Free Borderline by Mishell Baker

cucumber, onion, buttery-fresh avocado, some kind of tart cheese, tomato, and crisp lettuce with just the right amount of freshly ground pepper. An ecstatic profanity escaped me; Teo snorted and told me to wash out my mouth.
    â€œI am never washing my mouth,” I said. “I may keep the last bite of this sandwich in my cheek like a hamster.”
    â€œGross, and not necessary.” Teo picked up the insistent cat, who seemed to be made of elastic covered in rusty steel wool. “I can make you lunch anytime, if you stop hitting people. I love cooking.”
    â€œThat’s hot,” I said.
    He responded with awkward silence, filled only by the cat’s loud purring. A bite of my sandwich went down sideways.
    â€œSo,” Teo said when the moment had passed. “Ever been on the Warner Bros. lot?”
    â€œNot since I worked as an extra.” It had been an easy way to watch other directors work, requiring no résumé or references.
    â€œI called ahead to let Berenbaum know we’re coming. If you need to do anything else to get ready, be quick.”
    Mr. Yesterday’s Jeans was insinuating that I wasn’t presentable enough? “What about you?” I said. “When’s the last time you had a shower?”
    Teo put the cat down irritably. “This isn’t a date, Roper. Get in the car.”
    â€œNo. If can manage a shower, so can you. This is a big dealto me; I don’t want you walking in there smelling like sweat and cigarettes.”
    â€œFor fuck’s sake,” said Teo. But he slouched upstairs, picking off cat hair as he went.
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    The Warner Bros. lot, like all major studio lots, is a massive complex of buildings that dwarfs certain small towns. Every building has the same warm butterscotch-taffy exterior, accented with lush landscaping that gives the place a homey, welcoming feeling. It’s an illusion, but a nice one.
    During my days as an extra, I had always parked in the garage across the road and waited for the WALK light to wheel my suitcase of clothing changes and supplies over to the main gate. This time, we got to drive the car right onto the lot. Teo gave the guy at the security booth his ID and got a pass for the dashboard of his crap car. The security guy didn’t look nearly as judgmental of us as I thought he should.
    Berenbaum had his own little bungalow on a shady back corner of the lot, a cozy stucco outbuilding with a dozen parking spaces out front. Teo pulled right in like he owned the place, and despite the pass we’d been given, I couldn’t help feeling like an intruder. Even tourists were given a warmer welcome here than extras; the sight and smell of the place brought back sense-memories of debasement and exhaustion.
    As we got out of the car, I winced at the loud, grinding creak of the passenger-side door and glanced around for Berenbaum’s trademark red Valiant. Of course it wasn’t there; you don’t drive an icon to work every day. Teo as usual was not slowing down for me, so I hurried to catch up, making heavy use of my cane.
    Just inside the door of the bungalow was a cozy receptionarea with barely enough room for the sexy assistant’s desk and a few soft chairs. As if I weren’t dazzled enough, the walls were hung with illustrious photographs from Berenbaum’s career. In the oldest of them he had shaggy dark hair and bell-bottoms, but by the time we got to his first Oscar acceptance his hair was already zebra-striped white. Most of the photos showed him as I had always known him: a craggy, snow-capped man with intense dark eyes.
    And then there he was, standing in the doorway behind the reception desk. He had to be pushing seventy by now, but aside from a comfortable sag in the middle and some deep crevices around his mouth and eyes, he looked ready to live another half century.
    â€œTeo,” he said warmly.
    He reached out to shake the