Fantasy.
Before I met her, I fantasized about letting my gold 2002 Nissan Sentra drift across the double yellow lines of Laurel Canyon Boulevard.
A cute little collision was all I wanted—nothing fatal or disfiguring—just enough to send me to the hospital so I could get a good nap.
My big dream of becoming the next Katie Couric had disintegrated into me working the overnight shift writing scripts for local news anchors so they could live their dreams.
Then, I got an email: “Any chance you wanna work for Princess Leia?”
The mission.
A friend worked for Carrie Fisher’s agent.
The Star Wars icon needed a new assistant and I checked a few boxes.
Her team wanted someone gay because apparently Carrie could be, ahem, amorous. And they wanted a writer who could help her with her books and theatre work.
I drove my good old Sentra to her mansion.
She needed help.
I needed a hero.
Coming up.
A most unforgettable job interview, her life advice to me, a really hard ending.
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