SLOANE RETURNS!: 4.49

In keeping with the tradition of end-of-season celebrity guest star casting to juice the ratings, I'm busting out my Sloane story from this weekend. I'd been trying to figure out what to write about it because frankly, if I reprinted the actual words, you probably could figure out who I am. And we ain't havin' that, kids, are we? Now that my career's doing so (relatively) well...

So here's the best I can do. Yeah, I've taken some liberties with the way it all goes, but I think they're justified. I shouldn't even tell you, it's not like you'd know. In fact, I take it all back. Everything you read below is the gospel. I mean, Gospel. Now take a big swig of your martini and settle in. It's gonna be a fun one.



The Los Angeles air was a-drizzle with smogwater and mildew, the sunlight just enough to heat the air to a muggy fugue state before being swallowed. The Grove seemed affected by the air; full of surly children and tourists whose doughy legs reflected the flourescent buzz of the historic 21st-century gaslamps.

Waiting for the accursed roomie to finish his Apple store browsings, I sighed over my lack of credit and newfound inability to be patient without a nicotine fix. As I moved away from the entrance-- because most Angelenos will agree loudly that a faint whiff secondhand smoke is far more loathsome than the fact our city's air is literally poisoning us as we breathe it-- I just nearly bumped into the man who taught me what it was to be ashamed of our culture.

Needless to say, I kinda forgot to light my cigarette as my mouth dropped open. Sloane was just hanging up his phone and turning toward the Apple Store.

SLOANE: Well, if it isn't (my real name)... or should I say "Atlas"?

ATLAS: I've always wanted to call you "Sloane" ...I mean, you know, to your face.

SLOANE: So, are you still doing that blog? (he makes blogging sound roughly like raping children)

ATLAS: Yes. And now it's paying for my gas.

SLOANE: I want you to know I've deleted every record of you ever working in my office. If you're discovered, you'll just be another one of those wunderkinds who get exposed as a fraud.

ATLAS: Yeah, Sloane, that'll work. (it feels good to be contemptuous)

SLOANE: Still finding work despite betraying your employers?

ATLAS: I'm a staff writer, actually. That's my title. Staff writer. (translation: f*** off)

SLOANE: (eyes betraying his disappointment at my non-destitution) Congratulations. For what?

ATLAS: For something better than anything you've done. Still taking advantage of the girl who's a third your age?

SLOANE: If you're referring to Bubbles, she's moved on.

ATLAS: (smirk) How diplomatic...

SLOANE: I don't suppose your new bosses know about your blog, do they?

ATLAS: Actually, even if they did, I made sure it wasn't illegal to do one in my contract, so I'm covered. I'm also careful.

Suddenly, out of the Apple Store, walks MRS. SLOANE with a skirt of plump, high-end shopping bags! The wife of my archnemesis, here, unprotected and unawares. I'm forced to restrain a 'muah-ha-ha-ha-ha!' Mrs. Sloane is 57, but still looks pretty hot (she's had some work done- probably a "medical expense"). She wears an oversized Jackie-O-ish pea coat against the murky soup of LA.
Since she is appearing my blog, she will be played by a heavily-Xanaxed Diane Sawyer.

MRS.SLOANE: Sloane-y dear! There you are!

I can't help but grin ear-to-ear at this development. I resist mouthing 'Sloane-y?'

MRS.SLOANE: Well, that was a long line. (notices me) Oh, hello!

SLOANE: Dear, you remember my former assistant, Atlas...

MRS.SLOANE: Yes, I knew I recognized you. How are you?
(she's totally blissed out)

ATLAS: Fine thanks, so nice to see you again. I think the last time might've been a few Christmases ago.

MRS.SLOANE: Ohmygoshyesitwas! That's where it was...
(she's happywet) So I assume Sloane's helped you move on to even bigger and better things?

And by this I think she means that she hopes to get my bigger and better thing in her.

ATLAS: Oh he has, I'm a staff writer for ________.

I notice she's staring right into my intoxicating blue sapphires. I blink like a snake charmer. I drop my voice an octave and emit pheremones.

MRS.SLOANE: Really, that's wonderful, and you're so young, too. How old are you?

ATLAS: I just turned twenty-five. You know, you look so much younger than I remember. Have you turned forty, yet?

MRS.SLOANE: Oh, ho-ho-no. (she blushes gracefully) I just had a facial this week, so...

She trails off giggling and I lean forward a little, smiling with her.

ATLAS: It looks amazing.

Pheremones are in full effect. Sloane finally seems to notice.

SLOANE: Dear, weren't you saying you wanted to go to Michael Stars?

MRS.SLOANE: (reluctant) Oh, yes. Well, I'll let you two catch up. Sloane, why don't you invite Atlas to our little gathering next weekend? Wouldn't that be fun?

SLOANE: Absolutely.

MRS.SLOANE: Well, it was certainly a pleasure to see you again, Atlas.

ATLAS: Oh, the pleasure was all mine.

Mrs. Sloane goes to shake my hand, realizes she has too many bags, thrusts some at Sloane, nearly knocking him over. He takes them and his wife shakes my hand.

MRS.SLOANE: Great seeing you again.

ATLAS: Me, too.

MRS.SLOANE: Bye now.

She moseys off towards Michael Stars. I smirk at Sloane, who glowers for all he's worth.

SLOANE: (mocking) Was that fun for you?

I take in Sloane's features- his haughtiness, his arrogance, his bastardliness. And I gauge how it falls.

ATLAS: I could f*** your wife.

SLOANE: (shocked silence)

With a facial twitch, Sloane turns to leave, then turns back to have the last word.

SLOANE: You're disgusting, Atlas. And just remember, I can f*** anyone.

TECHNORATI TAGS: Assistant Atlas, Sloane, entertainment career, sexual politics, Diane Sawyer, personal growth