SLEAZE: A Hollywood Comeback Story (Book #1)

Chapter 3

True to his word, the Greek restaurant that Michael had recommended was delicious, and during the time it took me to wolf down two massive gyro sandwiches, I didn’t even mind that my eyes still watered like uncontrollable geysers. As I paid and thanked the elderly woman who I assumed owned the place, she clasped my hands in hers and exclaimed, “Come back soon, handsome boy.”

Frankly, there’s nothing in the world better for your self-esteem than being complimented by older women. Nothing. I whistled a made up tune as I made my way to the pharmacy next door, feeling good despite an underwhelming morning and my lingering inability to breathe out of my left nostril.

I felt bad about Melanie having to clean up my office, so after I’d picked up my medication from the pharmacy, I made a stop in the candy aisle to grab something for her. Maybe it was a thinly veiled bribe, but so far, she was the only human interaction that I’d had at work aside from my brief conversation with Michael. I’d been disappointed when she’d told me that I would be the only intern (“We only had one storage room to convert,”), so I figured I should make an effort to keep her on my team. I looked around at the options, frowning at the rainbow of brightly packaged sugar, as I tried to remember what I’d seen her subtly sneaking from the candy bowl that sat in front of her. Clueless, I grabbed the first King Size option within arm’s reach and headed to the check out.  

Once outside, I ripped open the packaging of the antihistamines that I had purchased and chased the recommended dosage with a swig from the water bottle I’d also bought. I checked my cell phone idly and with forty-five minutes left of my lunch break, I decided to walk around Beverly Hills until the medication had kicked in. Wealthy housewives strolled beside me in skintight workout gear that clung to their perfectly toned bodies. A few of the younger ones shot me flirtatious looks but for the most part no one noticed me.

Something about L.A. that’s always freaked me out is the fact that aside from the hottest celebrities and their massive entourages, this city is filled with four million anonymous people. No one casts a glance at the homeless men and women that use the night as cover while they forage for empty cans in dumpsters. No one looks too long at the drug dealers selling coke to kids, despite the signs on every street corner boasting the promise that each neighborhood is full of crime watchers.

I assume the city's disinterest in the individual is a blessing when you choose to live as an unknown, but a much sadder segment of the invisible is filled with those who spend their entire lives trying to be noticed--by anyone, really. The street performers that line the sidewalks of Venice Beach paint themselves from head to foot in golden hues while pretending to be statues, and others stand on their head for hours with the hopes of being seen by passing tourists. A dollar tossed into an open guitar case, a quarter chucked at their heads to make them stop singing into a tin can microphone; at the end of the day, it all adds up to a lot of people whose lives probably fell pretty short of their dreams.

And truthfully, I hate them all.

They don’t deserve my animosity in any way, but they remind me of what I could become. Go to school, become an engineer, go to work with Dad. That’s the smart path; the path I'd follow if I wanted a surefire way to make something out of my life. Yet, I’m on that road and I’m looking for an exit ramp to a life of uncertainty.  

I’m not a stupid guy. I know the odds of making it in a town whose entire population has the dream of fame embedded in its DNA. I don’t need a flashy car or a million dollar home in the Hills to be happy, but I don’t know what I’ll do if my life accomplishment is nothing more than being a once well off kid from Massachusetts who ended up fading into the shadows of Los Angeles. It happens to so many people--here one day, gone the next.