Everyday Psychopaths Read online

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  They day after the “incident” started with me waking up at ten-thirty (it was my day off) and thinking for a second it was all a bad dream. It was a blissful moment, but it ended as soon I reached for the iPhone and saw all my text messages.

  It was all over the place, of course, the vomit, everywhere your browser could take you. Twitter was blowing up with jokes, the Youtube clips were already in the hundreds of thousands, and the talk shows were busy writing top ten lists, all dedicated to the disaster. The comments were pretty much aligned, with some variations. Some called her a drunk (half-true), some predicted she was pregnant (not true at all), and some said she was going through a rough time in her life and that a divorce might be looming (maybe true). I knew B’s agent Julianne was probably trying to spin this around to the best of her abilities, but the fact of the matter was that B had made a royal ass out of herself and for that I felt really sad. B was not only my employer, because after four years as her loyal assistant, we had also become good friends. At least as good as you could be in such a working relationship.

  After showering and getting dressed, I headed down to the kitchen for my morning espresso. To my surprise I saw B out in the garden, lying in a deck chair by the pool, dressed in a lime-green bathing suit and holding some kind of drink.

  “Can you get me another Smoothme, Fred?” I heard her shout to the pool boy and gardener, 19-year-old gay and aspiring make-up artist Fredric Thomson, who had started working there three months prior and despite the rough patch B had been in, really seemed to enjoy it. The star glow can be very addictive, especially if you’re 19.

  Fredric, who was fiddling with some plants in the small poolside garden sighed, said “sure” in a high-pitched voice and walked inside to make B's favorite drink, a fruit and vegetable smoothie with a generous dose of vodka in it. This had become her way of dealing with a hangover, just smooth it over and get on with it. She was sadly starting to become quite experienced at this.

  “Don't put any vodka in this one, Fred, we can't have her drunk before lunchtime,” I said and switched on the espresso machine.

  Beautiful dark java slipped out into my cup and I looked at my phone again, expecting Julianne to call at any minute, wanting to discuss the damage or chat to B. On my employers behalf, I had become a filter when it came to unwanted calls and most people knew there was no point in calling her directly, which made my phone vibrate more than a nymphomaniac’s sex toy. I was okay with it and according to a test I did many years ago, I have a really high stress tolerance, a requirement for anyone working in the insane entertainment business.

  I managed to just about finish my morning shot before I heard her cracked voice calling me, like a crying child begging my name. I took a deep breath and headed out to the pool.

  “How are we doing today?” I said, feeling like a caretaker in an insane asylum.

  “I’m feeling great, full of energy and ready to take on the world, what do you think?” B said, sarcastically. We had thankfully progressed beyond the polite in our communication. Now we were more like an old married couple.

  “I hear you. So...I expect Julianne to call any minute you know. You feel like taking that or?”

  “I’ve got nothing to say to her. I know she’s great at turning things around, but right now my world is pretty much painted black as you can understand. I of course knew that things weren’t great, but this bad? I mean, Charlie Sheen is probably rubbing his hands somewhere.”

  I sat down next to her and put my hand on her shoulder, “I know it’s shitty and I’m not going to give you some bullshit cliché to feel better, but I just want to say that when you’ve hit rock bottom there’s only one way and that’s up.”

  “You’re such a fucking Teletubby sometimes, Darryl, but I still love you,” she said giving me a rare smile. Not rare when judging by how she normally was, but sadly seldom those last few months.

  I returned her smile and gave her some good advice: “I don't think it's such a great idea for you to lay in the sun and drink smoothie cocktails when you're hung-over. What do you say I have Jorge fix you a nice lunch and then we'll go for a drive or something? How does that sound?” Our drives and walks usually made her feel better and somewhere deep down I hoped even such a disappointing situation could be remedied by exercise and good company.

  “Okay,” she said, “I’ll have the one Fredric is preparing and then I’ll take a shower. Deal?”

  “Deal. But no alcohol this time, just a regular smoothie, okay?”

  “Mhmm,” she mumbled like a kid refused her candy.

  I went back to the kitchen to check on Fredric, who was struggling with the mixer. Fredric had green hands and knew styling and make-up like it came in his breast-milk, but couldn't tell the stove from the fridge, so I helped him by clicking on the wall-switch.

  “She's really off the tracks, isn't she?” Fredric said above the mixer noise and gave me a concerned look.

  “Yes, it’s bad. We need to do something, but I don’t know what.”

  “Why can't we call AA? Or a psychologist? We need an intervention!” Fredric’s voice traveled up to a pitch I thought wasn’t known to man, at least a man. I think part of him got really excited about the drama B’s life provided. After four years together, I wasn’t excited by it, just worried.

  “I don't know. We’ve tried to talk her into therapy, counseling, even some holistic stuff, but she’s not budging. This goes deep and if she’s not seeing it as a problem herself, then we can’t force her to do anything.”

  Fredric poured the thick green mixer liquid into a glass and said, “Can we at least get her to drink some water and do a facial? If she keeps this up her skin will be hosting next months blackheads-fest.”

  He was right. B’s star glow had been hijacked by the evil Dr. Vodka and his mischievous cousin Deep Depression and we needed to guide her towards a better, brighter path. Wherever this lay.

  “You know what?” I said, “Call that dermatologist lady who came last time, she was a pro and B was really happy with the results.”

  “Roger that.” Fredric said, handed me the smoothie and strutted off like a flamingo bird on speed.