“And a couple of shots,” Jessie adds, without even looking at me for approval. I stifle a grin. She’s still a little troublemaker.
The drinks are in front of us within seconds. Jessie picks up her blue shot glass and raises it, waiting for me to do the same. She smiles, winks, clinks her glass against mine, and we down them.
“So how’s the talent agent-ing going? Taken advantage of many actors this month?”
I snort and take a long drink of my beer. “I don’t take advantage of actors.”
“Sure you don’t,” Jessie grins behind her beer bottle. “You just let them do all the work and then take a nice slice of what they make.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Right.” She rolls her eyes as she wraps her lips around the opening of her beer bottle to take a swig, a sight I have to force myself to look away from. “You’re totally not a leech at all.”
“Jesus,” I grin, taking her abuse with good humor. “You should know how it is, Jessie. You work in a costume department. You think actors can negotiate their own deals, set up meetings and networking opportunities, not to mention vet contracts and make career decisions? They can’t even dress themselves!”
Jessie laughs. “Truth,” she says, pointing out our empty shot glasses to the barman. “Maybe you’re not so bad after all.”
The bartender slams a couple more shots on the bar. We repeat the clink and drink again. “How about you?” I ask. “How’s the TV gig going?”
“Honestly? It’s a shitty job,” she says, suddenly sounding a bit empty.
“What do you mean? I thought you were living the dream.”
My tone is light, with no sarcasm in it, but still she pauses for a long time before answering. I don’t even notice the barman replace our empty shot glasses again.
“Well, when I left UCLA,” she says, peeling at the label of her beer bottle, “I thought I’d be working on period dramas, interesting TV shows, sci-fi projects…I don’t know. Something creative. And now I’m just stuck doing detective dramas. I mean, they’re great shows, steady gigs, but a police uniform is a police uniform. I feel like my job right now is to be as least creative as possible. Like a robot could be doing my job.”
I watch her take a slow swig of beer. It’s been a while since we really talked like this.
“It’s a step,” I say sympathetically. “You’re starting out, making connections, paying your dues. You do this for now until something better comes along. It’s just a step.”
“Is it?” Jessie asks, almost as if I can change it. “It feels more like a dead end.”
This time it’s me who picks up the shot and waits for Jessie to do the same. We clink, smile, and drink.
“Do you remember that time when we were in high school,” Jessie says, smiling from the drink hitting her, “and you and Kyle took me to see that shitty punk band I liked?”
“The night he knocked me out?”
Jessie laughs and slaps the bar.
“Yeah I remember,” I say, laughing along. “But I still don’t know what the fuck set him off like that.”
“I was hitting on the lead singer, and Kyle found out. He went for the other guy but then you tried to stop him—”
“And paid the price. Yeah, I figured it was something like that. Most stories involving Kyle start with him getting pissed.”
“And end with someone getting knocked out.”
“How the fuck did he end up a lawyer and not an MMA fighter?”
“Beats me,” Jessie says, giggling. “But he always had a strong sense of right and wrong.”
“For sure,” I say, as we clink, smile, drink again.
The barman slams a couple more shots in front of us. Then more beers. Then more shots. Soon I lose count. And in between the sound of glass slamming on woodgrain we tell more stories. The erotic story I submitted for eighth grade English homework that almost ended up getting me expelled. The time Jessie and Kyle got into a fight over who should beat up one of her ex-boyfriends. The night the three of us spent hours figuring out what to wear for a big costume party at Kyle’s college fraternity – Jessie agreed to help us if we promised to sneak her in – only to arrive and find out it wasn’t actually a costume party.
It's only when we both get up to go to the bathroom that I realize how drunk I am. Just about able to walk and barely able to keep my head from lolling around my shoulders like I’m doing yoga. We wrap our arms around each other for support as we stagger to the bathrooms, still laughing at everything and nothing.
I’m done before her (of course) and I lean up against the wall outside the women’s bathroom, breathing deeply to try and regain as much sobriety as I’ll need to get home. The rooftop party’s already dead, and the only people out on the roof are sitting and talking quietly or passed out completely. I have no idea what time it is, or how long we’ve been here.