Warning: Attack Lion on Premises

by Channie Greenberg

I didn’t love my delivery job. It was merely a position that enabled me to pay rent. Although I had expected apartments in Vernon to be affordable, the “reasonable” part of “reasonably priced” depends on one’s salary, and mine was small.

Like many young folks, I had bought a one-way ticket to Los Angeles; I dreamt of working in the entertainment industry. My high-school debate coach said I had The Vocal Sound of the Century. So, I was determined to become a voice actor, because I lacked the looks and the acting skills necessary for attaining screen time.

Consider: voice actors make over forty an hour. Weigh, too, that they usually bring demo tapes to their auditions. All I brought was my baritone vibrato. To boot, I had no local connections, nor did I have a personal workspace in which to record.

Unfortunately, my airline ticket had emptied most of my savings. Either I would have to hitch back to Centralia, Pennsylvania and take up Hospitality Management at Northampton Community College or remain planted until accruing enough cash to fly home and, thereafter, enroll in school. I assumed that if I couldn’t succeed in Southern California, it was pointless to try in New York City.

Regardless, while still in the LAX airport, I discovered two URLs for voice-acting jobs. As I was not Armenian — niche actors remain more employable — and vocally pulsated too much to voice anything but cartoon villains, I deliberated joining test-casting calls.

Promptly, I scolded myself for delusional thinking. I remembered, when, as a kid, Ma and Pa had packed all of us into our car and had driven four hours to Herkimer, New York so that we could mine “diamonds.” Natalie, of course, was the sibling who found a piece of quartz worth tens of dollars.

Steve, Carmine, Jerry, and I had to make do with burgers and fries from the Canteen. Pa grumbled about the price; our family’s lunch cost him as much as the dinners out that he and Ma often enjoyed on their anniversary and on Ma’s birthday. The burger bar had even charged for the “sauce” into which we dipped our fries!

Anyway, not only had Georgina Peterson gone to the senior prom with Bruce Harris rather than with me, even on family outings, I had merited merely potatoes, not gemstones. There was no way I’d be summoned for work, even if I spent years at test-casting calls.

Before shutting my phone, I googled bed and breakfast locations as well as folks seeking roommates. Some fellow, in Vernon, meant to sublet half of his two-bed motel room. Whereas the bus to LA was less than ten bucks each way, making Vernon a “bargain” location, I spent only one night there; that creep snored worse than my family’s terrier.

The very next day, armed with the credit card I had accidentally borrowed from Ma’s purse, I paid the security fee for a studio apartment. My new digs’ outlay was $1,500 a month.

Next, I accepted a job as a banquet attendant at the Four Seasons Hotel. Unfortunately, that employment cost the time and fare needed for a second bus; that hotel was as far from Vernon as possible. I quit days later.

Thereafter, I became a brand ambassador for Plant Roots, a rice and soybean-based meat substitute. I worked for them for more than a month. It was when they asked me to represent them at Comic Con that I quit. It’s one thing to accept near minimum wage from an organization intent on assigning few enough hours to avoid having to pay health benefits, it’s another to have to drive among Los Angeles locations. Besides, I couldn’t afford car rental.

Meanwhile, a local restaurant, Zoe’s Place, had advertised for a driver. They offered to supply a moped if I supplied insurance. It was a good thing that Harry Jones had looked the other way, in Pennsylvania, when I had temporarily stolen his motorcycle.

Given my roots, I’m partial to hoagies and cheesesteaks. So, even though I lied about having insurance, I took the job. The owners didn’t care that I refused to drive to LA; they had so much business in Vernon that they’d soon be opening a second shop there.

Most of my deliveries were straightforward. Hipsters, not grandmas, tipped best. One oldster even grabbed her order from me, claimed she’d paid online, and then slammed her door.

Over a period of months, during which I gained insurance, I befriended the cook and flirted with the weekday hostess. The former gifted me with discards from seated patrons and the latter brightened my days with her smiles. I hadn’t known that she batted for the other team.

Sometimes, I’d wrap the leftovers to take with me. Dogs became well-disposed when fed leftover lamb kabobs or chicken stir-fry. None bit me. What’s more, few barked after being gifted discarded salmon filets or hamburger.

All was going well — except for the misinformation I received about the weekday hostess — until I was charged to drop off an order consisting of grilled sea bass and a pastrami sandwich. From the driveway, the bungalow in question looked like the countless others to which I had motored. In fact, the bougainvillea climbing the façade was well-trimmed. Only after walking up the front steps did I see the sign: “Warning: Attack Lion on Premises.”

Whereas I had laughed days earlier when scrolling through an article on California’s laws governing prohibited animals, I wasn’t laughing at that door. It’s silly to disallow species like ferrets, hedgehogs, and gerbils. But it’s wise to prohibit exotic critters like large cats. Years prior, I had read about a white tiger that had mangled magician Roy Horn.

I left the delivery at the front door. It was time to return east and study Hospitality Management.