December 23, 2011

There are two sides to every story. This is a lie, of course. But the interviewer and I have an unspoken agreement not to rock the boat on this one. Such is the nature of job interviews.

We have, it would seem, come to an understanding. He has the good sense not to mention the fact that I’ve been downsized from three newspapers in the first eight months of my stillborn journalism career. I have the good sense not to challenge him on his two-sides-to-every-story canard—a journalistic maxim as worthless as any other maxim.

I try to look my interviewer in the eye, but my gaze shifts to the wall just behind him. Above his shoulder is a patch of unfinished drywall—a gray splat against an off-white background. It looks like someone put a fist through the wall, and someone else was paid just enough to make the necessary repairs, without actually having to give a shit about aesthetics. Journalistic powers of observation aside, I might not have noticed the spot if it hadn’t been for the picture above it.

The picture is of a black private jet with gold text on the tail that reads, “The Daily Pornographer.” On the nose of the plane there’s an image of a wanton blonde woman fixed forever in a suggestive pose, her fire-engine red lips getting ready to suck, or blow, depending on your preferred verbiage.

“You have to be comfortable with adult material,” the man tells me. “I mean really comfortable. Really, really comfortable.”

He lets the concept of comfort hang in the air between us for a moment as he appraises me. I try not to flinch. I need this job. Or more precisely, my landlord needs me to get this job.

“Are you comfortable with adult material?”

“Yes,” I answer, perhaps a little too quick and eager.

I look up at the blonde in the picture. She’s wearing an American flag bikini. Her sunglasses are perched low on her nose, just low enough to see her fuck-me eyes.

“Everyone is comfortable with tits,” the man explains, “because they’re tits.”

I nod, but he doesn’t notice.

“What we write about here, the industry we cover…it’s adult…really adult, you understand?”

“I understand. It’s porn.”

“We like to say adult entertainment, or just adult, for the sake of brevity.”

I think about the euphemism. Calling porn adult entertainment is like saying my journalism career has been sidetracked. Both statements are technically correct, but both miss the point entirely. I studied journalism to be a serious newsman. That was before the sky came crashing down on the profession and the economy took a shit on my generation. Which is why sidetracked would be the polite way of saying doomed, because the former implies that you’ll get there eventually, while the latter just means you’re fucked.

Permanently. Totally. Fucked.

“Let’s do a for instance,” the man says. “Because I need to know what you’re comfortable with, adult-wise.”

The man cracks his knuckles and leans forward, trying on his best poker face.

“You’re going to see people having sex,” he says. “I’m talking about hard-core sex. Graphic sex. Unconventional sex.”

I’m not sure what makes sex conventional or unconventional, but I’m reluctant to stop the man for an explanation.

“Are you comfortable with giant dildos going into someone’s ass, for instance?”

“Will it be my ass?”

“I’m talking about really big dildos,” he says. “Huge dildos. I’m talking about jamming really huge dildos into someone’s ass. Just jamming them in. There’s lube, usually. But these dildos are really huge. Almost too huge, but of course, there’s no such thing as too huge—not in adult. Are you comfortable with that?”

I start to say yes, but then it occurs to me that he’s not really looking for an answer. It’s an endurance test. If I can smile and nod while he waxes on about giant dildos and the orifices they disappear into, I’ll be fine.

The dildo talk goes on for a few minutes. I am comfortable with what the man tells me, but I am uncomfortable with how at ease he is in the telling. All things considered, this man seems to have an unhealthy preoccupation with dildos.

“Heywood, are you comfortable with that? The dildos and everything?”

I tell him yes for the final time. He stands up, and I do the same.

“OK, good to meet you, Heywood.”

He points me to the door, but we don’t shake hands. The interview is over. I ask for a business card, but the man says he doesn’t have one handy. This is strange, even in the context of a strange interview, because he is the publisher of The Daily Pornographer. He should have a business card, I think.

Then again, neither the editor in chief nor the owner of the company offered their cards, either. Routine business etiquette, it would seem, isn’t common in adult entertainment. So I thank him for his time and ask when they might make a decision about the reporter job.

“Probably in a few weeks,” he says. “After the holidays.”

I nod like I understand. It makes sense, but of course, it would be better for my student loan processor if I had a paycheck before Christmas.

“If you get a better offer before then…” the man says in a whisper. “Any offer, I’d take it.”

I leave his office and walk past the receptionist. She has ghostly white skin and a ratty black turtleneck sweater that’s two sizes too small.

“Merry Christmas,” I say.

She doesn’t respond.

***

I get in my car and turn right out of the parking lot, heading north on Van Nuys Boulevard. It’s a short ride back to my apartment, so I don’t worry about the gas light warning on my dashboard.

The Cake song “Thrills” plays on the radio and I turn it up because, at this point, I might as well get life advice from a rock band.

My phone buzzes, but I don’t even think about answering. Safety isn’t the issue; I can’t afford the ticket.

By the In-N-Out Burger, I fight the urge to turn the wheel. Maybe the burgers are overrated, but like any Los Angeles native, my craving is Pavlovian.

I pass under the freeway, grateful that I don’t have to stop at the light and ignore the homeless panhandlers. In a perfect world, I’d give them a buck, but in this world, seeing a panhandler feels like a sneak preview of my future. On the upside, I’m confident my signage would be top-shelf.

My phone buzzes again. I have voicemail.

I pass a car dealership overrun with cheap Christmas decorations. As I turn right onto Chandler, Santa’s faded smile is the last thing I see.

Chandler is a big street with a few elegant mansions and a green walking path down the middle. But after three blocks, Chandler Estates—a pocket of Sherman Oaks affluence holding strong in a sea of deep Valley decay—gives way to Valley Village.

The name is a half-truth. Valley Village is in the Valley, but there is no village to speak of. Just like with porn, Los Angeles real estate depends on letting euphemisms slide. Such is the nature of the San Fernando Valley, just over the hill from the rest of Los Angeles, and somehow a world away.

I find a spot on the street because I don’t pay enough in rent to merit a parking spot in the rear of the building.

I get out of my car and check my phone. The message is from Sunny Day, the editor in chief of The Daily Pornographer. I don’t want to listen. A call this soon after an interview can only be bad news. I’ve had a lot of interviews in the last year. They’ve all been bad news.

The message is brief.

“Call me back,” she says.

I open the door to my apartment. My roommate, Miles, has fled Los Angeles for Christmas, so I have the place to myself.

I sit down on the couch, taking a deep breath. Not being offered a job at a porn trade publication will be something of a blow to my ego, but then again, my brief career has been defined by similar low points. Such is the nature of journalism’s death rattle.

I press the callback button without thinking, and a second later I hear Sunny’s voice.

“I’ll make this quick,” she says. “We’d like to offer you the job, if you can start tomorrow. Can you start tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” I say.

“Is that a problem?”

“No. I just didn’t know you’d be open.”

“Porn news never sleeps,” she says. “But it does sleep around.”

Neither one of us laughs.

“I thought it was adult entertainment…”

“Huh?”

“Well, it’s just that…um…the publisher, I never caught his name, by the way. Anyway, he called it adult entertainment.”

“Blake,” she says. “Don’t worry about him. He was fired today.”

“Fired?”

“Right after he interviewed you.”

“Oh. Is that…? Did I…?”

“It was a long time coming,” she says. “Blake was a total disaster.”

“So why did he interview me?”

“Oz thought it would give him something to do today.”

Oz, short for Oswald, is the owner of The Daily Pornographer. My interview with him had been brief—so brief that we talked in the doorway to his office for about as long as it took for him to pick only one nostril clean with a barely disguised thumb-move. He had told me that choosing an employee was like picking a wife.

“You don’t want a whore, because they aren’t loyal,” Oz had said before asking if I was a whore.

Apparently, I wasn’t a whore. At least, not according to Oz, who I guess had instructed Sunny to offer me the job.

“So can you start tomorrow?” Sunny asks again, this time a little annoyed.

“Yes,” I say without hesitation.

“Great,” Sunny says. “Be here at nine.”