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.