NOVEMBER 27, 2002
MY SUMMER WITH THE MOVIE STAR
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
(Continued)
…I was already typing my heart out when they finally decided to get up and join me in all the drudgery. They came into the den/study together, and I think they were even holding hands. Carol has yet to lay her head down on a pillow in the guest room where she was supposed to be bunking with me every night, as promised to my mother, who probably knew better, and let me go anyway because she was just too damned modern and open-minded. But at least, Carol and Ezra weren't trying to pretend where everybody slept anymore, which was gratifying in a totally negative way.
The coffee was already made by "cook," who was still hanging around until noon. Ezra read the L.A. Times, and listened to the stock reports on the radio. After that, he got right to work at the big desk, with Carol sitting across from him, and it was all very quiet, except for the sound of my furious typing (I really was getting proficient!)
That's how it went--without even a breather or lunch, until about two o'clock when the members of his "group" began showing up. They all looked exactly like I thought they would--normal--regardless of what Phil Godland said about them. There were more women than men, but that didn't surprise me either. I had already observed that women are more crack-potty about religion. At least, I assumed it was some kind of a religious group because Phil said they usually discussed "metaphysical matters."
As they were coming in, I did recognize one woman, I think. She was the one who had been sitting by the pool the day of Phil's party, and said you couldn't necessarily tell a "sensitive" from physical appearance.
Ezra steered each one right by the den/study door, and on into the big dining room, without so much as an introduction. So, obviously, he wasn't planning to let me come in and sit down for the meeting. He closed the big double doors to the room after the last ones straggled in, and he and Carol disappeared in there. I was left alone, still typing myself into oblivion, totally ignored.
They must have stayed in there a good two solid hours because I finished all the work at hand, and even had a Coke and a peanut butter sandwich. I was wondering if I would dare go sit by the pool until he got ready to crank out some more for me to type. But they all came filing out again, and were getting their purses and packages, and things.
A couple of them looked at me in the den/study on their way out. In fact, they looked at me more going out than going in, whatever that meant. Oh, I knew what it meant; it meant my ego was outraged at being treated like some miserable no-account measly typist who couldn't even join a simple discussion. So, to calm myself, I simply imagined they were looking at me, and saying to one another, "who is that beautiful young girl they have chained to the typewriter?"
(To be continued)
