The crazy cat lady.

She stands in line at the grocery store. Her hair newly done. Blond and in a rich lady poof. Her nails shining with a recent shellac. An expensive, orange leather wallet delicately held in her hands. It is the only dash of color to be found amongst her attire. The rest of her covered from head to toe in expensive black fabrics of some kind or another. Maybe wool. The expensive kind. Or mink. Or maybe even mountain lion, but probably not judging from the entire cart of cat food that she wheels closer to the cash register in front of her.

Her eyes dodge and dash from side to side, almost as if she doesn't want to be seen buying so much food for so many cats. Nobody wants to be tagged as the crazy cat lady. She is angry that the maid called in sick today due to the snow storm and now here she is, stuck at the grocery store, in her small mountain town, with the truth. She is the lonely cat lady.

How did cat ladies get such a bad wrap anyway? What is so wrong with caring for a collection of helpless sentient beings who need warm roofs over their heads. It's a spiritual practice for her, relating to her animals. They don't judge, she cares for them almost better than she cares for herself. And she feels as if she is giving back in some way. But how could she ever explain that to her fellow widows and divorces when they ask what the most meaningful part of her day is? Is she really supposed to say, "Well, what really means the most to me is having the ability to open up a fresh can of Fancy Feast for my each of my 12 cats and have the knowledge that I am contributing to the lives of less fortunate beings."

Luckily for her secret identity, the conversations with her fellow widows and divorces never broach meaning. Instead her Chardonnay filled luncheons with her "friends" never grow past empty gossip. Maybe that's why she's so lonely. Oh that word. Lonely. A word she's always felt, but never spoken. Rich women don't get lonely. They have everything. They talk about the poor lonely souls that have to work during the Christmas season, and can't even afford a tree. The lonely people like the waitress she shifted her eyes away from at the grocery store today when she was over come with shame, another word she refuses to admit that she feels, at the contents of her grocery cart. The overflowing Fancy Feast, Kitty Litter, and Cat Nip.

Oh that waitress. She's the one at the restaurant that always asks all those questions. Those meaningful questions that are so socially inappropriate. Like, "Have you had a nice day today?" "What have you been up to?" "Is your family coming into town for Christmas?" So intrusive, really.

And then, there she stands, that damned waitress-- at the grocery store, like a goon, trying to make eye contact and say hello, waving like a maniac, drawing more and more attention as the seconds pass! As if the two of them have some kind of friendship. The audacity.

All of a sudden, hit with a tornado of catastrophic thoughts, the cat lady has to get out of there, she considers leaving the cart and letting the cats go hungry for the night. Thoughts of immediately firing her maid for negligence of household responsibilities turn into a panicked realization that her beloved afternoon Chardonnay binge at the only upscale restaurant in her small mountain town will have to come to an end because small town gossip is inevitable. Her identity wil be leaked within a matter of moments. You know cell phone these days. She wouldn't be surprised if this waitress has already snapped a photo of the cat paraphernalia filled shopping cart on her smart phone (Gd knows how she pays for it with a job like that) and posted it to the world wide web. She might as well rename herself Cat Lady.

In a nervous fit, and sure that the waitress is stationed in the same place she was a few minutes ago, still frantically waiving, she yanks her cart out of line and in an attempt to abandon ship and make a run for her Bentley in the parking lot, she shoves it to the side as she begins to run. "No one de-friends someone who drives a Bentley," she tells her self, as horrific images of flyer's filled with images of her behind a cat food filled grocery cart stapled to trees flash through her mind. Only to run smack dab into the person she is desperately trying to avoid.

The waitress. "Oh! I didn't see you here!" She says. "You've come into the restaurant a few times, haven't you? I always enjoy serving you so much. I always notice what beautiful clothes you wear, and your orange wallet. It's always your only burst of color. So chic."

Stunned. And still trying to maintain her composure from her anxiety attack, she manages to muster a smile.

The waitress continues.

"Isn't this snow storm horrible? I could barely get out to restock my hamster food. I have 12 of them at home. I know it sounds silly, but they bring me so much joy. Oh forgive me, I'm so rude. I didn't even introduce you. This is my best friend from high school Jenny, she's been away studying to be a veterinarian and just came back into town. I was so excited to see her, I was waiving like a fool for what felt like 5 straight minutes, trying to get her attention in this crowded store. Anyway, sorry to talk your ear off, I'd love to say I'll see you soon at the restaurant, but I can't stand the social schmoozing that goes on there, so I quit, but Merry Christmas!"

Destiny= Beer bellies + Basketball.

Sitting in a tennis bubble at age 27 on top of a downtown Denver athletic club. Is this what life amounts to at this age for behind the desk businessmen? A competitive basketball league where their attempts to run of their beer bellies and cubical cellulite with some healthy competition makes them feel like men again. What there they like when they were little boys? What are their dreams? How did they get here? And what is this basketball league reviving inside of them?

Two other women sit on benches of the other side of the gym from me snapping pictures, making their beloved look like superstars. The short, soon to be middle aged desk men glare at the scorekeeper and the refs as if they are the reason for all of their life frustrations. And the whistle blows and it's game time, once again.

The referee. Something about him catches my eye. His number 32 on his shorts. Something tells me this is his art and he watches as these 9 to 5 buffoons butcher his passion. What must that feel like? To know so much more about something than someone ever will and to 90% of the time have to keep it a secret? Maybe all of us have something like that. Some area of natural born expertise that we are given. And whether or not we choose to enhance that gift is up to us.

The ref at the other end of the court splits the black and white stripes of his jersey with his rotund tummy and sports red dreadlocks. His gray facial hair is braided with black and white beads to match his whistle-blowing attire. I wonder how he arrived at this location. Was this once his passion? Is he retired and looking for a hobby? Why is his hair that way? He looks like an artist. Trying to stay in shape.

Funny how all these men from all different walks of life have convened in this very gym for all different reasons, but at the same time, one reason. To play. To forget all else and be in the moment.

The guy to my right wears a pink polo, designer jeans, a conservative, short haircut and some beat up Jordans. Maybe he played basketball in college and now wears a suit, and this is his one time a week to remember his glories past. When does one surrender the grandeur of their dreams and accept reality? That question sounds depressing. Why do priorities change?

Mortality?

Do we realize we are going to die and when that really sets in, does the loftiness of our one envisioned golden destination disappear and do we accept the truth of infinite possibility in the reality we are given?

I look at the ref with the number 32 and he seems different. He doesn't look like the middle aged approaching, 9 to 5, tummy protruding, awkward sneaker wearing, random frustration bursting other men. He looks otherworldly, like his destination is somewhere unique. How is it that he is being forced to exist in this world that seems to be so beneath where he belongs? Not to say that this isn't an integral part of his journey, but he is special.

All of these men will procreate. Or at least most of them will. Soon if not already. How is it that we have arrived at this chapter of life?

These men make me feel sad and I don't know why. I'm sure if I were interacting with them on the street or behind one of their desks, I would feel differently. I would admire their dedication to their wives or dogs or babies. I would envy their homeowner status or upcoming paid vacation and health insurance. But somehow in the midst of the animalistic, passionate basketball floor, I am disappointed. When did these men become old and lame? Is that what's happening to me?

Now, a reader might respond. This is when the real beauty of life begins. The journey becomes internal and wisdom is cultivated and the glitz and the glamour no longer matter. Attempts at showiness become transparent and people are forced to put their money where their mouth is.

A plane flies overhead this tennis bubble with a basketball court inside, on top of this Denver building and I think about the passengers flying to some other destination. All with some purpose. I envy them. Not because I don't want to be here, but because I want to be everywhere at once.

Settling. Sitting still. It's important. Building for growth. Helping someone. Making a difference. It's all so important.

After all this basketball game is going to get these men through their week at work. Maybe some of them will meet a friend here that will introduce them to their future wife. Or maybe one of them will get promoted because they befriended a boss. Or maybe one will be injured and be forced to realize how much he was taking his good health for granted.

Sometimes it all feels so scripted. Like life is one big equation. Like we are all born with a certain recipe and life is one giant baking process. How did I get so existential watching basketball?

Maybe it's that I see how much this means to all of these men. How they envision themselves as the Kobe Bryants on the floor and how much their masculinity seems stoked when they score a basket or push another man down on the floor.

They all have different recipes though, these men. Some are short. Some are tall. Some have spectators. Some don't. One looks like he spends hours in front of the mirror looking at himself. Another I can see up all night with his baby girl, working two jobs and still finding time to exercise. Another, seems a ghost. Maybe he's a woodworker or a craftsman. Why do some of these men evoke stories in my imagination, while others seem unworthy of a mere memory?

After all the questioning, I look at these men and although their bald heads and beer bellies make me feel fearful of death and age, I still wonder where the miracles lie in their lives. And I have no doubt that they are there. In fact, I'm sure within a year, all of their lives will have changed in ways they never could have expected, and this little experience will have served some kind of an integral part of their story in some way.

Maybe they will see the special referee with the number 32 on his shorts one day on the side lines coaching a professional team and they will recollect how he reffed a game of theirs once upon a time.

A Recital in the name of the moment.

She is a supermodel, or at least people always ask her if she is one. No, she just hangs out with her model friend, who happens to be tall too. What is it about being a tall woman? People always assume you're either an athlete or a model, or just corn-fed. She wonders.

She doesn't look corn-fed though. Maybe a little heartbroken, or just sick of carrying the weight of the truth. Beautiful brown skin. A short black dress, with the sides cut out. And high heels. Her very presence is powerful, impossible to ignore. Her best friend, tall too, struts around the lobby of this 5 star hotel like a catwalk, on the arm of the boyfriend she has come into town to visit. Little does she know, she is one of many.

Maybe she knows and maybe she doesn't care. How are people supposed to have one and only these days with all the travel, the technology and the time flying by in the fashion that it does, anyway? Doesn't the strongest connection between two people always prevail? So, what's the point of monogamy? That's what the model friend tells herself.

The tall girl with the black dress with the sides cut out feels differently though as she spots the piano, her saving grace tonight, silently sitting in the middle of this dimly lit, moody lobby. As the model friend and the rich boyfriend glide outside to smoke cigarettes and stare into each other's eyes, she requests that the concierge print off a copy of a piece of music she mastered in the sixth grade, hoping that playing it now, in a swanky Beverly Hills hotel will bring her the same joy it did when she played it for a cafeteria full of proud parents at age 12.

The concierge, a young, handsome, shy, and overworked man seems to gladly fulfill her request and immediately appears from around the corner with the requested Requiem in hand.

She begins to play. The lobby is full of snobby socialites, ordering their bottles of wine and slurping their gourmet pastas, reminiscing about dinners past at other fancy establishments. The bartender madly shakes, stirs and pours drinks. And the concierge examines light fixtures and furniture to make sure everything stays exactly in it's place. The lounge music blares behind her, and her fingers are nowhere near as nimble as they were 10 years ago. But she remembers the feeling, the freedom and the fearlessness of that time, the time when she was young, careless, and full of endlessly motivating, unfulfilled dreams and she continues to play.

Maybe she's playing for the death of the past. The death of a romance. The death of childhood. The death of naivete, and the birth of acceptance. Acceptance of what is. Maybe she's a few steps ahead of her model friend who sits outside, unaware of the piano performance, staring into the eternity of her lover's eyes.

All of a sudden, the bartender can not shake another drink. He politely excuses himself from his thirsty patrons and carries a half full tray of drinks into the kitchen. "Does anyone know what is with this wench who has been attempting to teach herself piano for the past two hours?? She clearly finds it necessary to express her heartbreak to the entire world!!!"

She continues to play. Although her song isn't as melodious as an audience might hope, her sentiments are actively projected throughout the lobby and maybe the discord is disquieting not because of the lack of quality of her performance, but because she actually has a truth to share. A truth that we all share. As humans. The power of the moment.

The concierge rolls his eyes into the back of his head and makes a disgusted face as he cranks the volume of the lounge music in an attempt to drown out her crescendo that matches the crescendo of the thoughts racing through his head. His desire to be anywhere, but here. The song has brought his feelings of frustration and angst right where they belong. To the moment. Right where he can deal with them.

The socialites begin to rustle like uncomfortable fallen autumn leaves, and the comparisons of the sophistication of their food palettes turn to nothing but silent swirling wine glasses and wandering, avoiding eyes. Glances at watches and searching for room keys. Anything to escape the uncomfortable thoughts that arise as the tall girl with the black dress with the sides cut out fearlessly wanders her way through the completion of the story of this song.

And the bartender exhales as he exclaims, "Last call!" and promises himself that he will no longer avoid the inner demons that are keeping him from being everything in life he can be.

The only two that can't hear the music are the model and her rich boyfriend. The man of many women. They sit outside, solidifying one another in each other's souls for eternity. Maybe only to meet again in another lifetime, but ensuring that they will carry the thought of one another with each other forever and always. Especially at the sound of a Requiem, in a hotel lobby, somewhere down the line.

It's a whole different scene in Texas.

A hotel. Mahogany glossed walls. Red leather furniture. Halogen Lamps. Marble Floors. Candle Light. A pianist. Maserati's. BMW's. And Mercedes. One after the other. Espresso. Cappuccinos. Freshly Squeezed Orange juice. Prosecco. Bartenders in tuxedos and Waitresses in short blue dresses. Beverly Hills.

Sounds classy right?

Nothing ever is as it seems. Let me assure you of that.

2 girls enter the lobby. They are no older than 22 and their bodies are so emaciated that they have not developed past the age of 14, but at first glance, one might overlook their prepubescent appeal due to their double- D sized silicone breasts. Louis Vuitton bags hanging in the creases of their elbows (the only creases to be found anywhere on their bodies, mind you), sequined platforms weighing down their feathery, over tanned and probably unnaturally flexible little legs, and hair sprayed and curled stripper hair for days.

"We're from Texas." The blond one says condescendingly to the bartender. She is lost in her cell phone and is too busy to make eye contact as she establishes her position of power and financial prowess. "We used to bar tend, but now we work for our dad's. It's a really different scene in Texas." The brunette says punishingly as she peels a five dollar bill out of her Prada wallet and places it on the bar, smiling and insinuating just how much better her life is than his.

I am the server, thankful that these two didn't sit at one of my tables, I stand and watch out of the corner of my eye. They have secrets. I can tell. My arms are crossed behind my back and I have a smile on my face, but I am watching everything. I wonder if they know. I wonder how they really feel. What do their houses really look like? Do their father's know what their daughters are doing this 4th of July weekend? Why did these two prepubescent "heiresses" travel all the way to Beverly HIlls for the 4th of July weekend? It's not exactly what one would call a Mecca of patriotic celebration.

They shoot back their complementary Bellini's (a champagne and peach juice cocktail courtesy of the hotel for all guests who have just checked in) and I am surprised they don't ask for salt and a lime, but then again, they're from Texas, it's a really different scene out there.

And just like that out the doors they go, squealing as they greet Mr. Wong. I recognize Mr. Wong. He's a guest that has been staying at the hotel since it opened 3 weeks ago. I first became acquainted with him the day that I interviewed to work at this $750 a night hotel.

I waited at the front desk that day and spoke with the girl behind the counter who was not much younger than me and not much older than our prepubescent friends. It was while we were sharing our desire to make a difference in the world and how neither of us knew how we would eventually achieve that goal, that Mr. Wong strutted out of the elevator wearing yellow Ray Bans, a yellow cashmere cardigan and perfectly pressed white linen shorts. The matching yellow rosary he wears prominently around his neck assures him that God has his back. His own attitude is something he never worries about.

Before I could even thank my new friend behind the desk for her time, he pushed me out of the way. Housekeeping had been instructed to pick up ALL the dirty clothes OFF the floor in his room, but he found some socks under his bed! He was under the impression this was a five star hotel! It was in mid-sentence that his complaint came to a screeching halt. More important matters called. He noticed a mirror behind him and the reflection of his bulging calf muscle was enough to completely deter his focus just until the elevator doors opened and a blond and a brunette, wearing their club attire from the night before, greeted him giving him the Italian kind of hello. A kiss on each cheek with an ass grab, and all three went on the their marry way.

Mr. Wong clearly has a thing for the blond-brunette combo I think to myself 3 weeks later, after I am hired to work at this 5 star hotel and I watch the prepubescent duo limp out of the lobby due to the excessive weight of their Louis Vuitton purses and fall over into his Maserati.

I wonder how they know each other, but then my thoughts are distracted when a group of loud Spanish speaking men with unbuttoned neon shirts, loafers and Cartier watches strut through the doors. They go straight to the elevators and pose against their reflections as they wait to go up to their rooms. Mirrors are everywhere in this hotel. The people that stay here love to look at themselves, but surely only from a surface perspective.

My friend at the front desk calls me over and tells me that they would like me to bring a tray of Bellini's to their room. I collect the drinks from the bartender and stand in the elevator with blue velvet carpet as I wait to arrive at their floor. Mirrors surround me in the elevator. I can not escape the image of myself in uniform, holding a tray full of drinks.

I think to myself how strange hotels are. They are whatever you want them to be. A place to take vacations. A place to do business. A place to escape. A place to arrive. A place to make money. A place to lose money. A place to fulfill a fantasy. A place to tell a lie.

As I move upwards in this elevator I realize that today I am here to make money. I am a servant. But there was a time I rode upwards in an elevator towards a different destiny. Several different destinies in fact. Once a vacation with my family. Once a rendezvous with a man I thought I loved. Once to get ready for the wedding of my sister. How strange to realize the different roles we play in life and how our perspective shifts as a result.

I arrive at the door of the neon shirt wearing, boisterous Spanish men, I shake off my existential mind trip and I collect myself as I knock, wondering what I am about to see. I have never knocked on the door of strangers in a hotel before, knowing that I will be welcomed into their room. But, I know that when the door opens, I have my soul, and all I am doing is dropping off their drinks, what is there to fear?

I knock, the door opens, and the two men tell me to leave the tray of drinks. They don't tip me and they lay together, sharing a king sized bed. I leave the room and assume to me what seems to be the obvious. They are a couple and are on vacation. I leave hoping they enjoy their afternoon. I'm annoyed they didn't tip me, but clearly their not from the US and life goes on. I hope they're in love, I think to myself. That would make me feel better about life.

Now it is Sunday night, a few days later. The night before the 4th of July. The sun has not yet set, and the screeching wheels of a Masaratti catch my attention. In through the doors smack the Spaniards with the prepubescents in arms, like babies. Legs wrapped around the men's waste, they should have been sucking their thumbs, but then again, maybe they are saving that for later.

How did they meet I wonder? And I thought these men aren't into the female variety? The men look at me like I know something nobody else does. A quick look. A guilty glance, followed by an entitled order. "We want six of your best shots outside right now!" They stumble outside, giggling uncontrollably, pounding the keys of the grand lobby piano as they pass by, as if to let the world know they had arrived, and there is nothing anybody can do about it.

I rest my head against the wall as I wait for the bartender to make me their shots, wondering what the lesson I am supposed to learn from all of this is. The bartender places the 20 dollar shots down in front of me, I plaster a smile on my face as I carry the drinks outside. The girls are now draped across the laps of their dates, legs spread, with their 4g Iphones on the table, blasting Britney Spears latest hit. I place the drinks down, on fancy, Italian coasters, following the premium protocol, that somehow saves me from showing them how I truly feel.

"Are you married?" The brunette squeals out. Before I have a chance to answer, the blond knocks over her shot, just like a child spills their milk, and all of a sudden I feel like I work in a daycare. "No." I respond as I clean up her drink.

Then a neon Spaniard chimes in. "Well do you like guys with big teeth, because I have..." I cut him off. "No, I like guys with a big soul." Somehow feeling like I have triumphed.

Their laughter gets louder, but I feel better. The mere act of standing up for something is all one needs sometimes, regardless of whether or not the message appears to be received.

As I round the corner back to the bar, my friend from the front desk calls me over. "Hey, you know the deal with those two girls right?" She asks me.
"No." I reply.
"They're hookers."
"What?" I ask.
"Yeah, they're hookers. They've been here for three nights and different men have payed for their rooms every night. I'm pretty sure Mr. Wong is their pimp."

Me and Hector down by the Schoolyard.

I asked him if he carried a gun. He told me not anymore. If he gets caught with a gun one more time, he will go to prison for the rest of his life, and he can't afford for that to happen now that he has his four year old son. His four year old son, who is his pride and joy and reason for living. We don't have much longer to talk, me and the man who has been a part of a gang since he was 13. I'll call him Hector, because I don't know that he would like it if I shared his name, although I told him I wanted to share his story, and that's why I think he trusted me and that's also why I feel obligated to write this.

It’s my favorite part of LA. El Centro del Pueblo.That's where I've been doing my community service . A rec center for under privileged kids in Echo Park. Located on a street lined with murals of Quinceañeras and hip hoppers. And right down the way lives a park with a lake. A lake filled with floating odds and ends, where an enormous fountain spurts out of the middle, like the blowhole of a giant, air hungry whale. I like to imagine that in this park, where homeless couples sleep, an El Salvadorian man fishes, a shirtless, tattooed man plays catch with someone else’s child, and a group of Mexican guys in Cowboy hats play chess, a giant whale lives right beneath the surface of the water, exhaling with all his might, for all to acknowledge the beauty, the magic, and the originality of this part of town.

I just finished my 49 hour sentence yesterday. I made an illegal left hand turn and didn't pay the ticket in time and over the course of those 49 hours, I would say at least every hour that I've been community servicing, I've met some of the most interesting people a person could imagine. Angel, the 70 year old, Cuban ex-pat who always smells of cigars and reads tarot cards in between his Cuban Political meetings. Rudy, the Puerto Rican who just wants to find somebody to love, ever since he lost his wife five years ago. He claims he's been alone too long and he's sick of the hussies who just want to party all the time. Zeek, the half Jewish, half Mexican teenager who has a daughter and is an aspiring actor. He says he knows people who know people. And yesterday, I met Hector.

A black Dodger t- shirt with blue writing. Jean shorts. Bright white nikes. And a silver chain with a cross. He was on one side of the room and I was on the other. The only thing separating us was distance and carpet. A dormant slushie machine behind me and a slumbering TV behind him. We are both the favorites of the community service kids. All the other ones have to go down to neighboring South Central to clean. You know South Central, LA? Where like Ice Cube said, "they say the strong survive, but shit, in South Central, the strong even die." Hector and I get to sit in the front office and greet the people who come in off the streets looking for help. In the moments between crying grandmothers longing for their children to fill their empty homes, young fathers looking to find classes on parenting, and teenagers struggling with addiction and pregnancy, Hector and I get to talking.

I am a privileged white girl. Most people see me and judge me as such. And it's the truth. My dad is a doctor. I grew up in a big house in the mountains of Colorado. I was blessed with a college education. I'm lucky. On paper. But, what I never feel like I get to talk about is what it was really like. It's easy to see a pretty picture and pass it over as just a pretty picture rather than ask what lies beneath. So many times we do this with one another. Conversation stays on that easy, comfortable level, instead of submerging to a place where we realize, we really are all the same.

I wonder what Hector thinks of me. Maybe he thinks I've had it easy my whole life. Or maybe he knows the truth which is that none of us have it easy, no matter who we are or where we come from. An old friend once told me, "If we all put our cards on the table, none of us would want to switch hands." Maybe that's why I wasn't scared to ask Hector about his life. I had a feeling we had a lot in common although the exact circumstances under which we grew up couldn't have been more different. Isn't it true that we all experience it all in one way or another? Life. Death. Love. Sex. Intoxication. Sobriety. Family. Wealth. Poverty. Friendship. Beauty. Joy. Depression. Hate. Remorse. Suffering. Anger. Hope. Trust. Betrayal. Envy. Lust. Comfort. Serenity. The list continues... Isn't life a constant experience of passing states where we feel each one of these things sometimes one at a time and sometimes all at once?

So why did Hector and I have to be so different? Why couldn't we just be two human beings, sharing a room, and some company, and some life experience for both of us to pack with us and take on our ways forever? I trusted that if I loved him for being in a gang, he could love me for being a privileged white girl, and somehow our friendship unfolded from there.

Dios bendiga tu camino. A path paved in gold.

I woke up this morning and put on my one and only suit. A suit I never wanted to purchase in the first place, and in fact cried in the dressing room when I tried it on, feeling like the act alone was selling my soul. The bright orange color of the blouse and snake skin heels made me feel a little better, and I'm sure the purchase would not have brought me to tears had my purpose for buying it been in accordance with my heart.

Interesting how sometimes we must realize something a number of times before we actually listen to ourselves and make a change. I went for a hike two weeks before this trip and as I trudged up the hill, I clearly envisioned my future, and it had nothing to do with medical school.

I looked at myself in the mirror this morning and I felt like I didn't even recognize the girl looking back at me, and it wasn't because of the suit. It was my loss of direction and understanding.

So am I just supposed to show up there and tell them I don't want the golden ticket to a bright future? I think so. And does that make me crazy?

With an economy like this and my gender and my age, shouldn't I be thinking about my retirement like the mute man who lost his vocal chords due to cancer wrote on a pad of paper to me, next to his coffee request, while sitting at one of my tables the other day?

Why would I want to live a long life if the majority of it is spent living a lie? And it was this question that somehow allowed me to will myself into the taxi this morning, stumble across the cobble stone parking lot in my uncomfortable heels and constricting skirt, and tell the truth to the two women waiting to take me to my interview.

When the taxi driver dropped me off, I felt comforted when he referred to me as 'senorita.' Somehow that made me feel like there was still hope left. And the huge billboard that we passed on the way with an image of Jesus that said, "Dios bendiga tu camino" calmed my soul for just a minute. Although I would be lying if I said I didn't wonder, just for a second, if this was Gd telling me to suck it up and go to med school. But then the horrifying image of the skinned cadavers I was forced to inhale and examine yesterday flashed through my mind. And although the doctor I would meet with 20 minutes from this moment explained to me very poetically that part of the journey of a doctor is to face the reality of death and embrace the opportunity to get to know the human body, I still knew in my heart that this was somehow wrong.

A delusion. A desire to please my Father, my facebook friends and my deceased Grandfather, seek vengeance upon the ex-boyfriend who wronged me, his wife, and blast my ego to the world that not only am I capable of becoming a doctor, but I can do it in another language.

So there I sat at a round table, across from an accomplished professor/ doctor with a white board full of important facts behind him, in my new suit with an orange blouse. I have to admit admit a part of me thought how nice it would be to have meetings every day in a room with other colleagues. All dressed in suits. How important I would feel.

What would the doctor sitting across the table from me think if he knew I cried when I bought this suit? He probably would have told me I should have taken that as a sign. But when one's own ego is on a mission to prove something, signs, soulful signs, for that matter, seem to take a back seat.

It only took about five minutes for me to tell him my feelings and then it was over. He told me he was glad to meet me and I believed him. Strange how such intimate moments can happen with strangers, strangers you may never see again, yet are the carriers or vessels that receive and absorb your truth, and then send you on your way.

It was a long walk down a short corridor. He sat me down outside the office of the other doctor who was supposed to give me my "official" interview. He wanted to ensure she didn't want to make an exception and go ahead and interview me anyway. You see the interview cost $1500. $1500 I was not ready to pay. But apparently, to Dr. Maria Elena, her time was definitely worth that money, and I understood. I don't know if the interview would have been much of an interview anyway.

I watched longingly as I waited for her to come out of the office and send me on my way, the curvy Latin women, in their heels, with their lipstick and eyeliner, and tight clothes hugging so femininely their rolls of fat, and I felt filled with desire to be like that. I felt like a little girl climbing into her mother's makeup cabinet and playing with her lipstick, only I wasn't climbing anywhere. I was just sitting there day dreaming about what it would be like to someday be a professional. Wishing I could be one. Dr. Maria Elena never came out to interview me and I made my way out of La Universidad Autonoma de Guadalajara making my peace with the women in the suits, walking their yellow brick road.

How is it that I was wearing a suit and heels just like those other women, but they seemed so different? Could it be that behind those desks and under those clothes they feel just like me, only they are smart enough not to listen to their souls? Or are they living their purpose as I am living mine, and somehow we are both bringing clarity to one another as our high heels clop past each other?

Obviously my 3 minutes on the waiting room couch got a little existential, but who could blame a person for having an out of body experience when turning down what most look at as a path paved in gold, to go back to working in a restaurant in LA?

But as I walked through the streets of Tlaquepaque, a pueblo right outside Guadalajara, today with my loyal mother at my side, I couldn't help but start to see the colors again. I admired Constantino, the man who waited on us at lunch in a whole new way, wondering if he too had winced at the thought of a suit. Maybe he is the son of a famous mathematician, or something of the sort, who always encouraged him to become an engineer, or something of the sort. But, instead he, Constantino, has chosen his heart. To me those are the real soldiers. The ones not living for fame or fortune, but for their truth and liberation.

Skinned. In Guadalajara.

I'm sitting in my hotel room in Guadalajara, Mexico right now, reflecting on the past two hours of which may turn out to be the next two years of my life. How does one go about making a life changing decision? When do you know it's right to jump?

Dr. Mike. I think that was his name. Actually, I forgot his name, but I'll never forget his story. A tall, friendly, gray haired man with a pronounced nose and a North Carolina accent was waiting for me outside the door of his Pathology classroom this afternoon. His wedding ring and an underwater camera case for his kids who like to take underwater pictures were the only two character defining items I could pick out. The rest of him- all white. White scrubs, socks and shoes. Head to toe. A whole classroom full of these characters, almost like monks in a monastery.

40 students facing a slide show of T cells and clotted arteries, or something of the sort. A language I have long since forgotten, considering I haven't touched a science book in 3 years. 3 years ago when I decided I was going to follow my heart and stray from the straight and narrow. Now here I am, and my heart says, I want to help people, but I'm not sure this is the best way. I'm scared. That's all I know: my heart.

Formaldehyde. A scent I never thought I would have to endure again after my freshman biology pig dissection. It's not so much the dead body that bothers me, it's that scent. That heavy, pore seeping smell that I can almost taste and gives me the immediate visual of rotting tissue.

Sitting at an outdoor table, with yellow chairs, facing the windows of the library, crowds of medical students surrounding, smoking, complaining, maybe even flirting, but it was hard to tell. Those white uniforms are awfully dehumanizing. And there I sat talking to Dr. Mike.

It was his story that drew me in and left me thinking, maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all... So long as I could find a friend here like him... Someone who seemed to be a little human.

Raised in Panama city. A military brat. The son of a father who told him he couldn't. He couldn't go to college. He couldn't be anything more than a construction worker. So he descended into a life of drugs and alcohol and lived out of his car. The forest ranger who visited him every morning and sometimes brought him a doughnut one day asked him how he was going to get himself out of this situation. Dr. Mike told him he was going to make a million dollars. The forest ranger laughed at him, but Mike had only a dream to hold onto at that point, and why not dream big? Time passed. His experience with construction grew, and he woke up one day at 25 with a wife and kid. And then the next day, he only had a kid. His wife left him. So there he was, a single father with someone else's future in mind. Funny how when we begin to live for someone else, our true power sometimes manifests itself.

So it was then he mastered the art of the construction business. He had 4 of them. And his bank account reached the 1 million mark. But somehow, something was missing. Maybe it was helping others. Maybe it was school that could help him do that he thought, after all, that was all he had ever wanted to do as a kid... So, he began the process of applying. When they asked him about his SAT scores, he couldn't even remember what the SAT was. It had been over 10 years ago that he took the exam. In fact, he wasn't even sure if he took it. Well, when he received an irate phone call from the woman in the University admissions office telling him to get into her office immediately, he assumed, school was out of the question. But, the source of her anger was due to the fact that a person like him, who scored a 1550 on his SAT, wasn't in school earlier. 2 and a half years and a scholarship later, he was graduating with a degree in Microbiology and a wedding ring on his finger to an aspiring writer and English teacher.

His businesses continued to grow, and 1 million dollars in the bank grew to some other number, two more children were born, and it was after a spontaneous trip of luxury to the Poconos with his wife that Dr. Mike realized he was still was unsatisfied. Sure he could pick up at any time, go anywhere and buy anything, but something else was missing. What was it? Fufillment in his job. Giving back to humanity in his every day life. So that's when he sold everything, packed his kids and wife in the car, and moved down to Guadalajara, Mexico with nothing but a trailor in tow to become a doctor. Now, he's almost done with his second year, and says that becoming a doctor and moving to this country was the best decision he ever made.

I couldn't help but ask him if he was a spiritual man. His response was a quick and definite, "Yes. Everyone is on this planet for a reason." And then he plotted out the next 10 years of his life. He will join the air force, have them pay off his medical debt, and then move to Europe to repay his time, becoming a captain, surpassing his father's rank, and then his life will have come full circle.

As much as this story felt like it had a perfect arc, there was a part of it that made me feel like I was in prison. Is this what I have in store for me? Should I just sign my life away and and become a soldier? Is that what becoming a responsible adult is all about? He had a different career before all of this. He clearly has a multifaceted personality, he made it work,. Can I too? Can I make this sacrifice, living in a place without any friends, family, glitz or glamour?

I've preached for so long about how none of that matters, and now here I find myself facing the possibility of selling everything and literally existing as myself, a pair of white scrubs, and a set of books. Part of that sounds liberating, but the other part of it sounds like it could kill me. Kill my spirit. I love color, music, soul. Am I superficial?

So there I was, giving Dr. Mike a hug goodbye, thanking him for his story, and then within the blink of an eye, I was being ushered down a sidewalk lined in cement walls with steel chimney/ vents. One after the other. I knew we were headed for death, just by the walkway. Rounding the corner I could smell the formaldehyde. The 1970s yellow color of the doorway reminded me of a dated horror movie, like Poltergeist, and when I was handed off to the anatomy professor, in the blue smock, and white gloves, with the lazy eye, I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn't actually in a horror movie. He almost shook my hand too, even though his hands had most definitely just been inside someone's intestines.

I saw a pair of ankles peaking out of the doorway from which he exited. There must have been some fairly gruesome dissecting going on in there because I watched him consciously decide to take me into the room right next door where only 2 skinned, dead people rested on the table. Organs, teeth and hair. That was all that remained. How strange that the spirit leaves and the body remains. I had no idea where to look. "Should I look in his lazy eye, or his normal eye? There are skinned corpses on either side of me, be tough Sarah, if you're going to be a doctor, you better be able to handle this." These were the thoughts racing through my head as the formaldehyde seeped deeper into my nasal cavity. As he showed me the heart, the stomach and the intestines, I felt myself wanting to puke and say a prayer all at once.

He opened up the body with such ease. He was totally un-phased by the heart. He put everything back carefully when he was done and then touched his forehead when he wished me well and told me he would be my professor in January if I decided to attend the University. I was thankful he touched his forehead. It felt like a spiritual gesture in the midst of what was a horrific ten minute span.

So here I sit, looking out the window of my hotel room in Guadalajara. It's hot out, but the air is so heavy it looks like it's cold. When does one know when to jump? Don't worry, I'm not talking about jumping out of the hotel window, I'm talking about jumping off the proverbial leap of faith cliff. When does one run towards the fear or flee from it? Is my heart aching because I'm abandoning myself or is it because I'm afraid of taking a risk? At least I know one thing for sure, I will not be becoming an anatomy professor any time soon!

Buffalo Creek

A brother and a sister young and free. 2 dreamers. Building. The trees. The pine trees towering above, their needles scattered about. The rushing water separating the two of them. Building a bridge together, not to reach each other, but to reach something. Maybe just the other side.

The empty hammock swings in the breeze behind him. Holes gape from the snow that has recently melted and made the grass 10 different shades of green. The dirt and the grass mix with the water and make a muddy summer smell. The sun cakes and cooks the mud on his shoes.

She sticks her foot in just to see what wet socks feel like in dry shoes. She plunges into the stream. Soaking wet in all her clothes. Now she can conquer the world. She runs up the hill. He watches her from the other side of the wild creek. He looks up to her. She shows off for him, knowing it's only a matter of time before he tires and leaves her alone in the enchanted but lonely and somehow safe forest.

She finds her tree. Her favorite one. With initials from lives past. She is envious. She wants a lover to bring here. To climb into the abandoned tree house with. To build a bridge with. The thunder claps. Lightning is close. She wants to stay in the forest and challenge the fire. Kill me if you must! She exclaims to herself, looking back to see if anyone heard. Now she is a renaissance warrior princess.

And then the moment arrives. He tires. Her brother, not her imaginary lover. Her imaginary lover would never tire. He would fight the lightning fire of the forest with her. But instead the whines of the baby brother bring her out of her dream and back down the hill to the project at hand. The bridge.

He is all wet too. Only he is cold and fearful. Was he wrong to copy his sister? She comforts him. Or at least she knows she should. It's something the world just tells her. Let's pan for gold. But we don't have pans. That's OK, our hands will work. The thunder gets louder. He doesn't know about the danger of lightning and water and trees. She imagines herself as the hero and brings him inside as the rain begins to drizzle on their little muddied bodies.

Caught in the System. On Spring Street.

I’m standing in line at the Metropolitan Court House on Spring St. in downtown Los Angeles; how ironic that a concrete mountain of authoritarian architecture would be on a street called Spring Street - more like Death Street - or Wake Up and Smell the Coffee of Life Street. I am feeling like a complete reject of society, like I want to fight, fist fight maybe, just so that I can unleash my aggression and have something to show for it, even if it is a black eye.

I wonder why all the rest of the people are in this line? They can't be hardened criminals, or else they wouldn't let them freely wait in the line. But, a part of me wishes they were. That would make life more exciting, wouldn't it? Just a little...

I imagine the man in the blue Dodgers’ hat three people in front of me throws me against the wall and passionately kisses me. I like it for a second and then I pull out my Jiu Jitsu and throw him on the ground. The security guard startles me out of my martial arts fantasy when he asks me to remove my belt so I can go through the metal detector. Now I'm a dangerous cowgirl on the run, turning in my guns so I can enter the Court House. - in my imagination, of course.

How have I gotten to this place where I am in debt, lonely and lost? I'm so angry at society. No. Myself. Angry at myself. That's the real truth. I am the only white girl in a line that wraps around seven or eight times. None of the signs are in English. Only Spanish and I feel proud that I can read them. I speak Spanish, so I am not really a stranger.

I admire the beauty of the other women in the line. She wears Michael Jordan red high tops, the woman in front of me. Gold hoops. Glittery acrylic nails. Perfectly styled and swooped hair. Dramatic eyeliner. I feel like a country bumpkin. My outside doesn't match my inside. I wish I looked like her. Her outside matches my inside.

A woman asks who is here for collections and a man yells out, “I'm completely broke, I don't know what they're gonna collect!'” Everyone in the line laughs like they feel his pain. I feel the pain of this line. I am in the same line.

There is one man dressed entirely in camouflage splattered in paint- not blood. Its artist’s acrylics not house paint. He calls his friend (on his Smartphone mind you-- everyone here manages to have a Smartphone) and talks about how he's going to head down to the beach later and sell everything out of his van before he gives it to the mechanic. I get the feeling he won't be picking it up from the mechanic though. I get the feeling that what’s in his van is all he's got left. But then he starts talking about how “there's a chance the sun might make it through the clouds at the beach. He's not depending on it, and he'll go either way. He's not closed to the idea of a little light.” He hangs up and starts to sing scales. He's warming up his voice. Maybe he's going to sing it out after this. Sing the pain out, that is. He may have lost everything today, but like Bob Dylan said, 'He's got everything he needs; he's an artist he don't look back.'

I want to be like him. Instead of feeling so angry that I am 26, alone and in debt, when everyone I know seems to be in a serious relationship and on their way to being everything their parents always thought they would be, I want to remember why art is so important to me. The only vehicle to seek and express human truth.

I look up and I see a man wearing shorts that rest only an inch or two above the tops of his high-tops. I remember a man I once knew that used to wear those shorts. When I first met him I wondered if he just didn't know that they were actually a few sizes too big, not understanding his deliberate style. I think about how I fell in love with him, despite the fact that I thought he looked completely silly. I wonder how silly I looked to him. He probably thought I was a country bumpkin. Maybe he still does. Do we ever feel fully understood, or is mutual understanding just one of the many illusions of life? Is the ultimate goal to just understand ourselves and be fully satisfied alone, as individuals?

My thoughts swirl, but now that I understand them, by writing them down on my Smartphone, I feel less blocked and I've almost made it to the front of the line.

Now I feel like the people around me are my friends. I probably wouldn't throw that guy in the Dodgers’ hat on the ground if he tried to kiss me. Instead I would thank him for waking me up out of myself, just for a minute. Maybe this place should be on Spring Street after all.

What's in a dream? Shani knows.

What's in a dream? The American Dream. We all have one. What did you want to be when you were a kid? What are you most afraid of? Do that. Go for it. Take a leap of faith. Messages I have received and listened to and followed for that matter. Here I sit in LA, 'following my dream' considering myself to be brave, when all the while, what if my life's purpose has been completely superficial?

Shani Cohen. She's 2 years younger than me and is entering her 4th year in the Israeli army. So full of life and joy, she is. The ultimate bad ass. A horse riding, basketball playing, baby sister to three older brothers, multiple ring wearing, long hair shaking, uniform rocking, Ethiopian shoulder dancing, beat dropping kind of girl. Completely in the moment. Her passion for life and people permeates the air around her.

You would never know that at any moment she could be forced to leave everything behind and risk her life for her country. And the most unbelievable part, she would do it. Gladly. Her life has a purpose. To serve her nation, her people, her family.

As we pull into Jerusalem, caked in the dirt of the desert, smelling like the camels we just rode, after crawling through underground caves that the Jews dug to escape the persecution of the Romans, Shani leans across the aisle of our giant tour bus. A tour bus reminiscent of the Polar Express, only it's not a train, it's not a Christmas story and it's filled with wide eyed American young adults, not children, ranging from ages 22 to 26. They are not on a journey to the North Pole, instead they are exploring Israel, looking for some meaning in their lives through a connection to their pasts, the pasts that existed generations before their time on this planet came to be.

She asks me if we can room together. She is one of 5 Israeli soldiers who has been awarded a week vacation from the army to join this group of 49 Americans and teach them about Israel. It is difficult for me to imagine that out of all the interesting people on our trip that she could room with, she picks me! I jump at the opportunity, excited to get to know her and learn about her perspective on life. Never did I expect for her stories and friendship to change my life. Strange how that happens. One conversation with someone can change everything. It can reveal all of our denial and fears and truths in one fell swoop.

After dinner, I brush my teeth and wash my face and round the corner as Shani sits on her bed laughing at the TV. She is watching the MTV show, 'My Sweet Sixteen.' She asks me if people are really like this in LA. I am unsure of how to answer her question... 'Not all people are like that... But, some are.' I tell her.

I find myself feeling shame for a culture to which I don't subscribe, but somehow undeniably belong. She wants to know what it's like living in LA--what my story is... So I tell her. All the while realizing how far away I am from my family, how self centered my pursuit of happiness sounds and how empty such a dream seems when standing next to the dream of a person who actually fights for the existence of their country and their people every day.

The next day I find myself standing next to her in the graveyard of Israel's deceased soldiers at Mount Herzl, the national cemetery in Jerusalem. Story after story of young person who gave their life to a cause greater than their own existence surround me. Shani asks me in a completely honest and somehow jovial way, how many funerals I have been to in my life? I tell her, '5 or 6.' She doesn't respond. I gather that she has been to many more... I realize that all 5 soldiers who stand nearby, including Shani, most likely understand the death of loved ones, and not from old age, on an entirely different level than I. The existence of their country is a question that is raised every day. Living like that causes one to appreciate what they have. Family. Love. Friendship. What else is there really?

I come home to the US to find out that my 70 year old father has to have a hip replacement. My parents are probably moving. An empty apartment and a realization that the people I care most about are the furthest away from me. All I have is my dream and I'm not sure why it is my dream.

So now here I sit. And my stream of consciousness leads me to the acknowledgement that maybe being close to my family is the most important thing. Maybe finding a job where I help others every day is what I should do. Maybe allowing myself to love instead of guarding myself for some future moment is the answer. Maybe following the dream isn't necessarily the most important part, but instead figuring out what it is about my dream that makes it worth the fight.

Alex the Embalmer. Part 3.

"Yeah. I don't really believe in that stuff." She says dismissively as she catches Alex's eye. She knew he would have a great name. They always do. She wonders if people grow into the names they are given, or if their name makes them the person they are?

"What DO you believe in?" The Eastern European man barks.

"I ask myself the same question every day." She says with a sarcastic smile.

Alex chuckles like he's seen his friend's act before, only usually women entertain him for a little while. People always want to hear about their future, so the topic of astrology is good for at least a little hook. Usually.

She turns on her heel and walks over to the bar to grab a red plastic drink. That's what they are drinking. Probably to prevent spilling, but more importantly debauchery. Because debauchery is only ever induced by alcohol. 'Yeah right.' She chuckles to herself.

Hardened, candied liquid in plastic glasses. Fake Vodka Cranberry. Fake Rum and Coke. And Fake Gin and Tonic. His question resonates in her brain. "What DO you believe in?" It angers her and she, once again does her best to focus on the music. She feels her envy bubble up inside every time the bass drops and Pleather Girl's wispy body is tossed into the air.

Why is she envious of her? Is she afraid of her own desires? Does she want to be the center of attention? Maybe it's that Pleather Girl seems so free to be who she is. She isn't apologizing to anyone for her behavior, and as a result, she's found her place. It's as if the perfect spot opened up for her the minute she pulled into the lot.

Alex watches her head sway from side to side. Her eyes are closed. He can feel her across the room. She opens her eyes and he's standing next to her. The lights of the disco ball sparkle across his face.

"You like to dance?" He asks.

"Yeah, I can't really help it. It just happens when I hear music... You don't?"

"Nah, I just try to stay in the background of these things."

"So you've done this before?" She asks.

"Yeah, you know... From time to time."

"Is that how you know that guy?" She acknowledges the Eastern European man.

"Yeah, he's always doin that... You can't take him too seriously."

"I wasn't!" She defends herself.

Startled at her own defensiveness, she looks away and pretends she's fine. But, on the inside, she decides she hates everyone here. Anger pumps through her veins and she doesn't know why. She feels she's reached a dead end. There is no way out. She is surrounded by a million bitter enemies, who have done nothing to make her feel this way, but yet, it's still how she feels.

What comes after this? She wonders. Where am I? How do I get to where I want to go? Where do I even want to go? What DO I believe in? Nearly on the verge of an existential breakdown, she looks up.

Alex is dancing. Shifting his weight back and forth. He's not dancing to seduce her, but to connect with her. To bring her out of herself. She is unsure of how she knows it, but she does. She smiles. He smiles. They start to laugh.

"I thought you hated dancing!" The music shuts off and she is left screaming in the silence.

They look at each other and laugh. All of a sudden it's as if they are two children. Their guards instantaneously melt away, and for a second they are no longer caged birds, but free people, awakened into the moment.

The man on the megaphone announces that it's lunch time. Alex guides her to a white tent full of food. Sugar and Grease galore. She is the only woman in the tent. Everybody knows if you want to be famous, the first thing you have to stop is eating. She feels like a rebel as she enters the tent. He grazes over the tables, looking for just what he wants. She watches him, completely in awe of his presence and individuality, so much so that it fills her and she no longer has an aching hunger. What is it that makes him so different from all the rest? He takes only candy. Red vines. A whole handful.

"You like candy?" She asks.

"Yeah, I love it. It's one of the perks of this job."

She laughs. She loves candy too. But she never allows herself to eat it anymore. Although smoking is a worse habit. She watches him yank the licorice out of the side of his mouth against his beautiful white teeth. She imagines him as a child and decides they would have been friends. Two outsiders who would have entered into many a secret adventure together. Their strength and life experience completely unbeknownst to those in their immediate surroundings.

"So is this your job... Being an extra?" She shyly asks, trying not to put him on the spot, but desperate to know the secrets this man holds.

He shoots her a look, aware that she wants to peel a layer, but is she worthy?

"Nah... I just do this for fun."

"Fun???"

He laughs. "Yeah, I like watchin all the people..."

She wants to know what he does. She can tell he's fulfilled. But she can't bring herself to make him explain himself. Sometimes that takes away from all the beauty of what is.

"I love people too," she says.

He continues"... Each one of is different, you know? Sometimes, we catch each other's eye and change forever. Even if we just meet for a second."

She thinks about all of the characters she has met throughout the day and how they have impacted her.

"You want to know what I do, don't you?" He teases.

She laughs.

"I'm an embalmer."

Completely unsure of how to respond, she stands there looking him straight in the eye. An embalmer? Someone who takes out the insides of people when they die and then styles them for their open casket funeral??? She is stunned at how this piece of knowledge should probably disturb her, but somehow it only enhances his beauty.

How interesting that someone who deals with death for a living, could be the one person to bring her back to life. She feels his vulnerability and his truth and she wishes she could explain to him how it is his presence alone that has changed her forever. And it is in that moment, she realizes what it is that she believes in. Him.

"It's a wrap!" The man on the megaphone announces. And in the most intimate of moments, a highway of hustle and bustle of tired and cranky background birds appears in between them, as boas and headdresses are peeled off, tossed aside, and feathers float upwards. She watches as these creatures walk off of the lot, slowly assuming human form again. And as their silhouettes are projected on the buildings in the distance, he is gone.

"Hey girl, you're a really good dancer!" Her inescapable compadre, Pleather Girl, cheers behind her.

"What?" She distractedly turns around, trying to find him amongst the crowd. He is gone, for this lifetime at least.

"I said you're a really good dancer. I saw you jammin out in there."

"Haha. You did?" She questions. "I was watching you too... And thinking about how I wish I could be as free as you are."

"Aww girl you are too sweet. You got another cigarette?"

She smiles at Pleather Girl and hands her the pack. But, she keeps her lighter.

"Only if I can borrow that Pleather suit sometime."

Alex the Embalmer. Part 2.

She wonders if she should talk to him. She has nothing to lose and plus, she doesn't know where she's going. The journey of a thousand miles starts with a step. This is no thousand mile journey, but then again, who knows?

'Excuse me.' She catches up to him and lightly prances next to his long, relaxed stride. Now he is the one who listens to his earphones. He removes one from his ear, though only slightly, so he can still hear the beat. He cocks his head towards hers.

'Do you know where we are supposed to go?' She smiles as she asks.

He glances over at her and points. 'You just go to that trailer over there and do your paperwork.' Earphone back in.

'Over there?' She clarifies, meeting his eyes.

He nods.

Her heart feels uncorked, all of the love leaking out, only for the loneliness to take it's place. As she walks up the steps of the trailer and enters through the swinging door labeled 'BACKGROUND', she is suddenly surrounded on all sides by babbling egos.

It sounds like a cage full of squawking birds with the costumes to boot. Pink and yellow and fake Gucci and fake Prada and sequins and rhinestones and quaffed hair and jelled hair and heels and perfume. Sickeningly sweet pop star perfume from the discount bin at the designer discount store.

At first she wants to cry, and then she wants to scream, and then she wants to fight. But it isn't that she wants to kill or hurt any of these caged birds. She wishes she could set them free. Just open the door and say 'Fly!'

But then she remembers that she is one of these birds. She too is standing in the line. And then she wonders how the rest of the flock views her.

Her eyes trace the back of the man in front of her. His tattoos cover his entire body and the contours of his muscular arms make her want to touch him, just for the sake of understanding what a human body in that condition feels like. Mountains, rivers and valleys exists on his body.

They say that background work is one of the only forms of work recently released inmates can get. 'Was he in jail?' She thinks to herself. 'Oh shit. I'm totally going to hell for stereotyping him like that aren't I?'

But she's been to jail too. It was a Juvenile Correctional Facility for erratic teenage behavior. She wonders if anyone in this trailer background cage would ever guess that about her. For a second she wishes they would. Maybe then she wouldn't feel so alone.

She turns in her papers, leaves the trailer and finds a cement stoop where she can watch the 'background' birds flit and flaunt and abandon themselves into the wind. She misses the man from the van. What was it that he had? It felt like he read her mind and they only exchanged one look and a few words. 'How is that possible?' She wonders to herself. She reaches into her beat up, leather purse and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. She lights one and feels the empowerment of consciously engaging such a deathly habit.

She spots Pleather Girl in the center of a circle of other faux animal skin clad 'background birds'. She is dancing and singing and showcasing her talents. She will not go unnoticed. High kicks, splits and squeals. Laughter and Obscene words. The other girls have bought into Pleather Girl, and if she's really going to the top like she says, they want to be the best friend on her shoulder. So now, they are competing to be her right hand woman.

But something strange happens. Instead of electing one of the dancing, cheering flock, Pleather girl smells the cigarette smoke of her analytical audience member like a hungry dog smells the savory scents of a homecooked meal, and she follows her nose to her van mate from this morning. The flock does not follow, instead they all magnetize to new found leaders and Pleather Girl keeps the spotlight as she struts over, her hips jutting triangularly from side to side, to the naive looking girl smoking on the stoop.

'Hey, you smoke?' Pleather Girl asks.

'Sometimes...' The girl replies.

'Can I bum one?'

She hands Pleather Girl a pack of Marlborough Lights and a red lighter.

'I like Marlborough Lights too, but I don't get to smoke anymore cuz of my daughter. And my husband doesn't like it either. '

She smiles at Pleather Girl. Nothing ever looks like what it is. Before she has a chance to engage any further, the man on the megaphone quiets the chirping and screeching and explains the seductive 'club scene' that is about to ensue.

The hoards of colors and feathers clop and flutter through the club doors and the thumping begins. She feels her heart in her feet and her spirit swirls upwards into the ceiling. Pleather Girl is once again front and center, kissing the leading man with her legs wrapped around him for a close-up.

She wonders if all you need in life is a plan. She saw Pleather Girl's plan that morning in the van, the second she saw her do her first stretch, and now here her desire was, coming to fruition, and none of it had ever even been verbalized. She wonders what her own plan is?

'What's your sign?' An Eastern European man appears and asks her. She turns to avoid him and focus on the way the beat feels within her.

'My friend Alex here is a Scorpio. You know what they say about Scorpios...' She turns back around and it's him. The man from the van. With the purple velvet jacket and the indigo jeans....

To be continued....

Alex the Embalmer. Part 1.

6am on a Tuesday morning. Crisp air and blue skies, a girl locks her car door in an empty Hollywood parking lot. She checks her phone to make sure she has the right place. A bag full of 'club attire,' hair blown straight, she tries to carry herself with some element of class and swagger. Are those two things opposite?

For a second, she struts and wants to be a shiny diamond in the 'background' rough, and then she relaxes and remembers they are all just regarded as a joke to everyone who is really 'part of the production'. 'Background' meaning 'extras'. You know, 'movie extras'?

A white van pulls up. She pretends to know what she's doing. She hates being the newcomer. It's always so obvious to everyone else. She's clumsy. She has way too much stuff, but at least she isn't the girl who brought the whole rolling suitcase full of possible costume options. Her long, lanky, stiff body doesn't crouch well into small spaces, like the back of a van, when she's tired. She's dreading this experience. That little voice inside tells her she should be excited. 'This is an opportunity.' That would be the grateful perspective to have, but the truth is, she really wishes she was at home. In bed.

She puts her earphones in her ears, her gangsta rap blasts, but only for a second before she feels inclined to take them out. She doesn't want to be rude to the other girl in the van, who sits in front of her and is dressed entirely in pleather, and contrastingly, either has no idea she exists or couldn't care less.

Pleather Girl is doing her morning stretches, her 5 inch patent leather stiletto pointed directly toward the ceiling as she caresses her leg. She wants to be warmed up for the club scene. The director might just spot her and be so taken with her ability to transform into the character of 'club-goer' that he feels there is no other option but to kick the leading lady off of the set and place her, Pleather Girl, exactly where she belongs, front and center.

She recognizes Pleather Girl. She saw her getting out of a brand new Emerald Green Range Rover when she circled the block at 5:45am in a beat up American car she used to be proud of before she moved to LA. She was wasting time, circling the block. The vulnerability of an awkward conversation with a fellow 'extra' at that hour of the morning was way too much for her to handle. Or at least she blamed it on the hour of the day.

She stares at Pleather Girl, in awe of her self obsession, and wonders how she afforded that car. Why would she be riding around in the back of a white van at 6am, just to be treated like mere cattle if she had money? "She must be an escort," she says to herself. The van begins to roll away to an undisclosed destination and then jerks forward quickly as it stops.

A handsome black man with diamond stud earrings, sharp features, smooth, shiny skin, and straight white teeth calmly stands at the door. He didn't even have to wave the driver down in order for the van to stop. He wears a purple velvet jacket, indigo jeans, light leather pointy dress shoes, and he carries a beat up paperback book. He climbs into the back of the van and takes a seat next to her. He doesn't acknowledge her either. But, his presence is strong enough to distract Pleather Girl from herself. He looks past her too. The 1,000 yard stare, he has.

The way he enters the van without a question or a need to explain anything... She knows he's done this before. She gets the feeling he's done everything before. He's not an outsider. He's a citizen of the world. She wants to know his story. She can't stop thinking about him on the ride. She doesn't know where they are going.

She relates to his guard and wonders if his shield protects the same thing that her's does. All of a sudden her fear disappears and the thought of becoming vulnerable excites her. He possesses something she doesn't. Not something physical. Something intangible. Like a piece of knowledge or a life experience. And maybe she possesses the same for him... A question only an attempted connection will resolve.

The van stops. It pulls into another parking lot full of white trailers and huge semi- trucks. The three strangers disperse. The smell of ignited grills and engine exhaust fills the air. As Pleather Girl leads the way bursting out of the van and finding herself immediately at home amongst a family of implanted, suctioned and extension-ed women, the man walks with authority somewhere. The girl trails behind him, calmly but secretly desperate to find her niche at this base camp of sorts.

There is a freedom in this moment of feeling lost and not yet found. It is a moment when one can be whomever they choose. Anything is possible. She wonders if this is the closest to flying a human gets. Ah, the moment of desire. The unknown.

To be continued...

Parking with Easter.

Easter.

No. I'm not talking about the holiday. He's a person, Easter. He runs the parking lot on Hollywood blvd. and Cahuenga. (Those are two streets right in the middle of Hollywood-- you probably guessed that.)

He and two other men, huddle in their shack, that is slightly reminiscent in size and design to what you might imagine on a frozen lake in Wisconsin. I'm surprised men can handle being huddled together in such a fashion. My mind immediately goes to a sexual place, but it seems to be doing that lately. Actually, it does that all the time. I'm human. Anyway, the shack is lined with headshots of what I would assume to be movie stars. Maybe movie stars who've parked there over the years?

Easter is the only memorable man out of the three. I can't even remember what the other two men look like, and I see them just as often.

Why is it that one person sticks out above all the rest? Is it because his soul is more similar to mine? Do I know him from a past life? Or is it just that he is friendlier and louder than the rest?

Easter wants to be famous. He's about 70 and all the colorful suits and outfits he puts together complete with changing glasses and hats and jewelry and boots glow against his beautiful dark, black, ageless skin. His voice is deep and he calls me princess and sometimes suga. We are both Libras. He says it doesn't bother him that I compliment him every day because he's 'a Libra too,' and he 'gets where it comes from.' That doesn't mean I get to avoid parking in between his yellow lines though. "Stay between my yellow lines, suga!" He always yells that into my window after I hand him my five dollars and pull away.

He claims he wrote the movie 'Cars.' He's serious too. And he's not crazy. In fact sometimes I wonder if he's enlightened.

When it's sunny, he pulls out his folding beach chair and basks in the sun with his legs crossed and his silver cowboy boots (those are his favorite) peaking out from underneath his purple velvet pant leg. He sits there all day and watches. Someone who watches, understands. Someone who patiently and presently watches, that is.

I think about all that he sees. Prostitutes. Drug Deals. Rich, wannabe Hollywood types valet parking their leased luxury cars. Homeless actors gone mad. Tourists. Families. Servers. Bartenders. Musicians. Athletes. Tattoo artists. Drunken brawls. Crying girls. Angry men. Laughing couples. Confused parents. Foreigners. The sky. The road. And his own, aging hands.

He's waiting for his big break. But somehow, it's not tragic. It's beautiful, because just as much as he waits for his dream, he waits every day for his friend who carries the brown box full of treasures. A tall bearded man who sort of resembles Santa Claus. He sells used clothes, like overalls. And baseball cards. And posters. And hats. They sit there, usually in the sun, away from the shack, and discuss the merchandise, like two mathematicians deriving equations. Not just anyone is aloud into their world...

He intrigues me, Easter. Most people would wince at a career in parking. But, I can't help but wonder if he has discovered a special secret... Waiting. Responding. Watching. Reigning. He wields a power. You may not believe me, but just try parking there, and you'll see. All he does is wait, literally, and the world comes and parks themselves in his lot.