One
THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS LOSER
This woman could be me if I’d made better choices. Or I could be her is maybe what I really mean.
She has light Botox, quality work where your face still moves enough that people can’t tell— even I’m not sure— a good haircut and color, no crispy pieces and not too trendy, a classic bob but with something happening at the ends to give it the slightest nod toward edgy. A well- fitting black blazer, wide- leg trousers, a cream blouse open just enough that she doesn’t look stuffy— the kind of outfit that’s perfect for an LA winter but that someone too entrenched in the LA lifestyle would never wear. This outfit says she’s aware things happen in the world that aren’t covered by Deadline Hollywood.
And she has an actually cute kid who acts like a kid. Kids can be dicey in Beverly Hills. I see a lot of oddly affected mini adults in neutral- colored organic- cotton loungewear talking about their life force, like little prisoners of Gwyneth Paltrow.
“Mom, can I get two lollipops?” her child asks. He’s got the kind of face that makes your ovaries want to do quality control and send out one of your best remaining eggs, in case you could be so lucky.
“Is one for me?”’
“No.”
“Then get three so there’s one for me.”
She smiles at me, and I realize I’m staring. I doubt she gets recognized— most screenwriters don’t— but I’m a screenwriter and I know who she is.
This is Frankie Carroll, the writer known for single- handedly reviving the event rom- com—“event” as in you’ll leave your house to see it in a theater. She proved women
and men will go to them if you hit the right notes, and that determination and a work ethic pay off— she started her career on the small screen and kept drafting away until her big hit. Her next movie,
Gift Receipts, her first holiday movie, is due out soon— on Christmas Day, so you know it’s a big deal.
I
could be her. In fact, I moved to LA
to be her. I was a sophomore in college when I saw a YouTube interview she did after one of her early movies in which she said that moving here paved the way for her to make the connections she needed to get her work in front of the right people. It sold me on the fact that even if LA intimidated me, I had to make it here someday. And I did, even if my move was more of an impulsive reaction to a bad breakup than a carefully planned career milestone. And even if my version of making it only includes residing in the city. So, yeah, I
could be her. I
wanted to be her. But instead, I’m Jill Jacobs, who is working behind the redemption counter of Li’l Ballerz, an upscale arcade in the Century City mall. I do not feel redeemed.
“Oh, hi, what can I get for you?” I try to sound casual, like I just noticed her standing there, like I’m not trying as hard as I am to suck down each of her exhalations as if I could shotgun inhale her talent, luck, and drive and coax myself to my own career high.
Frankie’s son slips me his Li’l Ballerz players card and says, “I definitely have enough tickets for three lollipops. Can I have all red, please? My mom and I both love the red flavor. Cherry.”
He smiles adoringly up at Frankie, and— while I have absolutely no idea if I want kids of my own— I suddenly think that having a kid like
this wouldn’t be so bad. It might help that his dad is Gabriel Chen, who won
People’s Sexiest Man Alive the same year his first film came out. It was also the film where he met Frankie, who’d written it.
In My Sights is about a detective haunted by the murder of his wife. T he detective takes a case from a perennially single thirtysomething to provide insight into a man she’s eager to date— a man who turns out to be linked to the late wife’s murder. Somehow, Frankie managed to infuse the gritty subject matter with a screwball sense of fun and zingy dialogue that reminded the audience good banter is the best foreplay.
“Coming right up!” I say way too loudly. Even with all the games in here whirring and pinging and trying to lure more Li’l Ballerz into the space, you can hear me shouting like an idiot. And it doesn’t matter, because the kid hurls a sweet “Thanks!” as he hops toward the Skee- Ball machines next to us.
I’m handing the lollipops to Frankie, but she notices her son struggling to swipe his game card. She smiles and raises a finger to ask me to hold on. “Sorry, let me go make sure this doesn’t turn ugly,” she says with a wink that’s not corny.
I notice she leaves her phone on the counter, and it lights up with a text. I see the bold name Gabriel with a heart next to it and tell myself not to read it. But don’t I deserve to read it? Can’t I have that little pleasure?
I peek at the words, and they are
I made your favorite.
Then it buzzes again. This time, a photo appears on the screen—Frankie really shouldn’t have her notifications come up like this— and it’s Gabriel Chen, holding up a homemade pizza with a bubbly crust, perfectly melted cheese, and those little pepperonis that are like cups for the grease. Hot husband, cute kid, excellent career, and carbs, dairy, and the pinnacle of the cured meats. She’s living the fucking dream and I’m . . .
“Ma’am, that game didn’t give me a prize, and my self- worth has a boo- boo now.” A girl about nine is rapping on the counter with one hand and pointing at a claw machine filled with allergen- free stuffed animals with the other.
“Um, just a moment. I was with another customer.” I pray for Frankie and her kid to come back so I can avoid a discussion of self- worth, a subject about which— judging from the fact that I haven’t washed my Li’l Ballerz uniform in at least two weeks— I know nothing.
“You’re not helping. If I can’t work a claw machine and I can’t be assisted when I ask for help, how am I going to live my best life?”
Thinking you can live your best life is for suckers, kid, I want to say. Although, she’s living a better life than me, because she hasn’t even reached puberty and already holds all the power as the Li’l Baller to my Big Loser.
But I can’t get fired from this job. Only six weeks ago, I got the axe at my barista job when this customer who everyone at the shop hated overheard me mocking his absurd mobile coffee order. Usually, he sent a Postmates driver to pick it up for him, but on that particular Thursday, he’d shown up just in time to hear me say that “eight pumps of vanilla” was probably what his sex partners experienced on a good day.
“I will absolutely help you, as the machine is clearly broken if you didn’t win,” I say with every ounce of deference I can muster. “I just need to wait for her to get her prizes and her phone since I’m the only one here today.” I point at Frankie and her kid, who are finishing up at the Skee-Ball machine.
The little girl, who’s dressed in a long- sleeved smock printed with what looks like dead flowers, sulks back to the machine. “I’ll be waiting.”
“Wow, maybe someone should
extract some of her self-worth.” I was hoping Frankie couldn’t hear the exchange with the kid, but I’m glad she’s on my side. She picks up her phone and I can’t help but peek over her shoulder to see the picture of Gabriel and the pizza again. She smiles. “Daddy made dinner,” she tells her son.
“Here are your lollipops,” I say, handing her the prizes, hoping my palm sweat isn’t too obvious.
“Thanks so much,” she says. “Come on, Peter— let’s get our pizza while it’s hot!”
They leave, and I wish I could go with them. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see it’s a text from my agent, Lacey, and my heart leaps— maybe I’m getting a Christmas miracle!— but . . .
“Ma’am!” The claw- machine kid waves me over like
she’s the one who can’t waste another minute rotting in here. I hurry to unlock the machine and open the front, exposing the hypoallergenic stuffies to mall air.
“Which one do you want?”
“Hmm.” Little Miss Self- Worth crosses her arms and examines the horde of neutral- colored stuffed animals packed inside the machine. While she’s doing this, another girl about her age— in kid yoga wear that costs more than all my yoga pants combined— sees her and points.
“Why does she get a prize without winning it?”
My phone buzzes again in my pocket.
“The machine failed me,” the first girl says.
“Or
you failed,” Yoga Girl flings back.
“It’s not a failure if I end up with what I want.”
“Then I should get one, too. I did nothing for it. Just like you.”
“I will call my mom’s lawyer if you don’t go away.”
I debate whether to intervene in this
Baby Housewives of Beverly Hills scene, but fuck these kids— my big break might be here.
Lacey long ago locked in on a texting affectation where she spells out select words in all caps, and I always look at those words first in case they give a clue.
Jill, I hope you’re doing WELL. We should have a little CHAT. I have NEWS. KISSES. (Call me.)
NEWS? My heart leaps again. I type
Give me one sec.
Of course. LOLOUD, Lacey types back, defying the handiness of shorthand.
I take my phone out onto the concourse of the mall. Everything is festooned with holiday décor— giant bells and candy canes hang above the store entryways, and a massive tree glitters in a central pavilion surrounded by seating. I’m composing myself for the call while shoppers toting bags from stores I’ve never been able to afford clip by me and Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” plays in the background. Because this is LA, my skin is warmed by the sun dappling the walkways. Normally, I hate emerging from Li’l Ballerz to be seen by the posh crowd here. My ripe-smelling uniform is degrading even when I
have recently laundered it: electric- blue track pants and a black T- shirt both emblazoned with the words
Li’l Ballerz in magenta. But today, it’s okay. There’s NEWS. I dial Lacey.
Lacey’s been my agent since a screenplay of mine,
Mirrors, took third place for original script at a small Las Vegas film festival. That script— about a woman who discovers that her reflection is living its own, better life on the other side of the mirror— never went anywhere, but it did get me a lot of meetings, and I still have hope for it.
My latest thing,
How Pretty?, has an even darker bent and centers on an appearance- obsessed woman who receives a pill that allows her to become gradually more physically alluring but at a cost: each time she improves, one person who’s dear to her forgets her existence entirely.
“Lacey LaFoy’s office,” Lacey’s assistant says as she picks up.
“Hi, it’s Jill Jacobs calling for Lacey.”
“Hi, Jill, I’ll put you through.”
“Jill!” Lacey comes on sounding effusive and warm. And is it hot in this Li’l Ballerz shirt or is it just my excitement that Lacey’s NEWS must be good? It’s both. This shirt is absolutely made of microplastics. At least I can eat it for dinner if I go totally broke.
“Hi, Lacey. How are you?”
I listen as Lacey describes a new trick learned by her old dog, Feathers. We talk about the unlikely casting of an indie star in a new action franchise. The whole while I’m waiting patiently for my news. The news I need. Maybe Frankie coming into the arcade was a sign that I
could be her. A screenplay sale would mean I did not make a mistake moving to LA. Did not make a mistake in a million other ways.
At this point, I almost care less about selling a script than I do about proving I didn’t screw everything up. Because the expectation when you throw over one life for something entirely different is that you wind up getting something better than the life you tossed aside.
“So, my news . . .” Lacey begins. I’m holding my breath.
All the sounds of the mall around me fade to nothing. Li’l Ballerz could be on fire right now and I wouldn’t know, because all my attention is locked on Lacey’s voice coming over the line.
“How bloody can you make
How Pretty?”
“What?”
“Just, it’s a hard sell right now. It’s a thoughtful screenplay, but . . . it’s reading a little dark for my buyers.”
“Someone bought it?”
“No, no. I thought maybe I could get someone attached if you could add some jump scares. And a monster? Or a serial killer?”
“Wait, so it’s reading too dark, but it wouldn’t be too dark if I add a serial killer?” “It’s dark in a way that makes people think a lot, like Sylvia Plath.”
“I love Sylvia Plath.”
“I don’t know; I don’t understand poetry. I do know people don’t watch movies for poetry. So, if you could make it splashier . . .”
“It’s got a high concept going for it. You said so.”
“I know, doll. You are very thoughtful. And smart. But your ideas are hard for people. It doesn’t have to all be so hard. Can you do more . . . fluff?”
“I thought you just asked for blood. A serial killer.” I don’t want to do that to my script at all, but I will if it means a development deal, some scrap of success I can cling to.
“Think about it,” she said. “How are you for money?”
I peer back into Li’l Ballerz, where the two girls have now unloaded all the stuffies from the claw machine and are handing them out to passing kids. How nice of them. And how sure for me that I’m looking at my last paycheck minus whatever I owe for aiding and abetting theft of several dozen free- trade, organic- fiber, body- positive stuffed animals.
“Um . . .”
“I was telling someone at the Heartfelt Channel about you. And I thought . . . well, they start working on their next holiday slate right now. It’s work for hire, but maybe . . .”
The Heartfelt Channel.
They start airing their Christmas (and to Heartfelt, it’s always Christmas, though they’ll throw a few bones to Hanukkah just so no one can say they’re like
that) movies as soon as fall dips into pumpkin- spice territory. And even if the stories vary slightly (though a fave theme is reminding a city— read: morally bankrupt— person that small- town life is better), the message is often the same: all you need to do to fall in love is tap into your inner Christmas person. Once you’ve embraced the season, you can be swept off your feet (though, in a Heartfelt movie, like on an all- girls dormitory floor in the 1950s, both lovers must keep at least one foot firmly on the ground).
Frankie got her start writing them. So it just goes to show that they can pay off. But there’s one problem.
I’m not a Christmas person.
“I can’t write a Heartfelt movie.”
“Okay, doll,” Lacey says, and I can actually hear her interest drifting away from me toward a client who won’t waste her time. “But I think you need to think about it. And the serial killer to fun up your script, okay? We’ll talk after the holidays?”
“Sure!” I tell Lacey in my most upbeat voice— a voice in which I can hear the choking panic of my life further crumbling around me but hope she interprets as zippily enthusiastic— as a tiny boy comes out of the arcade clutching a lumpy walrus stuffed animal.
He’s holding an older woman’s hand— his grandma or maybe nanny— and notices my arcade T- shirt. He gestures toward the melee and says to me, “You’re not doing a good job.” He waddles away, and from the smell that wafts up to me, his diaper is clearly full.
You know it’s dire when someone who still shits their pants thinks your life is in free fall.
Copyright © 2025 by Iva-Marie Palmer
