if he doesn’t give me the tour and prove
“You could miss one of those, couldn’t you? Just this once? Just for your old mom?” She said this not in her five-star-general voice but in her five-year-old-child voice, the voice that made the guilt kick in. “Besides, a day away from all those show business types would be good for you, a nice change. So listen to your mother and come with me.”
“All right, I’ll come with you,” I said, because I knew she’d wear me down eventually, so why not knuckle under early.
She smiled. “You won’t regret it, dear. You’ll see.” She was incorrect. As you’ll see.
O n a bright and sunny Monday morning, we waited out the rush hour traffic on the 405 and headed down to San Pedro at about 10:00 a.m. It was actually a more scenic drive than I’d anticipated, sailing over the Vincent Thomas Bridge to Terminal Island, the Port of Los Angeles and the hundreds of ships docked there in full view from the car. If it weren’t for my mother’s endless rants about her sunglasses that kept sliding down the bridge of her nose and the garbage truck that woke her up at five o’clock that morning and the call she’d gotten from Cleveland from her friend Rosalyn, inviting her to her daughter’s wedding (“God forbid my own daughter should be having a wedding.”), it wouldn’t have been a torturous trip.
‘This is kind of cool,” I remarked as we wound our way from Ferry Street to Terminal Way to streets with names like Tuna and Albacore and Barracuda—all home at one time to the various tuna companies. When we arrived at Fin’s on Cannery Street, we parked in their lot and walked to the front of what was an enormous, cavernous building.
“What’s the plan here?” I said. “You don’t have an appointment, right? You’re just planning to breeze in and announce yourself and hope they’ll remember your letter to them?”
She tapped her handbag. “I brought their letter with me. I’ll show it to the receptionist and she’ll see to it that we get the tour I was promised. If she doesn’t, I’ll have to go over her head.”
I nodded, pitying the poor receptionist.
“Hello,” my mother said to her. She was about my age and had a harelip. “I’ve been summoned by your director of public relations, a gentleman named Mr. Corbin Beasley, to come here and inspect your plant.”
The receptionist gave my mother a quizzical look. “Summoned?”
“That’s correct. It’s all in this letter.” She reached into her handbag and handed the letter over to the receptionist, who read it without enthusiasm, as if she’d seen such letters before. They were probably boilerplate responses to consumers with complaints. Just as probably, my mother was the first recipient to ever follow up on one. “So you don’t have an appointment with Mr. Beas ley.” This was more of a statement of fact than a question.
“No, but I assume he’ll make time for me. I’m one of the Fin’s consumers about whom he’s supposed to care so deeply.”
“It’s not that he doesn’t care, Mrs.—”
“Reiser. Helen Reiser. My daughter and I have driven almost forty-five minutes to come here this morning. We have no intention of leaving until we’re given a tour of your operation. Understood?”
Again, I felt so rr y for the receptionist She was no match for my mother, who, although not as rude as the customers as Cornucopia!, was just as pushy.
“The thing is, he’s in the conference room with the advertising agency this morning,” she explained. “It’s an important meeting and all the executives are in there.”
“So? They have phones in conference rooms, don’t they?” said my mother. “Call him and tell him that Helen Reiser has arrived for her tour. Oh, and be sure to add that I’m the one who nearly choked to death on the bone I found in my can of Fin’s premium solid white albacore a few weeks ago and that if he doesn’t give me the tour and prove
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