Happy Birthday Mr. President
Maya Osep
It was two weeks before Coachella weekend. My failed musician boyfriend was DJing a destination birthday in Palm Springs for a group of geriatrics and their respective escorts. The birthday boy was literally named Michael Scott and it was the big four-oh. We signed NDAs upon entering the illustrious compound.
We met the other peasants working the event (besides my then boyfriend and his DJ partner). I noticed “dancers” making their way in. I suppose it was fitting; it was his 40th birthday after all! He had no choice but to pull out all the stops.
The men and their arm candy were all decked out in white clothes. Something about a white party always seemed so sinister to me; like, what are you, a eugenicist? Would you call me a mulatto unironically?
The old codgers and their floozies filed into the pool area. To refer to it as the “pool area” would be an understatement; it looked like a man-made lake or a backdrop from the Truman Show. At one point in the night, a guest jumped out of a helicopter into said pool.
I felt deeply out of place. I was the only whore at this party fucking for free. But I couldn’t help but notice a familiar face. It was only FATHER to two of the biggest supermodels in the world; Bell and Gigi’s dad, Mohamed Hadid. I couldn’t believe my eyes. These were definitely high rollers.
The night went on and I got obliterated. I abused the hell out of the open bar built into the pool which resembled the Taj Mahal. I was bored and trying to occupy myself while my boyfriend and his degenerate friend played shitty house music. I shuffled inside the main house and ran into the estate’s indentured servants. I could feel their judgement, but they were used to this. I’m sure they assumed I was part of the herd of escorts — or maybe I stuck out like a sore thumb.
The girls looked like Fashion Nova models who went on “sponsored trips” with Saudi billionaires to “model;” the types that Leo DiCaprio would fuck with headphones on. I would never be one of those girls. Leo would spit in my face if I even tried. His bodyguards would shoot me dead right there. “Don’t get near him you bitch!”
I stumbled my way into the bathroom and noticed a significant amount of blood on the floor. I thought I was seeing things and decided to ignore it. The nice people at the estate would handle it. This is what NDAs are for, I told myself.
I got on the swing to pass the time; not that kind. One of the lovely guests pulled the swing back so far I thought I was going to fly off into the pavement and crack my head open. I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first body they’d have had to bury.
I decided to take a nap on some patio furniture when I was suddenly awakened by a mad man. My boyfriend thought I’d run off with one of the old codgers and got irate. Who did he think I was?
Two weeks later, we returned to the same house and ran into his ex; some broad who had a restraining order against him. She was going around the valley telling people I was a drug addict…weird. We flew out of the party and into an Uber.
I could barely breathe from the meth-laced coke and stuck my head out the window like a dog. I prayed to L. Ron to absolve me of my sins and to grant me another day. So much for that NDA…
Maya Osep is an LA-born casting director, occasionally poet, chanteuse, indigo child, ragamuffin and Former Child Actor. She channels her unique eye, fascination with the human condition, and Rain Man-like ability to curate into her love of storytelling.