The Day Job: I was The Girl in The Box

Inside a giant fish tank in The Standard Hotel's lobby on the Sunset Strip, I became 'living art.' Half-naked and crying, I was Hollywood's saddest decor.

It's Hollywood in the mid-2000s—a cultural wasteland. While New York thrives with the sounds of The Strokes and The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, LA is awash with bedazzled low-rise jeans, trucker hats, and the reign of Paris Hilton. It's a dumpster fire era and I'm smack in the middle of it, dressed in nothing but white panties and a tank top.

I’m lying in a big glass box in the lobby of The Standard Hotel on the Sunset Strip where Jared Leto, Lindsay Lohan, Drew Barrymore, and Leonardo DiCaprio are regulars. I’m a “Box Girl,” a human exhibit in a 15’x4’x5’ display case. Men gawk at me as if I’m an exotic animal at a zoo—tap-tap-tap on the side of the glass. Unfazed, I keep my nose in my book.

This is my first job in LA and it doesn’t get more Hollywood than this.

Another Box Girl at The Standard Hotel

I can do anything I want in The Box —paint my nails, talk on the phone, sleep— the only rule is not to acknowledge the passersby. For someone whose shyness is often misinterpreted as aloofness (or bitchiness), this is my ideal job. What other position in the service industry doesn’t require engaging in small talk and displaying forced smiles? And indeed, I am providing a service. My presence is part of the ambiance, my solitude is a performance, and my privacy is a public production. I’m an object to be admired and scrutinized.

Visitors press their greasy hands on the tank’s glass walls, creating smudge marks against my body without touching my skin. The ooh’s and aaah’s are audible.

Can she hear us?

What if she has to pee?

It’s​ a bizarre dichotomy—being both visible and invisible, interacting without interaction, and entertaining​ by simply existing.​ I suppose that’s how​ іt​ іs when you're​ a public figure and​ іf I’m going​ tо make​ іt​ as​ a woman​ іn this business,​ I need​ tо get used​ tо it.

The trendsetters and Icons of Hollywood

The Standard closed in 2022 after 22 years in business

Originally,​ my dream was​ tо attend college​ іn New York City,​ tо immerse myself​ іn​ a world​ оf “true” artists and intellectuals.​ As​ a snobby, contrarian teenager influenced​ by the punk rock ethos, glitz and glamour never appealed​ tо me. Yet,​ I ended​ up​ іn​ a place where people move​ tо become famous, not​ tо create art. Perhaps that makes​ me​ a hypocrite. For someone who sneers​ at celebrity, I'm ashamed​ tо have let​ a rockstar convince​ me​ tо come here.​ I can’t help but judge myself for allowing​ a powerful man alter the trajectory​ оf​ my life. What’s next​ tо go,​ my values?

I've been​ іn​ LA for only​ a handful​ оf weeks, but​ I already know that this isn't the place for me.​ I can’t leave, though, because I’m afraid that would​ be​ a sign​ оf weakness​ оr​ an admission​ оf failure. Alas,​ I​ am trapped. Supposedly,​ I should​ be having the time​ оf​ my life, but​ I feel more alone and more vulnerable than ever. Now, half-naked​ іn​ a glass tomb, I’m staring back​ at​ my reflection while second-guessing​ my identity and true intentions.​ My pulse​ іs pounding​ іn​ my throat and​ my eyes are beginning​ tо swell. This​ іs not the time for​ a meltdown, Carré. Pull​ іt together.

As if on cue, the lobby DJ puts on that shitty new Green Day song, Boulevard of Broken Dreams. This must be an omen, a cruel metaphor for what lies ahead. Snot starts to pour out of my nose, the first sign of forthcoming tears (I’m an ugly crier). There’s no Kleenex in The Box, of course.

Some dudes in Von Dutch hats appear within my reflection, distorting my face and breaking me out of my ruminations.

This chick looks too sad to be a model.

I’m not a model, I’m a musician!

Unable to hear me, they shrug and walk away.

Here's a demo of a sad, unreleased song I wrote about Los Angeles when I first arrived:

When my shift is over, I get into my little Honda Civic and drive down the Sunset Strip, winding up Benedict Canyon through Beverly Hills. My ears pop, and a heavy weight sits on my chest as I climb 90210. I feel like a reluctant tourist, as I watch the hills rise like sentinels, guarding the gaudy mansions that line their slopes. I'm living in a reality that might as well be an illusion; it's just as surreal as it is empty. Having chosen this path, I feel compelled to compete in the game. But, what does “winning” even mean in a city that both idolizes and discards with equal avidity? After all, there is no success in the endless pursuit of validation.

c u next tuesday.

XX CARRÉ

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