An Al Pacino fic: The Velvet Sky Over Manhattan

Brooklyn Blues

I always knew I wanted to be an actress. I can't remember a time when I thought of becoming anything else, though I believe that as a very small child I wanted to be a ballerina like most small girls did. I'd often stare in wonder at posters outside theater walls of gorgeous women in glamorous outfits with dramatic expressions frozen on their printed faces and dream of being one of them. Picture shows were the most exciting parts of my youth and I would spend all day looking forward to my mother getting home from work with the same exhausted but eager look on her face, ready to take me with her to see a new show at the theater. One particular night as we walked back to our apartment after an hour and a half spent being dazzled by the silver screen yet again, I found my gaze fixed on the bright and endless sea of lights in the distance. New York City. "A city of dreams" some would call it. The city I had always been aware of but never truly took any fascination to until that very moment. It seemed so close yet so far. I knew with everything in me that I wanted to be apart of that fast and exciting world. And ,to me, there was only one thing that was worth getting me there. "Mama," I said after being silent for almost an entire night. "I know what I wanna do when I grow up." "And what's that?" My mother asked in an amused tone. I looked up at the empty black sky and in a dreamy voice softly said, "I wanna be a movie star." My mother looked away from me and to my surprise started laughing. Not just an amused giggle but a hearty cackle that seemed to carry on for minutes. Finally she sighs, still not looking at me. "Oh, Scarlet." She said, still giggling through her words. "Colored girls can't be movie stars." Those words echoed through my brain and found their way into my heart and sank there like a heavy anchor. They pierced through my throat and left me unable to say anything else to my mother. I really loved my mother and I understood where she was coming from when she said it. But, in that moment, I wanted nothing more in the world than to prove her wrong. I was aching to be able to witness the look on her face when she realized that those words she told me were not only close-minded, but painfully untrue. However I never got to witness such a thing, because at the tender age of ten, my mother passed away.
I was left with a cold numbness that, over time, turned into a seeping despair that created a fiery anger towards the world in my heart. I had no other family. No one, not even my mother, knew where my father was, my grandparents were both long gone and my only known living relative was doing long time in jail. That left me with only one option: foster care. And as far as I was concerned, it was absolute hell. I had never felt more alone than in those eight years I spent in that dreadful place. The only thing I had to turn to was acting. The way I saw it, I was acting everyday of my life. Acting like I didn't hate the place I lived, acting like I didn't care that I was completely and utterly alone, acting like I didn't want to die every minute of every day. That performance alone, I feel was worthy of an Oscar.
I would perform in school plays, in store fronts and even in the park by myself sometimes. Those moments when I was being someone else were the only ones that made me happy. What had been a small distant dream in my childhood was now my only comforting friend and the only thing I ever wanted to do with my life.
When I turned eighteen, I was finally free of my hell. I moved out of foster care and was on to start the next phase of my young adult life. It was 1965 and the air filled me with excitement and exploration. New York City was mine for the taking. The little girl inside of me was dying to finally be able to conquer the city and have my name in glistening lights. The only problem was I didn't have the slightest idea in my young dumb head as to what I was doing. I didn't have two nickels to rub together I had no place to stay and I was starving.

Luckily, I ran into an old friend I had in high school. Her name was Monica Taylor. She was a few years older than me and already had a place of her own. She let me sleep on her lumpy old couch until I could get some money. She, herself, was a struggling actress and worked part time at an old ,almost inactive, coffee shop and she soon offered me a job working with her. I hated working there. I was on the verge of shouting at the very top of my lungs "I quit!" at any second and the only thing that stopped me from liberating myself from that relentlessly boring place was the thought of being homeless again.
And, yet again, I found myself acting. I acted as if I wanted to be there and not any other possible place in the world. And, in a literal sense, I would spend my working hours reciting lines from past plays and movies I had seen. I would fantasize about being on a stage and not stuck in a run down cafe that smelt of old wood and shitty coffee. I'm aware that it is very abnormal to spend your day mumbling Shakespeare and Tennessee Williams under your breath but, in a way, being insane was the only thing that kept me sane during that time.
The only days that didn't look completely identical to each other were the days that he showed up. That gorgeous, mysterious, almost mythical man. He would come in once or twice a week with a small but thick stack of paper and every time he did I felt myself unable to concentrate on anything else. Usually when you spend so much time looking at a person, you start to notice all of their little imperfections and flaws but, on him, I could find none. Every little thing about him was incredibly curious. His eyes were so dark but they lit up with the same burning intensity as a sky filled with fireworks. His hair was black and thick and he had a long striking nose. Everything about his face was striking. He was so fucking gorgeous. The more I looked at him, the more he confused me. How was it possible for a man to be so damn beautiful? All I could do was hopelessly gaze at him from afar and hope that he would notice me. His eyes were always fixated on the thick booklet of paper in front of him as he sipped his coffee slowly. He was so poetic. His very movement, from his fingers flipping the pages to his long eyelashes fluttering, was beautiful poetry that I never got tired of reading.
As I stared at him from behind a glass filled with pastries I felt Monica grip my shoulder from behind. "Are you ever gonna talk to him or are you gonna just stand here and communicate telepathically?" She whispered playfully. "I'm not ready yet." I said, not breaking my gaze at him. She rolled her eyes at me and scoffed. "You're never gonna be ready. That's why you should do it now while you've got the chance." "I can't!" I said, finally turning my head to face her. "I'm not good with men like you are."

"That's cause you've never tried." She said. "I just can't." I say stubbornly. "And besides, I have to work. It's getting busy around here."

"This place is fucking empty, Scarlet." She said, giggling at me.

I bit my lip and looked down at my feet. There's no way in hell I could talk to him and make it out alive. I've always been incredibly bashful. Especially when it came to boys. I had only ever had one boyfriend and any conversation I ever had with a boy usually ended in me choking up and never speaking to them again. If I was like that around some boy I had a schoolgirl crush on, imagine how I was around him. "I can't do it! I just can't." I said. "Honestly, he probably doesn't even like me."

"I can assure that he does, Scarlet."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because he's looking at you right now."

My heart stopped beating and my breath ran away from me. I turned my head back towards the man's direction. Oh fuck me she was right. I gasped and ducked behind the counter as if someone were opening fire in the cafe. Something as simple as a mere glance from him sent my heart into shock. My body was completely numb and shaking with fear and excitement. I must be dreaming I thought. There's no way he could've really looked at me. "Maybe he was looking at you." I said to Monica. She rolled her eyes and glanced back over to him. "He ain't lookin' at me." She said and walked away, leaving me to crouch behind the counter alone. I knew she was right. I couldn't hide from him forever. One of those days I was gonna have to talk to him or my feelings would only get worse. It might as well have been that day. I took a deep breath and slowly rose from behind the counter. My nerves were raging from inside me as I grabbed the pot of coffee and made my way over to that mysterious face that tormented my dreams for forever.