“Just because itlooksbad doesn’t mean ittastesbad.” Parker delicately lifted the croissant with two hands. “Looks aren’t everything, you know.” A glob of custard fell and splattered on the plate.
“Actually, young apprentice, in our business, looksareeverything. Perceptionisreality. Virtual reality, at least. How something tastes is irrelevant. The only things that matter are likes and views.”
As Parker wrangled the thing into his mouth, I contemplated how ironic it was that a twenty-one-year-old Chinese-American man-boy presumed to lecturemeon life. Apparently, mansplaining wasn’t limited to boomer-aged Caucasians.
“Ohh meh gawd,” said Parker, mouth full of cream. “Dis es ah-meez-in.” His face looked like he was in the middle of having a … well … never mind. If I weren’t so repulsed, I would have taken a video of the spectacle for my YouTube channel.
“You sure you don’t want just a little taste?” Parker offered me the last gooey morsel, smacking his lips.
I waved him off. “I’m sure. Besides, we should start heading over to our LuxeLife interview. I checked the time on my phone. “I want to be early just in case.”
“You know, it’s only a couple blocks from here,” said Parker. “We could walk.”
I looked up from checking the engagement metrics on my phone. “Walk?”
Parker pointed out one of the Golden Bean’s gold leaf framed windows. “It’s beautiful outside. The sky’s blue. The sun is shining. You can barely see the smog.”
“You know what’s even more beautiful than outside?”
Parker shook his head.
“Anything inside.” It’s true what they sing in that Missing Persons song, “Nobody Walks in L.A.” Because nobodydoeswalk in L.A. Especially me. Walking, or really any sort of physical activity whatsoever, was NOT something I would ever choose to do willingly.
“Nervous?” Parker’s eyes drifted to myfingers, which I realized were tapping on the table at the pace of a thrash metal song.
“Ehh.” I waved him off, careful not to raise my arm too high and reveal the waterfall of stress sweat pouring out of my pits.
I wasn’t nervous.
I was terrified.
The LuxeLife contract, if I got it, would become mySIGNATUREgig. If I could get in with LuxeLife, my career would blow up faster than a new grumpy cat meme. Watch out Kardashians, here I come!
My foot tapped the floor as if it were at a tryout forRiverdance. Maybe a walk to burn off some nervous energy would do me some good. Or a quick sprint to Encino. But that would have involved physical effort. So no.
“Hey Siri, grab me an Uber,” I called to my phone.
“Opening YouTube,” came the robotic response.
“No, Siri, that’s not what I’m looking for.”
“Here are the lyrics to U2’s ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.’”
“No, I need a car to pick me up.”
“Setting a reminder. Pick up car from shop,” Siri chirped cheerfully.
“Why does everything have to be so difficult?” What happened next would have made Rube Goldberg proud.
I grabbed my phone.
Still locked to the tripod I’d been using to take pictures of the latte art.
The tripod knocked over the light panel.
Which crashed into the turmeric cardamom mug.
Creating a tidal wave of tulip-shaped froth.
