I. Demands Issued From My Boss, Jennifer Lynn Lopez
8:04AM
I’ve been working for Jennifer Lopez for a few months now. She’s nice enough. I come to her chambers around eight every morning, and am given a list of tasks to complete before the end of the day -- things like picking up nude lip gloss in shade “Champagne and Caviar,” try different skin products she’s uncomfortable using on her animals, see what Ana de Armas “is up to” to see if “the Affleck option is still open.”
I guess our relationship is… polite. I’ve been trying. This morning, I arrived exactly on time with a hard boiled egg, just like Jennifer likes.
“No,” Jennifer says to the egg, and I throw it away. This is our little routine.
“How can I help today?” I ask, smiling with expert control over my lips. If I overshoot on a smile, they tend to raise too high and reveal my decaying gumline.
Jennifer sighs. “I need three tubes of Champagne and Caviar for a party in Silver Lake tonight, and a present to bring for Kristen Bell. She’s throwing a fundraiser for something about zoos. I don’t know if she’s for or against. You’ll have to come with me in case I forget her name.”
“Whose name?” I ask.
Jennifer frowns, which she is able to do without moving her face. “Kaitlin Bartha.”
I nod sagely. I will earn my $45 this week. I will remind her what Kristen Bell’s name is all night if I need to.
“Sometimes I think I was meant to work for you, you know?” I can hear my voice shaking as Jennifer continues to look at her phone in two-piece leisurewear just a few shades different from the color of her skin. I’ve been working on this conversation starter for weeks. “Because I’m a J. Lo, too.”
This gets her attention. “What are you talking about?”
I wasn’t prepared for this. Sweat releases from my armpits, activating the smell from the previous day’s sweat I didn’t wash.
“Oh, just that— my name is Jamie Loftus.” Jennifer Lopez looks at me, unclear at what difference this makes. “And so in that way, it’s — it’s the same naming convention, so I’ve always thought of us as, you know, connected. With the first name and the beginning of the last names.”
Jennifer’s face tightens a little, which could mean anything in her emotional range. “Los Feliz at seven, meet the driver and I outside.”
If I were to complain about one thing about Jennifer (and I hate to complain), it’s that she doesn’t understand what an appropriate wage is. I’m afraid to bring it up with her, and take my $45 a week in the hopes that it will lead to something better -- in my fantasies, as a living statue in Demi Moore’s open floor plan second home, as I hear they get healthcare.