Psychic Junkie by Sarah Lassez

did?”
    His clone friend, whom I’d not noticed till now (perhaps because he wore almost the exact same outfit as the editor, had the exact same haircut, and effectively appeared to be nothing more than a slightly skewed and miniature reflection), chipped in. “Which one? Which movie?”
    “ The Blackout ,” the editor said. “Abel Ferrara.”
    The clone paused, his face tilted toward the impossibly high ceilings—a necessity in such a bar, in order to allow for the egos. Clearly the clone was trying to place the movie, and I prayed for a swift and dramatic subject change. Had the clone suddenly said, “Gosh, I’d love to have a lengthy conversation about football,” I would’ve done a dance of joy. Unfortunately, I had no such luck.
    “ The Blackout ,” the clone said. “I’m just not placing it. Who else was in it? When was it released?”
    “It wasn’t,” I said. Then I smiled brightly, proudly said the dreaded words “Straight to video,” and excused myself. With a speed I never knew I had, I raced out the door, flew across the traffic on Sunset, and was back in my room, where for hours I tortured myself with variations of the conversation that took place earlier in the week between the editor and a coworker. “Check it out, it’s our past issue.” “Who’s this one?” “Who?” “This girl, I’ve only ever seen her here, on this page.” “Oh, yeah. That’s Sarah Lassez…right. I don’t know. Obviously she wasn’t one to watch. But five outta six ain’t bad. You feel like a Mojito? I feel like a Mojito.” “Nah, I’m much more in the mood for a sidecar.” “A sidecar ? We just time warp back to the thirties?” “Last week a guy I know told me Drew Barrymore was drinking one.” “Drew? Really? Okay. Sidecars it is. Put that magazine away.” “Yeah, but I gotta say, it’s a great shot. This Sarah chick with a guitar, posing as a depressed musician. You don’t get better than that. Great work, man. Sidecar’s on me.”
    To make myself feel better I pulled out my French tarot cards. Will I get an acting job soon? Will it lead to more acting jobs? Will I be able to support myself as an actor? For hours I asked questions, and each time I shuffled, there it was, insistent on being seen: the Knight of Wands.
    “Who are you?” I wanted to scream. “And why aren’t you here yet?”

    Misery loves company. I admit that the saying is true, but if I could, I’d add “and a couple bottles of wine and a block of Brie.” I had the wine, and Gina stopped at Whole Foods for the Brie, a mission that involved her calling—completely overwhelmed—from the cheese section, whereupon she told me how pretty all the cheeses were and that she just knew I’d like Jarlsberg if only I gave it a chance. I agreed to try it simply to get her out of the store, and then found a platter I hoped would fit her final selection. Mercifully she showed up with only a handful of choices: Edam, Jarlsberg, Gouda, Brie, and a farmer’s cheese she swore was “refreshing.” After a little rant about how Panela should be sold at more stores and accepted as the amazing cheese that it is, she sat back and announced that she hated her job.
    “So, you work at a literary agency,” I said. I was still trying to figure out exactly why she’d taken the job. “But you don’t want to be an agent.”
    “Nope.”
    “And they rep screenwriters, but you don’t want to write screenplays; you want to write books. That’s what you went to school for, why you have all that student loan debt.”
    “Right. Thank you. But just being around writers makes me feel better.”
    “You’re around the writers?”
    “No. They don’t write at the agency. We get what they write. All the scripts. And writers are very close to their agents, you know. You learn a lot about their lives.”
    “And your agent, the one you work for, he reps some good writers?”
    “Well, no. My agent actually just reps directors. Mostly TV. No