Under the Hollywood Sign (editing)

Under the Hollywood Sign

It was just another day at the office for me. I was sitting in a loud club, and I was listening to the band that was supposed to be a sensation. They were terrible. I wrote everything down in a notepad- everything I wanted to say in my article. My name is Delilah, and I'm a journalist for Rolling Stone magazine.

I'm 23 years old, and I'm a brilliant young journalist, as some say.

I finished taking my notes, and I leaned back in my chair. I was trying to enjoy the music, but it wasn't happening. I couldn't do it, I had heard too many bands that sounded like them before, and they were nothing new to me. The lead singer and I locked eyes for a few seconds, then he looked back into the crowd of crazy people who loved the music.

After their set was done, I headed backstage. I needed to interview them, as it was part of my job. I didn't want to, as I knew their kind. They were the rowdy pop-punk type who didn't care about anyone or anything. Needless to say, I didn't want to do this.

I sat down, and as I was talking to everybody else, I kept seeing the lead singer staring at me from the corner of my eye. I turned my head as fast as lightning over to him, and I snapped

"Stop looking at me like that! It's creeping me out!"

That triggered something with the other four guys, and they wouldn't stop yelling and laughing with each other. This band was impossible to interview.

I sighed, got their attention, and I finished asking the questions. After it was all over, I said thank you, and as I was trying to make an escape, I was hit in the head with a door on my way out. I fell on my ass, and they flocked over me to help me up. But once I was up, I fixed myself, and I walked out to my car. Until the lead singer stopped me. Well, I stopped when I saw him. He was leaning against the side of the club, and he was smoking. I continued to walk.

"Wait up." He called after me. I smelled his cologne on the cool night breeze. I didn't wait up for him. He walked over to me as I was at my car.

"I'm sorry if we got off to the wrong foot during the interview. Maybe you-"
He seemed to be less rude, but I cut him off .

"Are not your type."

I stuck the keys in the lock. He started humming a familiar tune, one that I had come to know very well.

"Hey there, Delilah, what's it like in New York City?"

I rolled my eyes. I had heard that enough.

"You're a thousand miles away, but girl, tonight you're looking pretty, yes, you do."

I gave him a look.

"Times Square can't shine as bright as you."

"Ok, please stop it." I asked, and he did.

I got in my car, and I forgot to close the window I left ajar to keep the inside cool, and he continued to ask me questions through the crack.

"What brought you to our show?"

"Nothing. It was part of my job, and it was terrible, to say the least. I'm sparing your feelings."

"Who do you work for?"

"Rolling Stone."

"Aha. You're a critic as well as a journalist. Hey, by any chance, are you THE Delilah? Like, the new journalist that's brilliant?"

"That's me."

"Let me see what you wrote about my band."

"Why? You can see it in the new edition of the magazine."