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RAVEN
“While the company states that defaulting on their end of the contractual payment is ‘more than fair’ compared to the court case that could ensue should they take Mr. Buckley to court, Buckley believes that he is entitled to full contractual compensation due to, and I quote, ‘the horrendous conditions’ experienced by both himself and the movie set staff. I’m Raven Kennedy, signing off from Entertainment Live, the number one destination for all things gossip-related. Back to you, Dan.”
The cameraman gave me a thumbs up as the broadcast disconnected and I let my rigid body relax. I brushed my bob length pink hair behind my ears and let out a long sigh. Jesus fucking hell, I’d covered the Michael Buckley payment debacle for well over a week and I was tired as shit from hearing about it. I loved my job, honestly. It was my dream job, working in entertainment news in Los Angeles, one of the largest cities on the planet for my line of work. This place was constantly teeming with news for me to cherry-pick myself. But God forbid I talk about the litigation of female actresses being less compensated than their male counterparts. Or address the fact that many movie sets were ripe with sexual harassment allegations that never came to light.
No, we had to focus on the fact that some bullshit, terrible male actor out there wasn’t getting the two-million he thought he was afforded for a three-day fucking shoot. I took a deep breath.
This job doesn’t make you change your hair color.
I repeated this statement to myself over and over again. I loved my pink hair. When I first started dying it four years ago, my mom thought it was ridiculous. But for some reason the more I dyed it pink, the more I felt like it was truly me.
“Another day, another story, am I right?” my cameraman asked pulling me from my thoughts.
I handed him my microphone. “Have a good evening, Larry.”
“You too, Raven.”
As I dragged my ass back to my car, I readied myself to go home. The L.A. breeze had kicked up, chilling those who lived within a quarter of a mile from its coastal shoreline. I wasn’t as lucky. I lived at least twelve miles inland in a rundown apartment with leaky pipes and screaming neighbors. I made just enough to keep my head afloat, and that was about it.
However, it sure as hell beat going home.
A loud vibrating sound make me jump. “Jesus, what is it now?” I hissed.
The second my cell phone rang, I ripped it out of my purse. With my car’s engine rumbling and the air around me quickly filling with the smell of exhaust from my rickety, rust bucket of a pick-up truck, I flipped the phone over to take out the battery.
Yes, that was how old my phone was. Leave me alone.
However, as I flipped the phone over, I noticed something.
I didn’t recognize the number calling me.
“Who the hell?” I said softly.
A knock came at my window and I jumped. I quickly shot the call over to voicemail and rolled it down, ready to chew Larry’s head off for scaring the shit out of me. It had been a while since I’d been out in the field, and sometimes the craziness that was Los Angeles made me anxious. Usually, I was in studio with a green screen behind me. However, because my story had mounted into one of national concern, they wanted me placed outside of the business in question for each of my updates until things were either resolved or I died from sheer boredom.
“Everything okay?” Larry asked as he looked down at my phone.
I tossed my cell into the passenger seat of my car. “What’s up Larry?”
“You’re hungry, aren’t you?”
I shot him a look before my stomach grumbled, and it shot a snort of laughter through my gut that tickled my lips as it fell into my lap.
“Yeah,” I said with a heavy sigh, “maybe a bit.”
Larry chuckled. “Donna’s making chicken parm tonight. Wanna come over and eat with us and the kids?”
“Mm, mm, mm. You know I can never resist your wife’s cooking. I’d love to come over. Let me just go home and get changed first. My toes are screaming to get out of these heels.”
He shook his head. “I don’t envy you one bit. Ashley? My sixteen-year-old? She’s already getting interested in them.”
“Ugh, tell her they aren’t worth it. I swear, heels are a construct forced upon us by men who enjoy watching our asses flex while we try to keep ourselves upright.”
He barked with laughter. “I’d listen to your podcast, you know that?”
I rolled my eyes. “You and the seven other people that have told me that.”
