The Attractive Female Alarm Clock

The day after Alan invited me to his New Year's Eve party, I woke up early to go for a run. I put on an old T-shirt that I got from a Radiohead concert and shorts, laced up my running shoes, and turned on my workout playlist. A loud, political rap song burst through my headphones as I sprinted out the door and ran through my neighborhood.

The sun was shining brightly that day. In fact, I had to run back inside to get my sunglasses, but once I started my run, I enjoyed the sunshine. It made 6:30 AM a much more bearable time when the sky was cloudless and bright blue. None of my neighbors were awake yet, but I knew that it wouldn't be long before they had to go to work.

In a way, my neighborhood seemed just a little bit too perfect. All of the houses were a little bit too big, and the lawns were too perfectly manicured. Part of the reason why I had moved here was because it was so different from my middle class suburban hometown, but in a way, the two places were similar. California just had warmer weather.

I took my usual route through the city. I went down a few more streets lined with mansions before I reached the rougher parts of town. I slowed down a little bit as I began to grow tired and the sun grew higher in the sky. A young girl passing me on the sidewalk waved to me, and I waved back. I was the only celebrity (if I could be called that) who would ever dare to venture into this area of the city, and the residents of the neighborhood respected me for that.

I turned around and ran back home. When I reached my house, I opened the door and crashed onto the couch, worn out from my run. I then got up and grabbed a bagel and some cream cheese, and made myself some breakfast. The bagel had just finished toasting when I heard someone pull into my driveway.

I opened the door and heard a saxophone solo blasting from a gray convertible. Two of Alan's bandmates, Miles and Byron, climbed out of the car and walked up to my door. I took a look at the clock, and saw that it was nearly 8:30. "Aren't you two supposed to be at the studio?" I asked.

"Yes, but Alan's not even awake yet," Miles said as he adjusted his thick, square glasses. He had blond hair, bright blue eyes, and pale skin, and he was wearing a dark blue shirt, skinny jeans, and Converse. It was often hard to believe that Miles was the lead singer of Phantom Cat, especially when the tabloids were convinced that Alan sang.

Byron was a little bit larger than Miles, and he had brown hair and eyes and pale skin. He was dressed in all black, and I often found that he was a little bit less friendly than Miles, but he was an excellent source of witty commentary, as well as an excellent bassist. "It's always like this," he complained. "We went to his house, and he was still sleeping. Nothing we did would wake him up."

"That's unfortunate, but what do I have to with it?" I asked.

"We need you to wake him up," Byron said.

"It's a Phantom Cat tradition," Miles explained. "We always have Alan's girlfriend wake him up. It's much more effective that way. He only responds to attractive women."

"I'm not that attractive," I argued.

"You're attractive enough for Alan to date you, and that's enough," Miles said.

"How would I wake him up?" I asked. "It's not like I'm some sort of attractive female alarm clock."

"I don't know!" Miles exclaimed. "I've never been able to wake him up, so how would I know?"

"This isn't going to work," I said. "If you two can't do it, then I certainly can't."

"You know Alan," Byron said. "He loves nothing more than hot women. He'll probably wake up once you walk into the room."

"I don't think he will," I said.

"Please just give it a try," Miles said. "If it doesn't work, then we'll let him sleep and we'll record without him, but I'd like for him to be there. Alan is in the band, so he should participate in the recording process."

I sighed. "I'll wake him up," I said.

"Great," Byron said. "We'll see you and Alan at the studio." He walked back to his car, and Miles followed him. When Byron started the car, jazz music started playing again, but Miles immediately changed the station, and the Rolling Stones played instead. As Byron drove off down the road, I changed into slightly more formal clothing. Then, I grabbed my keys and drove to Alan's house in Bel-Air.

Alan lived in one of the richest parts of Los Angeles, but even among the other celebrities' homes, Alan's house stood out. It was massive, white mansion with palm trees lining the property and a pool in the backyard. The house itself was enormous, with a basement large enough to host parties in, a large gym in the house, and at least six bedrooms. Why would Alan ever need six bedrooms? I wondered, as I did every time I visited his house. Alan lived alone, and had lived alone ever since his divorce. Even when he was married, he never used the other five bedrooms. Alan didn't have any children, so there was no use for them.

I pulled into Alan's driveway and rang the doorbell. When nobody answered, I took the key to Alan's house and opened the door. The house was strangely silent. If I didn't know better, I would have said that nobody was home, but as I climbed the great spiral staircase that led to the upper floor, I heard Alan snoring. I banged on his bedroom door, hoping that would wake him up, but the snoring continued. "ALAN! WAKE UP!" I screamed, but he still wouldn't get out of bed.

I would have to get creative. As I opened the door, I saw Alan curled up under the covers, wearing nothing but his boxers. His long, black hair was sticking up in every direction, and he was still snoring loudly. Alan's CD player was in the room, so I put one of Alan's CDs in there and turned up the volume as loud as possible. However, Alan slept through it.

I turned off the music and screamed at Alan one last time. "WAKE UP, YOU SLACKER!" I shouted.

This time, Alan's deep brown eyes opened. "Bianca, is that you?" he asked as he rolled towards me.

"Yes, it's me, Alan," I said. "You need to get out of bed. You're already late for recording."

"I didn't know we were recording today," Alan said.

"Yes you did," I said. "I reminded you yesterday."

"I forgot," Alan said.

"Whatever," I said. "Just get up and get going."

Alan sighed and rolled out of bed. He then gave me a long kiss before running into his oversized bathroom. I ran downstairs and waited as Alan took a shower and got dressed. He walked into the kitchen nearly half an hour later wearing only a pair of short shorts and sunglasses. "Alan, put on a shirt," I said.

"Do I have to?" Alan said. "I thought that everyone would appreciate seeing my abs."

"You're going to the studio," I said. "You should wear a shirt."

"Fine," Alan said, rolling his eyes. He went back upstairs, changed, and came back wearing a sparkly, bright red suit. Unfortunately, I had neglected to tell him how ridiculous he looked in those sunglasses. "How do I look?" Alan asked.

"That's much better," I said. "Get something to eat, and then we're leaving." Alan wolfed down a bowl of cereal, and then the two of us got into my car and I started driving to the Revelation Records building.

Alan plugged his phone in as I started backing out of the driveway, and an indie song I didn't recognize starting playing. "I have way too many demos to listen to," Alan complained. "It's not my fault that everyone wants to get signed to Revelation Records."

Alan and I drove down the road, but we reached an obstacle. I should have expected that we would encounter this problem, given that it happens every morning, but somehow, I was still surprised when I found what seemed like thousands of cars in front of me waiting for the light to turn only a few miles away from the studio.

We were stuck in traffic, and in Los Angeles, once you were stuck, there was no escape.