C2 Lowell


“I shouldn’t be drinking this,” I said through a mouthful of delicious tequila and salt. “Too many calories.”
“Do not let those assholes get to you,” my best friend, Tori, said. She pushed one of her dark-brown curls off her face, fuming. “You’re not fat. I don’t care what the stupid director said.”
“He didn’t say I was fat—he said my ass looked like it might weigh too much. And that I needed to be more emaciated and less cherubic.” I took another rebellious gulp of my drink. 
“Because that makes so much sense,” Tori said under her breath.
“And he’s not just a stupid director. He’s a stupid successful director. Lucas Dresden is a Hollywood god. And he told me that I need to stop eating before we start shooting those scenes on the beach. So that’s what I’m going to do.”
“That’s just great.” Tori looked as if smoke was about to pour out of her ears. It was good that we were in a crowded bar in Venice or she would probably have started yelling a litany of obscenities about my director. “What did you say to him? That you hope various body parts of his rot off and die? I hope?” 
“Ugh…no. I said okay. I can’t afford to lose this job.” I didn’t tell her that I’d gone into my trailer and cried afterward. I was worried I was going to get fired from this film, and then my career would be over.
I couldn’t let that happen.
I grimaced and took another sip of my margarita. “The thing is, my ass is my ass. It likes to be a certain size. Starving myself for the next two weeks won’t make it a whole lot smaller.”
“Your bum is perfect,” Tori said. “I’m so tired of the people you work with. And the press? It’s sick, the things they say about you. If I thought you would, I’d tell you to quit.”
“I’m not quitting.” I’d dug my claws onto the Hollywood ladder and I wasn’t leaving until they pried off my dead, cold hands. Still, after the past few weeks, I would have taken a long vacation to Cabo if I could’ve. Just the other day, my photo had been on one of the gossip websites. In it, I was heading into the gym with a scowl and a big bag thrown over my shoulder. The headline read: Lowell B Takes Fight Against Fat to LA Gym.
Oh, how I loathed the press. Let me count the ways.
My agent, Shirley, kept saying: “Just smile at them, for the love of God! You’re starting to look like that girl from Twilight in these pictures!”
I also had a new movie, Hearts Wide Open, coming out at the end of the summer. With the recurring pictures of me looking…cherubic-cheeked…and heading to the gym, the producers had reached out. They wanted me to “slim down, tighten up, and dress appropriately sexy” for our upcoming promotional events. I’d had a few things to say about that. Then the producers had a few things to say back, which included phrases such as “breach of contract” and “never work with this studio again.” 
I’d called Shirley, who’d advised me to shut my mouth immediately. When I’d called her today and told her what Lucas had said, she told me that if I wanted to keep the role, I had to hit the gym. With a smile. And go on a cleanse. “I’m pretty sure the concepts of smiling and cleansing are mutually exclusive,” I’d wailed.
“Nobody’s forcing you to be an actress,” she’d said. “So if you’re in, you have to be all in. And make sure you smile when the paparazzi takes your picture! Not like that girl from Twilight! She makes it harder on herself, I swear. She needs me for an agent.”
I wished that the girl from Twilight was having a drink with me now. I had a feeling she’d have some good advice on how to deal with both the press and Lucas Dresden, and that said advice might include the words stuff (used as a verb) and it (used as the object of the verb).
“It’s been a rough couple of weeks,” I admitted to Tori. 
Tori pushed another margarita toward me. 
“I really shouldn’t,” I mumbled. After a nanosecond of hesitation, I changed my mind and chugged some of it.
“I’m driving,” Tori said, holding up her seltzer in salute. “Drink up, girl.”
I did as I was told. I was working on that, and I needed all the practice I could get.
* * *
“Oh, fuck me,” Tori said an hour later. She pulled the car over. 
I was completely hammered at that point, but I was alert enough to notice the blue flashing lights all around us.
“Huh? Whad’d you do?” My voice came out thick and foamy, tequila and a sudden burst of adrenaline roiling in my stomach.
“I think I might have forgotten to update my registration,” she squeaked. 
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I said, annoyed that we were being pulled over. “Are you sure you went to Stanford? Y’all need to keep up with things.” Oh shit. I was drunker than I thought—my Texas was showing.
“Just be quiet,” Tori begged.
I snorted at her and gripped my seat. I wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if maybe the car was spinning a little.
An officer came up beside us, peering into the car with a flashlight. “License and registration, please.” 
Tori fumbled in the glove compartment and shakily handed him her papers. The officer looked at them briefly then shined the flashlight directly in my face.
“Stop it!”
“Oh, sorry.” He moved the flashlight away. “I thought I recognized you. You’re that actress, right?” 
“Right.” I tossed my hair, a vague idea of getting Tori out of her ticket motivating my muddled brain. “Hiya, Ossifer”
“Um…hi.” He peered at me for a beat. “I just saw a picture of you online. Didn’t do you justice. You’re much prettier in person.”
The tequila in me turned immediately ugly and I glared at him. “Am I s’pposed to say thank you? For thass ass-backward compliment?” I sounded slurry and mean. The car was definitely spinning now. I heard him sigh, like an already long night had just gotten longer.
Fucking margaritas. But my mind, ugly with booze and still reeling from the events of the day, couldn’t be reasoned with.
“I didn’t mean any disrespect, miss,” the officer said contritely. 
I snorted. “Coulda fooled me!”
Tori froze. “Lo”—her voice was a warning—“he didn’t say anything wrong. He was actually being nice. Just be cool.”
“Don’t you tell me what to do!” I yelled at her. 
She looked at me with wide eyes, shaking her head as if to say Oh shit or Please stop, you crazy bitch! Or both. Probably both.
“I’m outta here.” I unbuckled my seat belt and heard the police officer sigh again. 
Tori sucked in a breath next to me. I rarely drank too much, but when I did, I got belligerent. I should have known better. Shoulda woulda coulda, I sing-songed inside my dizzy head.
It was too late now. I opened the car door.
“Miss, I need you to stay restrained and inside the vehicle,” the officer said.
“Why y’all always telling me what to do?” My voice was twisted and thick.
“I’m not. I’m asking you—no, you’re right, I’m telling you—to stay buckled in the car. Your friend’s registration is expired. I’ll just give her a warning, and you two can be on your way.” He sounded professional and almost apologetic, which just made me feel more confused and angry.
“Don’t you try to make this all okay. Like you’re a dad or something. And we’re a couple of Girl Scouts. Are you mansplaining? Are you a mansplainer, Ossifer?” I yelled. 
I was too drunk to be sure, but he might have groaned. “No, miss, I’m just trying to get you girls home safe.” He probably wished he’d never pulled us over. 
I was going to make sure of that. Because I was too cherubic, I hadn’t eaten for seven hours, and I was on a tequila rage-spiral. I climbed out of the car and marched toward the officer. “I’m so tired of this. I got too many mansplainers in my life.” 
“Lo, no!” Tori yelled. “Just get back in the car!”
The officer watched me with a mixture of regret, annoyance, and mild amusement as I stopped and swayed in front of him. I noticed another officer with him, still in the cruiser—a woman in her forties. She got out and came toward me warily, as if I was a dog who might either bite or pee on her, her hand on the handle of the firearm in her belt.
“You okay, Scott?” she asked. 
“I think so,” Officer Scott said. “I think I upset this young lady. She’s an actress, and I made a comment about her appearance. I apologized, but I think she’s feeling a little…belligerent.” 
“I’m not belligerent,” I corrected him. “I’m tired of mansplainers!”
He said to me, “I’m sorry, miss. But I recognized you and was trying to say something nice. Sometimes those pictures don’t show how pretty you are. You’ve always got this scowl on your face.” 
I scowled at him, and he coughed. 
“Right. I’m not making this any better, am I? Deborah, please take over for me.” He gave me one last look. “You should go home and sleep it off, miss.” He took Tori’s papers back to the cruiser to check them. 
Officer Deborah scowled at me. “You need to get back in the car.” Her tone was no-bullshit, firm.
“No,” I said stubbornly. I felt the world spinning around me. “This is a protest. I’m tired of the way this town operates. Every. Little. Thing. Y’all gotta give me a hard time.” When I was really drunk and really angry, that Texas twang I’d worked so hard to rid myself of came back.
“Your friend’s registration isn’t up to date,” Officer Deborah said, looking at me as if I had three heads. “This has nothing to do with giving you a hard time. In fact, you’re the only one who’s giving anyone a hard time around here.”
“Do you know who I am?” I pointed at my chest so hard that I knocked myself back a little. “The whole world’s givin’ me a hard time right now. You know why? Because I’m a woman. And every single mansplainer out there wants to tell me not to scowl. What type of dress to wear. What size my ass should be. And I’m tired of it, you hear?” I stepped closer and almost fell over. Regaining my balance, I leaned toward her conspiratorially. “You understand what I’m sayin’, donchoo?”
“Are you asking me if I understand what you’re saying because I’m a woman?” she asked.
“That’s right,” I said, wobbling. “That’s absofuckinglutely what I’m asking you.”
Then I leaned over and threw up all over the road. 
Officer Deborah took a careful step back and watched as I retched again. “Of course I understand. I’ve been a cop for twenty years. I’ve worked with every mansplainer on the force, and I’ve arrested my fair share of them too.” 
I looked up at her, and suddenly all the belligerence went out of me, along with the toxic tequila I was spewing all over the road. Now all I felt was morbidly embarrassed and in desperate need of my toothbrush.
“You want to deal with the mansplainers? Start by keeping your shit together,” she said. “Last time I checked, getting drunk and hysterical was the opposite of helpful. And please don’t puke on my shoes. I just polished them.”