Los Angeles, United States

“Ladies and gentlemen we will be beginning our decent into Los Angeles shortly the captain has turned on the fasten seat-belt sign. In preparation for landing…”

It’s easy to ignore instruction like this, having heard the routine a million times in my life, especially so when it’s in a fey British accent, but in my current condition, I could frankly care less. Instead, I stare out the window at the city below, the hard generic blue seatback reclined and footrest extended; laptop on, personal entertainment center active, and iPod plugged in – drowning in a comfortable and increasingly familiar Bombay Sapphire haze, my mind adrift and in another time zone. I turn up the volume on my iPod, an indulgent attempt to hold on to the last fleeting moments of my misery; music and alcohol simultaneously numbing and fueling my ruminations. Bronski Beat, my trusty standby companion in moments like this, screams full volume from my headphones, the song “Small Town Boy”, repeated now so many times I lose count; it has carried me over Atlantic and across North America to the vast glittering sprawl that occupies a fragile precipice at the edge of the Continent; this familiar place is now and once again my home. Each time the song repeats, juniper berry tears fill my eyes; I have managed to cry all the way from London. “…run away, turn away… cry, boy, cry…” I am bloody fucking pathetic.

“Sir…” a warm grip my on my shoulder draws me into the present. “Mr. de’ Mèdici, we are preparing to land; you are required to switch off your electronic devices and return your seatback to landing position.”

I remove my headphones, without bothering to look up and acknowledge Basil, my patient and accommodating “cabin steward.” He’s treated me well for the last eleven hours in this aluminum tube prison, ensuring my glass was full of Bombay and Fever Tree, fawning over me the entire flight. Well, most of the flight. Somewhere over Iceland he offered me a blowjob in return for my autograph. I seem to recall looking out the window at the pristine, electric blue ice glittering 3,500 feet below me and politely declining; had his teeth not been gnarly, I may have accepted. Now it just feels as if he has turned on me. Everybody eventually does.

“How is it possible that the British are able tell you to go fuck yourself and somehow you feel inclined?” I ask under my foul breath just loud enough to be heard by anybody who will listen. “I am not going to miss living in London, and I am glad to be home in the States.” Lies.

“Sir, that a nice sentiment, but for now you are required to comply with FAA regulations. I will give you a few moments to collect yourself, but I will not hesitate to contact the captain and I must warn you, there is a Sky Marshall onboard. Now please, cooperate. People are watching you.” What a funny statement. People are always watching me. It’s how I make my living.

“Thank you for looking out for me, Basil.” Pompous fucking queen, asshole; Prick. Note to self – avoid commercial aircraft whenever possible. I wish suddenly that I had not rejected my assistant’s offer to accompany me on this flight. Charles is the only person lately who has the energy left to put up with me and now, I will have to face the paparazzi waiting for me like hungry jackals in the terminal. He would have taken care of Basil as well. Who the fuck names their child after an herb?

Ignoring Herb-Boy, I continue to look out the window at the shimmering blue, bronze and black glass high rises of downtown Los Angeles. Off to the north I see the outline of the Hollywood Hills – it’s too bad they no longer illuminate that world famous sign at night, it would be comforting see it just now; a blurred, kaleidoscope of lights from millions of homes sparkle and shimmer in the night like prisms in a magnificent chandelier . Just below the hills, I can just make out the lights of the Sunset Strip and I trick my mind into seeing the glow from Nightingale Drive and the house I bought based on an Multiple Listing Service web-page without so much as a visit. It’s the best $17million I’ve ever spent. It’s a good thing I have a new film in the can to pay for it.

Believe it nor not, I actually like L.A, though it never ceases to amaze me what a bad rap this city gets from outsiders, New Yorkers in particular. “Strip malls.” “No culture.” “Smog.” “Fake people.” All true, but the tired mantra is a wee bit deafening and the messengers are often either stupid of just plain hypocritical. . I have to laugh now, remembering one particular New Yorker every time he makes a similar comment; he with his outrageously dyed comb-over, and his newest bride with her waxen botoxed face and enormous plastic tits. I swear she has the injections just to freeze smile on her face… I shudder to think what she has to do to keep a roof over her head. Honestly, L.A. is quite a wonderful place if you allow yourself the pleasure of buying into the fantasy, and from the terrace of my new home, I’ll be able to see most of it; views east to Pasadena, all of downtown, Century City and finally to the infinite black Pacific. When I get home, I think I will go for a swim – naked. Enjoy the snow, assholes.

“Cabin Crew, prepare for landing.” This time it is the captain and, as I have done all my life, my attention is elsewhere, focusing instead in the negative recesses in my mind. I muse over my life, my realized and then failed dreams and my last of a million chances to make things right. Lies. It has only been what, 20 hours since Keith left me, and the pain of missing him is ripping my stomach into shreds. How lucky I have been; how much shit he has endured. Why do I keep falling into the same lies and deceit? Why do I always fuck everything up? The truth would cost too much, asshole.

Slowly and as if time were at a standstill, the lumbering 747 circles the high rises of downtown Los Angeles until we align with a westward runway and begin our final decent. The February sky is clear and free of smog; the western horizon is ablaze, a purple and pink sunset burns the horizon. My seat monitor proclaims that the temperature outside is 60 degrees at our current altitude and 70 degrees on the ground. Below the 405 freeway, the major thoroughfare from the Westside to the Valley is jammed for miles; traffic from the north and south snake around the verdant hills, a luminous tributary of red and white radiance flows into the distance for miles and into eternity. A large jet painted with a red tail (is it British?) is landing on a distant runway. For a fleeting moment I imagine that Keith is onboard and that he has flown to L.A. to beg my forgiveness for having left me and for demanding that I tell the truth and publicly come out, but the blistering stares from Basil and the D-list Talent Show Cow in the seat opposite me are disturbing my moment. Christ, she really is ugly in person. The time is still wrong to admit the truth, but its right to put everything away and prepare for life.

I fumble around the control panel in my armrest, locating the button that returns my seat to the “proper landing position” and give it a press. The seat glides upward and locks in an awkward upright and stiff configuration that hurts my lower back. I feel like I’m in a damned electric chair, the only thing missing are the arm restraints.

After draining the remains of my cocktail like a shot, I toss my glass and personal items into the bin near my seat, and pray in silence, God; I will do almost anything to make things right with Keith. Please give me another chance. Ridiculous habit actually; I’m a bloody goddamn atheist. What do I expect from a god I don’t believe even exists? Would praying for a favor take away my sins – absolve me from the actions that had caused this mess? Would I get absolution from blame? Doubtful, but now it feels oddly comforting.

I close my eyes and settle back into my pity; stopping just long enough to ponder more pressing and current issues, like did Andrew arrange for a driver? God, I hope it’s not that bastard Annan with the bad breath. Where are my sunglasses? How will I look on camera? Would another Paxil help? How about an Effexor tablet? I need a drink. I’d venture to bet Basil’s already tipped off TMZ. If he weren’t glaring at me from his seat at the bulkhead I’d give Andrew a quick call. They’d love to catch me looking and acting a mess. I am mess… a fucking Crunk-Ass Hot Mess. That’s me. I need a drink.

After all these years in the spotlight, it never ceases to amaze me that people get off at the sight of unflattering photographs or video of a celebrity walking through an airport, rumpled and tired after a long flight. Does $12.00 and 2 hours of your time grant you a visa into every aspect of my life? What do people expect? I think not. It’s not like the peasants in steerage look Red Carpet Ready after they unfurl themselves from their cramped $99 seats. Idiots. I really need another drink.

It’s time to pull myself together – a series of deep breathing exercises, a simple meditation; I’m beginning to relax when a thought occurs to me. Fuck Basil and Miss Butter-Face-Talent Show. I need to call Charles. I turn on my mobile phone, dial 1-310-472…. enter and wait in anticipation. Am I really fat? At the exact moment, as the line connects, just as I hear the comforting sound of Charles’ baritone voice, a thunderous, bone crushing explosion rocks the cabin of the jet. It’s oddly confusing. I seem to comprehend what is happening … but I don’t quite get it. Is this why they tell us not to use our electronic devises siring take-off and landing? Where’s my Gucci carry-on? A blistering and searing flash of white light and a rapid drop in temperature jolt me into the cold realization that my petty problems might be small and meaningless in the large scope of life. Suddenly freezing and simultaneously hot – flames consuming my clothes, I feel weightless – I am drifting, not into thoughts of past mistakes, lost love or sleep; I am drifting instead into the air, toward the earth and onto the 405 and the traffic jam below – strapped into my dull blue seat. I smell jet fuel and taste charred blood. My… lungs… burn…. A deafening sound of wind and screams from my fellow passengers fill my ears. My mind clears, drunk no more, confused no less.

Dear God, I will do anything…

“Sir…” a warm grip my on my shoulder draws me into the present. “Mr. de’ Mèdici? Marco? Wake up. You passed out. We’ve landed in Los Angeles. You need to exit the aircraft.”

*

Copyright© 2007-2009 Mark B. Papale All rights reserved

Carol pressed against the wall in the darkened hallway, careful to stay in the shadows and trying to remain as quite as possible, inhaling and exhaling with deliberate control from her mouth, avoiding the creak in the floor, a mere inches from where she stood. Her heart raced. Sweat pooled on her eyelids and moistened the chafed skin beneath her heavy breasts. She pressed harder against the wall, craned her neck and peered around the corner. Justin was where she hoped he would be. Her left hand reached under her nightgown.

Justin snored light and rhythmic on the ivory velveteen sofa; his exposed, naked torso glowed in the diminishing light of the fire dying in the nearby hearth. Carol took a deep breath let out a silent exhalation. She closed her eyes and imagined herself lying next to Justin. His skin pale and warm; his youthful nipples hot to the touch – her favorite color – pink – Honey Bee Pink, she thought – the color of her signature lipstick. She imagined running her hands over his flat stomach, caressing with the lightest possible touch the soft trail of ginger colored hair trailing below his bellybutton; her hand tracing its downy path southward…

She opened her eyes. Justin was sitting up, looking in her direction. She held her breath. Her heart thumped in her ears. Justin lay back down, pulled the cover over himself and turned over. She closed her eyes and imagined his calloused hands probing her body, slapping her until rosy welts bloomed, pulling her hair.

Carol let go of the wall and slowly retreated to her bedroom, closing the door behind her as quietly as possible; the hinge let out a loud squeak before latching. The floor clock in the living room chimed sixteen melodic Westminster notes and then followed by two grand strikes marking the hour. Carol slipped into bed and let out her breath.

“Where were you, Honey Bee?” George asked, rubbing his sleepy eyes and yawning. “Are you having trouble sleeping again?”

“Go back to sleep George,” she retorted.

“You’re soaking wet. Do you have a fever?” George sat up on the edge of the bed and stepped into his slippers. “Let me get you some aspirin.”

Carol’s eyes followed her husband toward the bathroom in search of aspirin. She detected a slight limp in his step and wondered how she ended up married this simpering little man. “Twenty years”, she said under her breath. She thought of the young man sleeping in her living room. “Twenty god damned years I’ve been married to this impotent waste of skin.”

“What’d you say, Honey Bee?

Carol slipped a pink satin sleep mask over eyes and lay back onto a large down pillow, careful not to disturb the curlers in her hair. She pulled the duvet up to her chin and wriggled into a comfortable position on her back. “I said your breath reeks,” she said closing her eyes, wishing for a quick entry into dreamland. “And, by the way,” she continued, “you disgust me.”

**

Annette lay on her bed in the sanctuary of her room, glaring at the ceiling, the cottage cheese-like texture made her think of her mother’s ass in white slacks, and the gold flakes glinting in the early morning sunlight sickened her. She worried how about breaking the news to Justin – time to move on. Annette knew Justin would go away easily – Carol on the other hand, would be a problem. It seemed obvious what her mother was doing early this morning – it was becoming a nightly routine. Worse, Annette thought, her mother had convinced herself nobody knew. Hell, even Justin knew. He told Annette last week when they went out to see a movie. The manner in which Justin told the story sealed his fate – incessant juvenile giggling and raunchy flourishes made everything seem more lurid than she could have ever imagined.

Annette put on a pale blue silk robe, crossed her bedroom, and sat down on a piano bench serving as a chair to a white and gold painted, faux French provincial desk – another of her mother’s choices she deeply disliked. Choices, it seemed to Annette, made without regard to what anybody else might want or think; choices including the selection of boyfriends – like Justin – and refusal meant warfare. She peered into a small, lighted vanity mirror sitting on a polished glass desk cover with neatly organized grooming aids – a large round curling hairbrush, an aerosol hairspray and a blow dryer; her indigo eyes shown black in stark contrast to her white, freckled skin and natural California Blond hair. Overnight an angry scarlet pimple formed on her forehead, marring an otherwise clear and healthy complexion. Annette tried covering the pimple with her bangs but the result just looked like she was covering up a pimple with bangs, so she gave up, turning away from the mirror disgusted and feeling self conscious. She opened the small desk drawer, removed a day calendar and turned the pages to the date – Monday, January 7, 1980. 168 days… 5 months, 16 days… 241,920 minutes to go before freedom. She replaced the calendar and removed her savings account passbook – $5,420.00. Soon, no more Carol, she thought. The plan is coming to fruition. She replaced the passbook and looked again at her reflection. From the living room, Annette heard the floor clock chime seven times – time to get ready for school.

**

Justin awoke thinking of his ex-girlfriend with a boner so hard, it hurt. Carol was busy making coffee in the kitchen and he considered nonchalantly wandering in to say good morning, wearing only his tighty whities and a smile, just to see if she would notice. He lifted the sheet to admire his stunning accomplishment and to his dismay, saw the front of his skivvies marred by a large pee stain. Justin stood up, brushed his long unruly red hair from his eyes, stretched, and placed his hand on the small of his back, flexed backward, pressing his pelvis forward. He suspected Carol could see him from the kitchen – he could see her pouring water into the Mr. Coffee machine. He slipped into a t-shirt and sat down on the edge of sofa and scratched his balls. It’s a nice house, he justified, well kept and the food always plentiful. Lots of drama, though – Mrs. G. can be a real bitch. Sleeping in the living room is not what he had hoped for either, and Annette not putting out putting out created some tension, but considering his dad had kicked him out of the house and the rent was free, he figured he’d make it work. It’s time to put on a show, he thought. Gotta keep the gravytrain rollin’. He yawned loudly, put on a pair of dirty tube socks and walked down the hall toward the bathroom, just before the floor clock chimed on the half-hour. “I hate that god damned thing, “he said.

“Did you say something, Sweetheart?” Carol asked.

“Good morning Mrs. G!” he said as he walked past the kitchen, slowing enough to give her a good look at his ass. “I said I love the sound of your clock. It’s classy.”

Carol smiled and didn’t respond. Justin entered the bathroom, stripped off his t-shirt and shorts, turned on the shower to full hot, and then lifted the toilet seat with a bang of plastic hitting porcelain and peed without closing the door – time to get ready for work.

**

Every morning George left the house at 5:00AM on an important mission. Carol’s Pontiac Bonneville requires a daily topping of premium grade gasoline and Carol needs her morning fix of hot donuts. The Pontiac, Carol insisted, must only be filled at Shell station across from the high school and she’ll only eat donuts from the Winchell’s on M street, a twenty minutes drive across town – perilously risky because the distance subjected George to unplanned delays – traffic lights had tripped him up more than once, and if the glazed confections arrived on Carol’s plate cold, it’s back into the car for another forty minute journey (or, longer if the fuel gauge on the Pontiac dropped below ¾ full). For George, timing truly was everything.

This particular morning, he sensed Carol was edgier than normal, prompting him to drive with greater determination. Something was wrong– he couldn’t quite place it. It’d started about a week ago with Carol wandering the house in the early morning. And, the night sweats. George wondered if perhaps Carol was entering early menopause – is 47 an early age? As with many things related to his wife, he couldn’t be sure. And, when he stopped to consider the many troubling medical issues Carol suffered… He pressed hard on the gas pedal, the Pontiac’s the V-8 engine trumpeted like an elephant and accelerated with ease past the 35 mile per hour speed limit allowing George to breeze through two yellow lights. He rolled down the car window for some fresh air – the sticky sweet smell of the dozen glazed donuts occupying the plush velour passenger seat was cloistering – affecting his ability to concentrate. Yes, something was wrong. A cold rush of morning air cleared the cabin of the car, but it only made George worry more. He closed the window and raised the heat, adjusting the vents toward his precious cargo.

At precisely 6:30 George pulled the car into the drive and while he waited for the automatic garage door to open, a cold feeling of dread dropped on him like a gauzy film. He checked the box on the seat next to him; still warm to the touch – check. He stepped from the car and walked to the end of the drive, collecting the newspaper, freed it from its rubber band, folded it neatly and placed it under the donut box – check. When he entered the house he heard the loud clanking sound – not good –of a toilet seat banging up against porcelain. He looked down the hallway to toward source the commotion, and surely Carol’s ire, and was startled by the sight of Justin’s ass, glowing like a ripe white peach in the pink incandescent glow of the “guest” bathroom. The damn kid is pissing standing up! Please… don’t… the carpet… Yes, he thought, something is definitely wrong – check. Time for a change. Check and check.

**

“My coffee is cold,” Carol said, blowing onto a cup of steaming black liquid. “What took so damn long?”

George placed the Winchell’s box and newspaper on the kitchen table in front of Carol, and then went to the cupboard for her favorite plate. “Donuts are hot,” he said with a smile, handing her the plate. “You want me to say something to the kid? He’s making a lot of racket in there?”

Carol opened the box filling the kitchen with the aroma of warm sugar and fat. She took a sniff and checked all the donuts for the correct temperature. They ware warm and soft and she couldn’t wait to enjoy one. Fixing her gaze on George, she barked “They’re cold!” George flinched. He knew they were still warm. “God damned you, “Carol continued, “you can’t do anything right.” She slammed the box closed and pushed them away, bumping her coffee mug, splashing coffee on the table.

“I’ll go get some more.” George rushed for a paper towel.

“No you won’t! I’ll suffer through them. Christ, I’ve got a few months to live and I have to spend my last moments with the likes of you!” She watched George squirm and smiled inwardly. “Just leave me now and go to work. Work late if you like.” George looked away. “And, leave Justin alone,” she said. “He’s a guest in our house.”

George left Carol to prepare for work. As we walked past the open bathroom door he stopped to close it, and made a mental note to wipe down the walls. Damn kid has the water on full hot – steaming up the place.

“Nobody asked you to close the door!” Carol said.

George shook his head and decided today things would change. It wasn’t part of the plan, but better now than ever. “Carol,” he called.

“Yes?”

“I’ll be late tonight.

**

“I heard you tell dad you had a few months to live,” Annette said. “Could it be true this time?”

Carol set down her half eaten donut and took a sip coffee. “Why are you so cruel to me? She said. “The doctor told me I have the early onset of polio. It’s why I can’t walk much anymore.”

Annette poured herself a bowl of Special K and sat at the table with a carton of milk. The back of the carton had a picture of a smiling girl with red pigtails and a missing front tooth. There was a reward and a suggestion the girl might be runaway. To America in general, people might question what would motivate a six year old with pigtails to run away; Annette read the box and chuckled. “You have no trouble walking the hallway at night.”

Carol looked at her daughter and thought carefully about her next move. This girl is too damned willful, she thought. She needs to be brought down a notch. She pointed out Annette’s pimple. “You look like a damned ugly Cyclops. Hide that thing from view before I get sick.”

“From what, made up disease this time mom? Acne induced Liver cancer? Pimple cell anemia…”

Carol cut her off. “You’d better take care of the boyfriend of yours.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m saying a man like Justin has needs and if you want him to stick around, you’d better step up to the plate.” Carol paused, thinking about the show Justin put on for her this morning. “If you don’t take care of him, I will.”

“Mom, you’re gross.” Annette stood up and took her empty bowl to the sink and turned on the water. “You can have him, ‘cause I don’t want him. He’s moving out today.”

“Watch your mouth, he’ll hear! And, what are you talking about? Justin’s not going anywhere.”

“Mom, did Justin ever tell you about Judi Van Ahlstrom?”

Carol sat silent. Judi had called here asking for Justin several times. She sounded frantic. Carol wondered what that was all about. Judi never left a message. “Yes, of course I know about Judi.”

“Really?” Annette returned to the table and sat down smiling. She knew her mother was lying. It made her feel good catching her like this. Carol was cornered. “Please tell.”

“She’s called a couple of times.” Carol started to breath shallow and rapid.

“And?”

“And nothing,” She clutched her heart. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack? Tell me! What about Judi?”

Annette looked at her mother. She looked pretty. Her skin glowed, her hair was nicely done. She was overweight for sure, but presented herself well, in a large, glamorous sort of way. She may have been beautiful once, Annette thought. To anybody who doesn’t know her. But to those who did know her, they’d see what Annette did – an angry woman sitting at the table stuffing her face as always; cruel as ever, dressed like she was going out for an important social event – lipstick perfect. Damned pink lipstick! Did it come off or had the pink pigment permanently stained her lips? Annette thought everything a twisted pretense for a woman who never left the house until after All My Children; a woman who idled away her late afternoon shopping for cheap gold-plated, cubic zirconium jewelry and ceramic tchachkes at the mall; a woman who’d return around 6 P.M. too exhausted to lift a finger to make dinner or clean up. Leave the cooking and cleaning to George. A strong sense of pity tugged on Annette’s bruised soul; her stomach rumbled and her cereal suddenly felt as heavy as a brick. Until now, she was sure she hated the monster sitting across the table from her. Now, she knew. It was pity all along. Hatred = Fear. Pity = letting go. “Mom, gossip is your realm, not mine.” Annette stood to leave, and once a safe enough distance to successfully fend off flying dishes or spiteful words she stopped and turned to face her mother. Carol was sitting at the table, donut crumbs stuck like flies in her pink lipstick. She looked like a volcano ready to eviscerate an entire city.

“What should I know about Judi? Carol asked.

“Next time Judi calls, ask her yourself,” Annette responded. She stayed long enough to admire her mother’s now Oscar worthy and predictable heart “spasm.” You don’t scare me anymore, old woman. “Or, better yet,” she continued, “ask Justin, “here he is, now.” She turned away passing Justin without looking, and heading back to her room to gather her books.

“What’s going on in here?” Justin asked.

“My mother is convinced you want to be her date at senior prom!”

Carol lost her appetite and felt the onset of a headache, her vision blurred, just for a second, creating a burst of iridescence in her brain. She glanced around for an object to throw and settled on the morning paper, tossing it in the direction of Annette; it landed in a limp scattering of words a few inches from where she sat.

“What’s going on in here?” Justin asked.

“Justin,” Carol stopped. She took a deep breath and tried to collect her thoughts. She was losing control. If anybody was moving out, it’d be Annette, she thought. “Justin,” she continued, “Who’s Judi and what does this have to do with my selfish daughter wanting you to move out?”

Justin looked down at the floor. He was afraid the gravy train would end; he just didn’t expect it to be so soon. He wondered where he would go next. “Judi’s my ex,” he said still staring at the floor.

Carol sighed with relief. “Well, that’s no reason for you to move out!”

“She’s pregnant.”

Carol felt her chest tighten, like somebody had just punched her in the gut. She smiled and tried to think of a way to respond to the news. Her immediate urge was to blurt out her feelings, to proclaim her affection –a once in a life time love only found in books and movies, but she knew such a rash action would scare Justin away. She considered her options and settled on a stop-gap plan she hoped would keep Justin living her house and under her control for at least another week. If the plan didn’t work out, Carol felt certain she would die. “Justin, why don’t you take off early and meet me here for lunch?”

Justin rubbed the stubble on his chin and stared dumbly at Carol, afraid to turn down her offer. “Ummmm, O.K., I guess. It’s just …“

“I’ll make up for the lost wages, just plan on being here no later than 1PM.” Carol took a sip of cold coffee and spat it out. “Justin, one last thing.”

“Yea, sure.”

“Do you like cheese?”

**

Arriving home as usual around 8:00PM with $50.00 in tips from her after school job at Denny’s Restaurant, Annette didn’t notice the house was cold, dark and quiet. Her mind was focused on the need to shower away the smell of bacon, cigarette smoke and coffee, and on filling out a deposit slip and updating the savings total in her credit union passbook. When she opened up her desk drawer and found it missing her vision blurred with fury – Carol, she suspected, had rummaged through her desk and taken it. It had happened once before.

It wasn’t until she stormed out of her room, entering the darkened hallway to confront and accuse her mother that she noticed the house was empty. Annette felt a chill in the air which seemed confirmed her suspicions about Carol enjoying a leisurely evening of shopping at the mall. By this hour, she thought, the money would be spent and Carol would be enjoying a slice of pepperoni pizza in the food court. She stopped and turned on the hall light, adjusted the thermostat, firing up the central heating. Warm air filled the house.

Annette leaned against the wall and tried to breathe some calm into the angst which had taken over her body. Her vision was blurred with tears and she tried to imagine how she was going to move forward now without any money. Her mouth and lips felt dry. She kicked at the wall, then collected herself and walked toward the kitchen, dragging her feet in the deep blue pile of the shag carpet. As she passed the guest bathroom, Annette noticed the toilet seat was up. Water streaks marred the walls and floral wallpaper and a wet towel had been carelessly tossed onto the floor next to a dirty pair of tube socks and underwear. “The Bitch is going to freak,” she said, closing the bathroom door and turning toward the kitchen for a glass of water.

When she turned on the kitchen lights Annette noticed an empty box of doughnuts and Carol’s coffee mug waiting on the small pink Formica table. The newspaper Carol had flung at her earlier was still on the floor where it landed. She picked up the mug and placed it in the dishwasher and wondered aloud why her father had not yet come home. She hoped he had not betrayed her by enjoying pizza with Carol. She collected the newspaper from the floor and empty doughnut box off the table and set them on the counter. That’s when she noticed the smell of spoiled food; she would later describe the scent as metallic and pungent, like a sour sponge left to ferment under the sink.

Annette looked around the kitchen for the source – rotting meat, leftover lunch perhaps. She checked the kitchen carefully, lead by her nose. She found nothing, and when the central heating stopped the smell, she noticed, went away. She stepped into the dining room and switched on the lights. The room was spotless; no smell, no leftover food. Of course not. This room was off limits and simply for show. In the living room she did the same – switched on the lights and checked for food. On the coffee table she found her credit union passbook and a bundle of cash, neatly held together by a thick rubber band, and behind the sofa, laid out on a pink comforter in front of the fireplace, she found the source of the smell – an empty bottle of wine, a plate of half-eaten cheese, and Carol, alongside Justin – both were naked and laying face down; both with gaping red wounds smashed into the back of their heads; both covered with blood, and in Justin’s case, shit stained his inner thighs. Annette closed her eyes, held back the urge to vomit and screamed.

**

Annette opened her eyes, cleared her throat, stepped up to the podium and looked out into the sea of expectant faces staring back at her. She found the whole idea of people paying $15.00 to see her read excerpts from her memoirs slightly odd and off putting , much like she felt when her therapist first suggested she start writing everything down. She never imagined she would share her writing, but life is funny and full of surprises. Still, the sheer numbers, 1,300 in attendance and nearly selling out Royce Hall, made her stomach lurch. This was the largest audience by far, she thought, knowing the increase in ticket sales was directly related to the time she spent sharing her life on Oprah’s couch. She took her position at the podium, closed her eyes, blocked out the sounds of people talking and shifting in their seats, and thought back to the fateful evening 25 years and 10 lifetimes ago, catapulting her onto the world stage. The world sped up and then stopped in her mind’s eye.

After what seemed an eternity, the crowd settled down and the lights over the audience went dim. She looked down at her book on the podium before her, opened up to an earmarked page and then looked up, allowing her eyes to adjust to the lights which shone on her. She adjusted the microphone and a small reading lamp and took a sip of water. “Thank you all for coming tonight,” she said. The audience erupted with a roar of applause.

A forced and frozen smile graced Annette’s face. The vision of her mother and Justin lying face down in front of the fireplace flashed in her mind. Her nostrils filled with the smell of blood and shit, and her mouth tasted suddenly of vomit. She shook her head to clear her brain of the past and collected her thoughts, pausing momentarily before starting to read, ruminating on an old question still nagged at her … why hadn’t George take the money before leaving? They had gone over this part of the plan numerous times. It was to be George’s visa to freedom. Instead, he left it for her. Odd, she thought. Like implementing the plan early and killing Justin when it was just supposed to be Carol. None of this really mattered anymore.

Annette shifted on her feet and cleared her throat. For a minute she thought she heard the faint, melodic chiming of bells ringing across the campus. She smiled. Ding Dong the Witch Is Dead. Closing her eyes, she silently prayed, asking for forgiveness and for her father to remain safely forever out of sight and free. She hoped he was happy. Annette opened her eyes. The audience stared back in anticipation. A woman in the front row looked annoyed. Annette smiled again, inhaled deeply and began to read aloud, slowly, paying careful attention to project every word, her voice quivering, memories landing on her shoulders like a suffocating and bloody comforter. “Carol pressed against the wall in the darkened hallway careful to stay in the shadows and trying to remain as quite as possible…”

**

Copyright© 2007-2009 Mark B. Papale All rights reserved

Lorena took a sip of absinthe and swallowed, holding her breath.  The verdant taste and smell caused her to gag and shudder from the top of her oily scalp to the bottom of her dry, flaky heels.  It must be done, she thought, staring skeptically at the cloudy jade elixir taunting her, promising seductively that the next sip would open the locks deep inside her brain that controlled the flow of artistic success. Accepting the promise as truth she took another sip and shuddered – it had to be done – this and the requisite scarf and beret she had purchased from an angry Chinese woman in a brightly lit shop on the Avenue des Champs-Elysées.

She’d waited what seemed her entire adult life for this moment – les écrivains vie – the “Writer’s Life,” the real-deal – in Paris; a chance to sip absinthe, to chain smoke Gauloises, and the free time to idle away an entire afternoon with nothing more to do than write; jotting down brilliant and award-winning story ideas with a shiny black and gold Mont Blanc fountain pen, in a hand-tooled and leather bound Florentine notebook.  Even if she never accomplished anything, Lorena justified to herself that she was happy just to appear like she was working.

She took another sip, shuddered and looked around the smoky room. Le Bar de L’Hotel was everything she had imagined a Left Bank Parisian Literary Salon should be – plush velvet in rich hues of plum and rose, the smell of smoke and saffron hanging in the thick dusty air – a delicious Beaux Artes cupcake waiting to be consumed and a new identity to be assumed.   In a secluded booth across the room Lorena watched as a small man with dark and hairy arms fed slices of cheese to an elegant woman dressed all in white. The couple kissed and smiled at one another between bites of cheese and sips of wine, fully aware that their actions were being observed by all in the bar.

Lorena sighed, opened up her notebook and removed the cap from her pen. Lawrence would most assuredly detest Paris.  It’s so, “La bohème,” she wrote on a clean ivory page in the precise, blocked letters of a Catholic school girl.  As she stared at the words she had written, Lorena wondered what Lawrence was doing at this very moment.  The local time in Paris was 6pm, which meant he was likely thinking about an early lunch back in Toledo.  It’s Tuesday, so this meant that Backyard Burgers were on the menu.  Tomorrow it would be BBQ from Porky’s. The day after it would be dinner at the Olive Garden where Lawrence would predictably order the Fettuccine Alfredo. The only change to his routine is that instead of ordering the “Tour of Italy” for Lorena, he would order it for Lana, his fiancée and, a woman Lorena uncomfortably noted, was an exact replica of herself.  One week after breaking the news, Larry moved Lana into the house and sent Lorena into the finished basement.  She began to worry that perhaps something was up the night she came home early to catch the lovebirds canoodling on the sofa and watching Bette Davis assume the role of her murdered sister in film “Dead Ringer.” She slinked down to the basement, slept uncomfortably on the lumpy rollaway bed and filed for divorce the following morning.

Lorena reread her journal entry and took another sip of absinthe; the shudders had begun to diminish and her skin felt warm.  She sat up, removed her scarf and thought a moment before she crossed out her entry, turned to a fresh page and re-write the line.  Lawrence would have fucking hated this place.

She quickly finished the last of her absinthe, admired her prose and then snapped her notebook closed and called the attention of her waiter “Garcon!  The volume of her own voice startled Lorena.  It seemed as though somebody else had spoken, using their “outside voice” as Lorena liked to call it.  She looked around the room; the couple in the booth hadn’t noticed, though from the bar near the waiter, a dry looking woman with a pulled face glared at her through a haze of blue smoke as she quietly fed pâté to a small white dog she held hostage in an orange, reptilian skinned and expensive looking handbag .   The dog stared looked up and barked. Lorena sank low into her chair and blushed.

“Oui?”

“I’ll have another round to celebrate the dissolution of a marriage.  S’il vous plait,”  Lorena said in a low, slow tone.

The waiter smiled, prepared another absinthe service on a small silver platter and with great pageantry, presented the tray to Lorena for inspection, pouring the fabled drink from a tall red bottle into a short cut-glass tumbler, then laid out a silver a pitcher of water, some sugar cubes and a oddly slotted spoon that still had Lorena puzzled.  “I noticed on your carte de credit that your last name is Lard Ass?  He paused gesturing toward Lorena’s felt beret.  “You’re French, no?”  The woman at the bar cackled, coughed and sucked on a cigarette, waiting for Lorena’s reaction.

Lorena removed her beret, and placed it in her lap. “It’s pronounced LardESS,” she said without looking up, “and yes, I’m French on my grandfather’s side of the family.  He was a writer, you know.  Like me. Except that right now I’m unknown.  And a teacher.”   She stared into her lap and noticed a small gold “fabrique en Chine” label attached to the poly lining on inside of her beret. She turned the beret over and placed it on the chair next to her.  “A friend of Gertrude Stein.   He was… my grandfather… a friend of Gertrude Stein that is.”

The waiter smoothed his white apron, allowed this proclamation to hang in the air, wiped water rings from the table and slowly emptied Lorena’s ashtray which overflowed with half smoked cigarettes.  “Ah, yes,” he said, walking around the table, making motions of cleaning, taking an opportunity to glance at Lorena’s corpulent floral draped derrière spilling over the bent wood chair she occupied.   “LardESS is a fine French name!” he said.

Lorena glared at the waiter.  “Lardaess is my married name and as far as I know, it’s of Scottish ancestry.”  She paused and thought for a moment and stared at the floor. “My grandfather’s last name, the name I fully intend to reclaim as soon as my divorce is final, is Lemieux and yes, it is a fine French name.”  Lorena sat up in her chair wishing now as she had done a million times to have taken her mother’s advice and not even date Lawrence.  “He has such an unfortunate name” she warned. “A girl of your build will never live it down.  They’re all going to laugh at you!”  Lorena chuckled, remembering how this last part reminded her of the over-zealous mother in the film “Carrie” which was playing in theaters at the time.  Now, she wished she had listened, like Carrie should have.
“Is there anything else you require, Madame?”

Lorena bristled.   “No, thank you – I must return to my writing.”

“But, of course.” the waiter replied, walking away winking and smiling toward the woman at the bar.

“No, wait!”  Lorena continued.

“Oui?”

Lorena sat up and faced her tormentor.  “I didn’t wait all this time to come to Paris only to be insulted by an uneducated drink-slinger,” she thought.  She replaced her beret and scarf, brushed lint from her breasts and looked directly into the waiter’s eyes. “You know,” she started.  “My husband, much like you, was an asshole.  But, he’s not going to bother me anymore and neither are you – do you get my drift?”  She picked up her pen and notebook. “Now, I fully expect that you’ll do your job and keep your eyes off my LardESS and on this glass here.”  The couple in the booth was now watching.  “When it’s empty I fully expect your full attention, otherwise, you and that dried up smoke-stack over there can mind your own god damned business.”  Lorena looked down again, avoiding an angry stare from the woman she had just insulted. She and took a deep breath, feeling exhilarated.

“But, of course, Madame.”

“Please refer to me as Madame Lemieux.  I’ll be paying with cash from here forward, please close my account.”

“But of course, Madame Lemieux.”

“Merci,” she concluded, relieved that the woman at the bar had resumed smoking and feeding her dog – the couple in the booth had returned to exchanging kisses, leaving her time to collect herself, before returning to her notebook and back to her idea of les écrivains vie.

Copyright© 2007-2008 Mark B. Papale All rights reserved

Happy April. I apologize in advance, but this month I am a little busy working toward completing a revised draft of a project I am working on, tentatively titled, Soul Kiss. Because of this, I have decided to share a story I posted this time last year, a short tale about love and family ties – I call it Freedom.

M

*

For three days now, the Santa Ana winds have rocked Petal La Fontaine’s small travel trailer. Just an hour ago, a strong gust shook her trailer so hard Petal thought it would break away from its wooden foundation and roll free. Last night a strong gust tore her screen door from its hinges and sent it flying into a long overdue and rusted demise. The sand, omni present and hot in the blazing Riverside sun, blasts the white paint from the trailers aluminum frame and blows in through the cat door Petal had cut into the wall; the persistent flapping of its little plastic cover reminds Petal that Sammy, the last of her four cats, has been missing since the winds started. Last night, just after the screen door broke free, Petal heard a pack of coyotes calling to the moon and now in remembering this, she begins to worry.

Petal tries her best to look out her window, pressing her oily face against the dirty and scratched glass, hoping she might catch sight of Sammy, and wishing that her son Frankie, her only contact with the outside world, would stop by with some food. It had been almost 24 hours since Frankie’s last visit and all the groceries – a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts, three six-packs of coke, a package of microwave pancakes and a family size bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken were all gone. Petal wished she could go out for groceries herself, but for two years she has been without a car and even then, she could no longer fit through the doorway and out of her trailer. When going outside was an option, Petal found there was nothing really to see or do.

Petal recalled how she hated the desert. She remembered it looking the same then as it does now, a vast emptiness of barren, windswept terrain, a few dry or dead trees and an endless sunburned horizon under a white sky. The only living things Petal remembered, besides rattlesnakes and a few translucent scorpions was a scattering of brittle creosote bush colonies with their prickly branches and tiny grey leaves. Even they would give up hope in the heat of the summer, often breaking at their base and tumbling like beach balls for miles in the wind, in search of freedom, Petal thought. Petal envied the creosote bush. ‘I am like a sardine trapped in a tin can,’ she thought to herself.

Deciding that neither Sammy nor Frankie would stop by any time soon, Petal opened a can of Friskies brand Tuna Delight cat food and made herself a snack. Another gust of sand and wind hit the trailer, rocking it and causing Petal to lose her footing and slip, convincing her to go back to the safety of her bed. Slowly, cautiously, she hobbled on swollen, diabetic and cracked feet over to the barren mattress, sat down, and fluffed a soiled and stale pillow. Petal let out a sigh and lay down to finish her Tuna Delight, careful not to cut her tongue, licking the inside of the can and then finally the lid. Petal made a mental note to ask Frankie to stop by Wal-Mart for more cat food. Wiping tuna juice from her chin Petal laid back, stared at the ceiling and thought about Frankie and Riverside.

*

Moving to Riverside from Van Nuys seemed a good idea at the time. An earthquake had destroyed Petal’s one bedroom apartment, leaving her and Frankie homeless and smashing the last relics of her past – a vast, iridescent collection of Carnival glass. A week of aftershocks, looters, Santa Monica do-gooders, and living at the YMCA rattled Petal’s nerves and convinced her to give up on L.A. She made plans to leave California and live with her sister in New Orleans, but when Frankie came up with the idea of stealing a travel trailer and moving out to Riverside, she jumped at the opportunity. When Frankie placed the trailer near a burned and abandoned shack at the farthest end of the ten-acre parcel he rented and illegally hooked up the electricity, Petal started to doubt her decision. Now, alone in the desert and dependent on Frankie, the situation no longer felt ideal.

Things with Frankie were no longer ideal, either. Everything seemed fine until six months ago when he met up with Rusty, a nervous and skinny man who kept his sandy hair shaved with the exception of a curiously long tuft of hair at the base of his skull. Petal noticed how Rusty never looked anybody in the eyes when he spoke, choosing instead to look at the ground or into the distance. She also noticed a tattoo of a swastika on Rusty’s throat and this more than anything else bothered Petal, providing her an excuse to distrust him. Soon after meeting Rusty, Frankie’s schedule became unpredictable. Daily visits have become sporadic. In the last month, Petal noticed dramatic and often daily changes in Frankie. Always lean to begin with, he had rapidly started losing weight. Petal suspected he had lost at least fifty pounds since he met Rusty and although she was not a specialist in such things, loosing that much weight in such a short time seemed wrong.

There were other changes, too. Frankie’s skin looked red and it was raw in spots; some of his teeth were missing, and conversations were often incoherent. Frankie, like Rusty, now preferred to fidget and his temper would turn ugly for no apparent reason. Most of his time at the trailer was spent with Rusty, smoking, drinking and digging a hole in the desert for a septic tank – a task Frankie called “Project Shit-Hole.” Petal didn’t care what he called it; she was just looking forward to flushing the toilet.

Petal suspected other things, besides the physical, were going wrong for Frankie as well. She worried when he started keeping the change from her grocery money and this month he claimed her welfare and disability checks had never arrived. Petal worried that Frankie was lying and a call to her friend Bernice, the manager at Mail Boxes Plus, confirmed her suspicions. Two days later, Petal’s cell phone service was disconnected. When she asked Frankie if everything was OK, he snapped. “Stop naggin’ you fat-fucking Carnival Freak!” he yelled.

Petal cringed at Frankie’s insult and retreated to her bed. It had been years since she worked in the Carnival and every time somebody called her a freak it brought back bad memories of sitting in a airless room, forcing a smile as people lined up to pay seventy-five cents to see her. Petal remembered how people treated her, often taunting, laughing or making crude remarks as though she weren’t in the room. Children, Petal recalled, were the worst offenders and often brought her to tears. Children were the reason Petal retired from the Carnival.

For three days after Frankie’s outburst, he didn’t bring Petal any food and it was during that time she first tried the taste of Friskies. When he and Rusty returned, they brought Petal a bucket of chicken and resumed work on Project Shit-Hole.

*

The sound of the wind and metal shovels scraping against the dry earth awoke Petal. “Frankie, honey, that you out there?”

“Chicken and groceries on the kitchen table,” Frankie grumbled.

“Baby, why didn’t you wake me?”

“You was snoring so goddamn loud you’d not hear nothin’ anyway,” he said.

Petal held her tongue, fearful of another three or four day fast without food or human contact. It seemed to her that the key to Frankie these days was Rusty. ‘Maybe,’ she thought, ‘I should offer an olive branch.’ The idea comforted Petal. She sat up in her bed and smiled. It had been so long since she and Frankie spoke eye-to-eye. “Deep down he is still a good son,” She said, wiping dust from a picture of him hanging on the wall above her bed. ‘Yes,’ she thought, ‘I’m going to stop resisting Rusty.’

“Frankie, Honey, is Rusty out there with you?” She called. “You boys should come in for a beer. It’s hot out there. Please come in and say hello to your Momma.”

Through the aluminum wall, Petal heard muffled talking, the sound of digging, and then loud laughter. There was a scuffle of some sort, like the two were hitting one another, and Petal was about to look out the window to see what was going on, when the shrill, nasal voice of Rusty answered her invitation. “It smells like ass and chicken inside that trailer,” he said. “I would rather die from heat out here in the sun, than breathe your foul air!” He and Frankie broke out in hysterical laughter. Petal, stung by Rusty’s words silently cried, aware that Rusty’s comments were based in truth. She said nothing more, squeezed into the kitchen and helped herself to chicken leg and thigh. The chicken was cold and tasted stale. Petal bitterly noted that it was “Original Recipe,” and not her favorite, “Extra Crispy.”

An hour or so later Frankie knocked at the door and looked in. His dilated pupils reminded Petal of a coyote. “We’re done diggin’ he said. “Be back tomorrow with a truck to install the shit tank.”

Petal paused, wiped her greasy hands on her soiled yellow and red flowered dress and held back tears, fearful of angering Frankie. “Can you please pick up some Friskies from the Wal-Mart?” She asked. “I think Sammy might want something to eat. He likes the Tuna Delight.”

*

That night Petal stayed up late, consumed the entire bucket of chicken, the mashed potatoes, most of the coleslaw, drank a gallon of milk and watched the local news on the television with a bag of Oreo cookies in her lap. The satellite signal, like everything else Petal relied on for comfort was stolen, so for now, she thought, ‘I at least have that pretty blonde weather girl with the big boobs to keep me company.’

“The high tomorrow in Los Angeles is expected to reach 85 downtown, the low 90’s in the valley and mid 100’s in the deserts and it looks like another Red Flag day due to the winds, so stay inside and stay cool. Ann, Johnny, back to you in the studio…”

Rusty’s comments earlier in the day still bothered Petal. She rolled off the bed, brushed crumbs from her lap and went to the window. She remembered when Star, her in-home “technician”, abruptly stopped showing up and after three days of wondering, Petal found out that Frankie had fired her, claiming she was a thief. “What on earth do I have that is worth stealing?” Petal pleaded. Frankie ignored her, said nothing and drove off in a trail of grey dust with Rusty at his side. That was three months ago and since then, Petal had not had a bath and her laundry was filthy. The garbage in the kitchen was piling up and smelled so badly that Petal started throwing it out the window. ‘Maybe that is why the coyotes come by at night,’ she thought, her face pressed to the glass, now covered with resting flies, looking at a stinking heap of empty cans, fast food containers, milk cartons and bones she threw out that morning. The wind would blow most of the garbage away – the bones it seemed, always remained. Petal looked into the darkened desert hoping to see Sammy, then gave up and went back to bed. “I am going to ask for another nurse tomorrow,” she said.

*

Petal tried, but did not sleep well. Several times in the night she awoke, convinced she had heard someone or something trying to scratch its way into her trailer. Once the wind was blowing so hard a large object, probably desert debris, or perhaps her missing screen door, hit the trailer so hard Petal thought she would die of a heart attack. When the power went out the only luxury Petal was allowed, an ancient swamp cooler of suspicious origins, stopped rumbling and the cool, moist air was quickly replaced by dry, stifling heat. Within minutes, Petal was soaked in sweat and the saltiness of it burned the sores that were forming on her backside and inner thighs. The sensation caused her such discomfort she started to cry. An hour later, worn out from tears and exhausted from the heat, sleep deprivation pulled down the veil, allowing Petal to forget her day and her problems.

*

The violent thump of the trailer falling off its wooden foundation awoke Petal. The sound of metal crashing on the ground and scraping across the sand and gravel hurt her ears. Petal tried to block out the sound with her pillow, but it did not prevent her from hearing a truck engine revving and tires skidding and straining to gain traction. With each spin of the tires, rocks and dirt pelted the front of her trailer. When the tires gripped she felt the trailer slowly scrape in jerks and jumps across the earth.

Petal tried to stand up, but a sudden shift of the trailer threw her back on the bed. She started to scream, at first just a small call for help, and then a loud wailing sound from deep within her soul, unleashed by a lifetime of suffering filled the empty desert.

“Shut yer fuckin’ mouth, Carnival Freak!” It was Frankie. “Ease up on the gas, Rusty. You almost got it!”

“Frankie, what is going on out there?” Petal screamed.

“I told you yesterday. I am filling the shit hole!”

Just then the trailer tipped, the front into the hole, the back into the air, and slid with a thunderous thud into the void Frankie and Rusty had been digging. A large cloud of soil arose, caught the wind and formed into a swirling dust devil, temporarily blinding Frankie before it trailed off toward freedom into the desert.

Inside, Petal fell to the floor, the bed rolled over, lamps, dishes, and garbage, chicken bones and the dried corpse of Sammy, hidden and trapped beneath the bed fell atop of her. Petal screamed. Her heart pounded inside her chest. Her lungs hurt. A table hit her, breaking her shoulder and arm, sending a firestorm of pain through her body. “Frankie, baby, you can’t do this to your Momma!” she pleaded. “Please, what ever you’re plannin’, stop! Give me another chance, I’ll show you. I’ll try harder to be better. Let me out of here!”

Rusty laughed. “Take care of your Momma! She’s gonna be good this time!”

“Don’t you worry none, Carnival Freak. This won’t take long.” Frankie said.

Petal shifted under the rubble and in doing so, nudged a precariously perched bookshelf, sending a pile of Christian-romance novels onto her chest. One of the books, Redeeming Love, hit her in the head.

While the dust and debris settled, Frankie unhitched the trailer from the truck and grabbed two shovels, handing one to Rusty.

Petal, semi conscious and lying on the floor inside her trailer – the temperature rising, dust and the smell of garbage filling her nostrils, stopped sobbing long enough to hear the sound of Rusty and Frankie laughing. She wondered what she could have done to deserve such punishment. She prayed to the Lord, Jesus Christ. She wondered what would come next. The sound of sand thumping the top of her trailer like stones answered her thoughts.

*

Copyright© 2007-2008 Mark B. Papale All rights reserved

Characters

Tiffanie Sparks:

A child star in her late 30’s who hit the big-time in her late teens and early 20s, then fell hard and into obscurity.

Pappa Sparks:

Tiffanie’s father. Mid 60’s, skinny, and always sweating. Pappa is Tiffanie’s manager, publicist and accountant. He is also the manager of The Movietime Motel.

Loretta “Sparkle” Santorino:

A hard living woman in her early to mid 50’s . She is a stripper/cocktail waitress at The Cougar Club in Encino.

Setting

A series of small rooms in a cheap motel (The Movietime Motel) that caters to adult clientèle.

*

*

*

Scene 1

Dreams Do Come True

AT RISE: TIFFANIE is sitting on the bed, chain smoking, chewing gum, and sipping on a Big Gulp. SHE is dressed in a short plaid skirt and a sports-bra. SHE wears a blonde wig and large designer glasses, both are fashionable, but in a style that is of a past decade.

TIFFANIE

(SHE smiles, takes a sip from her Big Gulp, burps, takes a deep drag, exhales and addresses the audience as she would an interviewer.)

Welcome to Tarzana!

(SHE pauses and smokes)

Let’s try this again. Can I have another take? OK? Great!

I’m in Fucking Tarzana. Not Beverly Hills. Not Brentwood. Hell, I’m not even in that shit-hole part of town called Hollywood. Yes, people, I’m in fucking-middle-of-nowhere-armpit-of-the Valley-Tarzana.

(Pause and smoke, stands up and paces the room.)

Let me put this into prospective. I’m living in a 10×15 room, in a little blue stucco building sandwiched between Ventura Boulevard – which, by the way is nothing but six lanes of traffic and a few hot dog stands – and the Hollywood Freeway. I think the freeway has eight lanes of traffic.

(pause, sigh.)

I rarely sleep.

(SHE sits back on the bed.)

Anyway, like I was saying, Tarzana is not the kind of place where little girls imagine they’ll end up when they dream of making it big in Hollywood.

(pause)

But, you’re not here to hear about my E! True Hollywood Story. You know all that. Hell, everything I did was on the news. The fucking paparazzi practically filmed my entire life. Everywhere I went, somebody was snapping pictures. It caused me to lose my kids, you know. I haven’t seen them in 10 years.

(Pause. SHE laughs.)

I remember one time, when I was living out in Malibu, stopping at a gas station to take a dump. Some asshole paparazzi followed me into the bathroom and waited for me to exit the stall. I was so embarrassed. Anyway, in the melee, I forgot to flush and after I left, that fuck-hole went into stall, collected the shit I left him and sold it on e-Bay. I think I remember hearing the high bid was $5,000.

(pause)

Now my shit ain’t worth the .99 cent taco it’s made of.

(SHE Pauses and smokes. sips from Big Gulp.)

It’s no wonder I went crazy.

(SHE wipes eyes)

I’ve gotta pee. Turn off the camera for a moment.

*

*

*

Scene 2

I Knew She Was Trouble

AT RISE: LORETTA is standing in the doorway to her room. Slightly overweight and has shocking red hair. She is dressed for work: white thigh-high vinyl boots, white hot-pants, white Lycra half-top that is very low cut to feature her large breasts and belly. She wears white sparkly lipstick and eyeshadow.

LORETTA

(SHE stands in the doorway; arms folded, looks at the audience. SHE rolls her eyes. SHE turns, walks into her room and takes a seat on the bed.)

You might as well come in and make yourself comfortable, Sugar.

(SHE lights a cigarette)

Let’s make this quick, though. Mamma’s got to be to work in an hour. What do you wanna know?

(pause)

Everything? Shit, we don’t have time for that. How ‘bout the highlights?

(pause)

Got any bourbon in that bag?

(pause)

Fuck. Tarzana’s not a dry town, you know.

(pause)

Fine. So, my name is Loretta Santorino. Santorino…like that place in Italy. Except with an O. My friends call me Sparkle. You, Sugar, can definitely call me Sparkle.

(SHE pauses, crosses her legs and examines her fingernails.)

I’ve lived here for 20 years, you know. I’m kinda famous. You might recognize me. Do you recognize me, Sugar?

(pause)

Asshole. Well, you should. I am the Famous Sparkle. That’s right. Sparkle! The longest running strip act at the Encino Cougar Club. You might say I am the Queen of the Cougars.

(pause)

We’re classy, not like that goddamned Jumbo’s Clown Room shit. You should come by this evening.

(pause)

You do like women? Don’t you?

(pause, looks around the room)

This place may not look like much, but it’s sure seen a lot of action, if ya know what I mean…

(laughs, and then begins to cough (cigarette cough.)

What’s that? Fuck you! You’re like all the rest. You only want to hear about the Famous Fucking Tiffanie Sparks. Well, I’ll tell you about that snooty bitch.

(pause)

She’s a whore who eats and shits like the rest of us. Plain and simple.

(SHE starts pacing the room)

I knew that bitch was trouble the minute she moved in. Always makin’ noise, she is. And filmin’ everything.

(Pause)

She may be more famous than me, but I get more for a hand-job than she does. Hell, I at least have repeat customers.

(pause)

That has-been bitch never sees the same guy twice. Ever.

(SHE lights another cigarette)

If you ask me, I think they don’t come back because her father is always in there with her.

*

*

*

Scene 3

The Comeback

AT RISE: TIFFANIE is sitting in a chair, chewing gum. SHE is dressed in pink Juicy Couture sweatpants and a pink muscle-tee. SHE wears a black wig.

TIFFANIE

(SHE gets up, walks to and sits on the bed, pats the mattress and addresses her “interviewer.”)

Wanna come sit next to me? C’mon! I’ll make you a deal. After we’re done filming this, I’ll give you a little somethin’ extra. No charge. OK? OK, deal. Now, where were we?

(SHE Pauses and smokes)

Yea, right. OK. So, the first time was the hardest. I’ll never forget it. Right after I was fired by my record company, who, for legal reasons I cannot mention on camera…

(SHE moves close to the audience, looks around, then whispers)

I can tell you this. The company in question has an amusement park in Anaheim and a mouse as their logo. It should be a rat. That’s right. A fucking rat. I was their top grossing ratkateer and I haven’t earned a single residual. Go figure.

(SHE returns to the bed, lights a cigarette.)

Like I was saying, the first time was the hardest. I got over it pretty quickly, but I never got used to having Pappa in the room. It’s OK, though. Somebody’s gotta film it. I’ll show you the film, later. Anyway, in the beginning, a lot of men showed up. I remember 14 in one week alone. Every one of them excited as hell for a crack at Tiffanie Sparks.

(pause, sighs)

Oh, those were good times.

(SHE Pauses and smokes)

But, a lot’s happened since then. A lot. I haven’t had as many visitors as I used to and now that Pappa is getting up in his years… Well, let’s just say he makes a lot of mistakes. I’ll get to those in a minute.

What’s that?

(Pause)

I said, I’ll get to those in a minute. Are you filming me correctly? Should I move closer to the light over here? Pappa always told me to stay as close to the light as possible.

(SHE moves near a lamp on the night table)

There, that’s better. How do I look? Are you sure you don’t want to stop filming for a quickie?

No? Ok, fine. I need to change. I don’t think pink is right for me. I’ll be back in a moment.

*

*

*

Scene 4

The Distribution Center

AT RISE: PAPPA is sitting at a desk in the office of The Movietime Motel. The wall is lined with shelves and the shelves are lined with VHS Cassette cases. HE is wearing cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. He is drinking coffee and sweating.

PAPPA

(HE remains seated and drinks from his coffee and smiles.)

So, you’re interested in seeing some of Tiffanie’s films.

(He rises, approaches the shelf and removes a video.)

We’re in the process of changing everything to DVD. I hope you don’t mind. Don’t worry about rewinding the tape. That and a cup of complimentary morning coffee are included in the cost of the room.

(pause)

What’s your scene?

(Pause)

Scene? You know, anal, blowjob, older, younger… That type of thing. Tiffanie is a versatile actress. She’ll do whatever I tell her.

(HE replaces the video and removes another one.)

Everything is filmed and produced right here. I have an eye for the “scene” and production is my forte, but I have to admit, I’m not a bad actor myself. If I were the least bit interested, I’m pretty sure I could be more famous than Tiffanie. I’ve never had to fake a scene. Ever.

(HE laughs)

She’s big in North Korea, you know. Yep, they pay us a lot of money to film some really special shit. I’d show it to you, but it’s an acquired taste, and well, I’m good at knowing a person’s character, and you don’t seem the sort who would be interested.

(pause)

No, trust me on this one. I don’t think you’d enjoy watching. How about I show you some of her interracial highlights? You look like the type who might enjoy them.

(HE removes a key from his drawer.)

I’ll set you up in room 2-B. It’s a nice room on the second floor with a view of the mountains. It’s also right next door to Tiffanie. If you need anything from me, just dial 0.

(HE pauses, winks)

If you are interested in Tiffanie, just let me know that, too. All I ask is that you give me time to ensure her room is ready. It can get pretty messy in there at times.

(pause)

Say, have you ever starred in a film? You’ve got a look that’ll sell in North Korea.

*

*

*

Scene 5

La Petit Mort

AT RISE: Tiffanie is sitting at a small table with a bottle of vodka. The ashtray is overflowing. SHE is dressed in a white lacy, cocktail-length wedding dress. SHE wears a blonde wig and large designer glasses – same as scene 1.

Tiffanie

(SHE drinks directly from the bottle and addresses her “interviewer.”)

Did you know this hotel has 24 hour, unlimited adult movies?

(laughs)

Of course you do. It’s on the fucking sign. But, I’ll bet you weren’t aware I’m in a couple of them. That’s right. Filmed right here in this room, on that bed. But, that’s why you’re here, right?

(pause)

Ok, so as I was saying, the first time was the hardest. In the beginning, Pappa would place an ad on-line and the men would show up. Nobody famous. But still, they were here to see me!

(pause)

Pappa would hide in the closet – that one, over there – with his video camera and record the whole thing. The camera is pretty nice; it’s very professional. He keeps it in his office when it’s not in use.

(pause)

Are you aware that he manages the Movietime Motel? I like the name. Movietime. It makes me feel nice.

(SHE pauses, smokes and drinks)

The camera was bought with the last of the money. I think it cost $2,000 less than my famous shit. So anyway, he sets it up, hides in the closet and films everything.

(SHE drinks)

I’ve often wondered what happened to all the money. Pappa kept telling me we’d get some of it back. But, it didn’t…

(SHE gets up, walks to and sits on the bed.)

From this angle the camera catches everything. In the beginning, Pappa would know just when the moment was right to spring out of the closet with one those big industrial plastic bags he liked. You know the clear ones?

(pause)

He liked seeing their faces. He once told me that suffocation intensifies an orgasm, so I figured they didn’t suffer too much.

(SHE lights another cigarette. Smokes it in silence and lights another.)

In the beginning, Pappa used to take the bodies and dispose of them somewhere near the Grapevine. When they were discovered by a hiker a few years back, he stopped. By then, he was already getting old and a couple of the guys almost escaped.

(pause)

He was having a hard time holding them down.

(pause)

I cracked a skull or two.

(pause)

Things got sloppy.

(pause)

We started storing the bodies in a van near the back of the hotel.

(She removes her wig, scratches her scalp, walks to a mirror and replaces the wig.)

Like I said, mistakes were made.

(She faces her interviewer)

The film is in the office safe.

(pause)

So, officer, do you want to see my movies now, or should we wait until we get to the police station?

(pause)

OK, that’s cool. How about that favor I promised you?

(pause)

No? Ok, well I’ve gotta pee. Turn off the camera for a moment.

*

FIN

Copyright© 2007-2008 Mark B. Papale. All rights reserved.

WGAW Registered

The story below is an entry for consideration in EndOfThisWorld, a surreal novel whose creators started with an inciting event. Writers are invited to submit chapters that take the lead from the one previous, and ultimately the story leads to a global catastrophe. The project is worth taking a look at and submissions so far are quite good.

EndOfThisWorld invites all writers to join in.

*

Mob Mentality

Los Angeles, CA – 2:25PM

Star approached the intersection at Fairfax and Olympic, rolled down her window, lit up a joint and cursed her life. For over an hour she sat trapped in her car, traveling no more than a mile, convinced she would surely die as a result of smog-induced lung cancer. With four cars separating her from the intersection, Star peered ahead and noticed the cause of the mess – the traffic lights were out, and people, typical for L.A., were not yielding. Cars were entering from all directions, swerving, horns honking, and tempers flaring. Star smiled as a vision of wildebeests entering a crocodile infested river popped into her head.

As she waited her turn to cross the river, Star took an opportunity to ruminate about her life and what she was about to do. Nothing had turned out as she had planned – whales were still being slaughtered in Japan; plastic bags littered Santa Monica Bay; her writing was going unnoticed, and teaching yoga was not paying the bills. Star sighed and stared out the windshield at the brown, hazy sky and resigned herself to the possibility that it might take another two hours to reach her father’s house – a routine she had grown to regret – she would ask for money, an argument would erupt, he would agree to the request. The scene was repeated every six months and to Star, there seemed to be no end in sight. She sighed, took another hit from her joint, opened a party-sized bag of cheesepuffs and tried not to think about the money.

Taking advantage of the delay, Star shifted her car into neutral, set the parking brake, leaned over and dug around her glove compartment for her favorite Lucinda Williams cassette. She found it under a stack of parking tickets and covered with lint and crumbs. She wiped the cassette on her skirt and blew off all visible debris, popped it into the player, turned up the volume and stared into the traffic. Earlier she had tried to listen to the radio, but all the stations on the dial were broadcasting white noise. She suspected this had something to do with the red line that glowed on her television screen and was confident that FOX was somehow involved. In the rear-view mirror she could see a blue Bentley idling away the earth’s resources and to her left a blonde woman in a black Porsche convertible was dialing and redialing her iPhone in a frustrated and dramatic manner. Star smiled and imagined the woman’s life story– high school dropout, actress/model /porn star and future plastic surgery devotee. The woman caught Star looking, mouthed the word “freak,” rolled up her tinted windows and continued dialing. Star chuckled, popped a cheesepuff in her mouth, licked the sticky yellow residue off her fingers, and crept forward another car length.

For the next twenty minutes Star finished her joint, munched on her cheesepuffs, sang aloud and allowed her interaction with the Blonde to invade her brain. Tomorrow I’ll be 30, she thought. I have a Liberal Arts Degree, no prospects of a job, no prospects for a husband… no prospects. She looked to her left and stared at the Porsche. No prospects… The Blonde Woman raised the convertible top. Star waited a moment, and then yelled out “You’re a Fucking Evil Cow!” Nobody looked, but Star quickly rolled up her window anyway, turned up Lucinda, took her place at the intersection and prepared to enter.

The scene in front of Star was complete chaos. In the middle of the intersection, a new Honda with dealer plates was stuck attempting to make a left turn, its turn signal flashing red  in vain. Cars circled around, insults were yelled and rude hand salutes danced to an orchestra of car horns. Star had planned on making the same left turn, but decided instead to continue up Fairfax, even if that meant sitting in traffic longer. She took a deep breath, rubbed the belly of a small gold Buddha on her dash and ground her car into gear. She looked left, then right and slowly entered the intersection.

Suddenly, the Blonde Woman in the Porsche sped into action, swerved around the car attempting to turn left, and cut in front of Star, stopping short of a collision with the car in front of her. Star slammed on the brakes, quickly checked her rear-view mirror and pressed hard on her horn. “That fucking plastic bitch,” she yelled to herself. The Blonde Woman stretched her arm out of her window and flipped Star the middle finger. All Star saw at that moment was an enormous diamond flash in the hazy sunlight. No prospects… Star reached for another cheesepuff, took deep a breath and steeled her resolve. “Enough of this shit.” She shifted her car into first gear, knocked Buddha from his pedestal on the dash, and pointing her car in the direction of the Porsche, stomped her foot onto the gas pedal with full force.

Copyright© 2007-2008 Mark B. Papale. All rights reserved.

Nick boarded the ferry in Sausalito, double-tall-non-fat-heavy-foam latte in hand, and claimed his customary seat – outside, upper deck on the right-hand side. He took a sip, coating the inside of his mouth with warm milky foam, smiled and exhaled a puff of silver steam before he set down his cup to adjust his scarf and button up his bulky wool jacket. While most people were warm below deck, Nick’s daily tradition required him to endure the elements, be it the cold San Francisco summer or listening in on the chattering teeth and vacant conversation from the occasional Midwestern Tourist shivering in shorts. This was the required sacrifice necessary to fulfill Nick’s daily need for a glimpse of the magnificent Golden Gate. On that July morning the upper half of the frozen towers were cut off by a dense layer of blue fog, its architectural brilliance hidden from view, visible only from heaven; an immaculate golden-orange vision Nick could see in the eye of his mind. In the distance a foghorn called, its soulless electronic voice informing him that today he would see nothing. Nick envied the heavens on that morning.

Nick took another sip of from his latte, savored its hot bitterness and sighed. Despite his disappointment, he was happy and grateful for the opportunity to commute to work by ferry and as he thought of the thousands of people trapped in their cars, fighting through the fog and rushing to find a parking space, he smiled. Nick wiped his cold nose and held tight to the railing as the ferry churned below the Golden Gate and made its customary turn to the south before it shifted into high speed and raced blindly through the pearlescent air toward the Embarcadero.

Out of habit or madness, Nick rushed to the back deck for one last attempt at the view, noticing for the first time that week, he was not alone. A young man, his skin the color of glacial ice and dressed completely black, braced the wind and sat in silence, nursing a steaming beverage and staring into the nothingness. A sweet steamy aroma of chocolate drifted like a hearty welcome toward Nick, blended with the salty, kelp laden air, and morphed into a sour and invasive perfume. He wondered with anger how long the stranger had been there; he never saw him; all along he thought the view was his own. The stranger caught Nick looking, smiled a flash of white and waved. Nick smiled back and gestured that he was cold, fake shivering, rubbing his hands over his arms and turned away; a feeble excuse for avoiding an imaginary conversation. For a brief moment he paused at the railing and looked into the fog and cursed under his breath, upset over having his space invaded, and upset at himself for being unable to accept the pleasant company of a stranger. He thought of Paul, remembering his smile and how he enjoyed riding the ferry into The City. In remembering this, a sharp, icy pain shot though Nick’s heart and settled in his stomach. Wiping his eyes, he reminded himself that he had made a promise to get better – to try harder; to allow people in. He turned to leave, and before heading down into the warmth of the passenger compartment below deck he stopped and turned back, thinking to say hello, but it was too late – the stranger and his army of hot chocolate and brilliant smiles were gone.

Below deck the air was thick and hot. Condensation hung in the air, collected on the windows and dripped from the low ceiling. Every seat was claimed and each occupant was protected by earphone, newspaper, book and cell phone bubbles; Nick felt invisible. Agitated, he walked the aisles in search of a place to stand. Just before he was about to give up and return above deck, Nick heard a loud, popping sound. The ferry shuddered and rocked, knocking him to the floor. Nick collected himself, stood up and noticed a rapid change in temperature followed by a heavy compression of the air; his vision blurred like the onset of a migraine, and a painful rainbow-colored aura squeezed his head. Then he heard the sound again, amplified and accompanied by a flash of white and screams. A flare of yellow. Water. A flood of green. Wind. A searing blast from Hell, burning the air, decimating bodies, shattering and incinerating the hull of the ferry; battering Nick – a fist to his stomach, a force so fierce he thought it must surely be the hand of God; payment for the sin of envy. Floating. Sinking below the salty waves. Witnessing, for the first time a hidden treasure in the murky distance, a view he never pondered nor thought to envy, cut off by a dense, silt laden screen of green and brown. The view – mossy cement, rusted steel and bolts; the magnificent base of the bridge outlined in black, shimmering in the icy current, lit up like a dream by a fleeting shard of brilliant white light; a miraculous silver-gray vision, and he, the only witness and the envy of nobody. For a moment he thought he saw the stranger; a flash of white smiles; skin of ice. For a moment… Then he was gone.

*

Copyright© 2008 Mark B. Papale All rights reserved

Hi Kids!

It’s the season of politics and elections and I have been quite busy of late and it’s only going to get worse. Fortunately I prepared an accurate forecast and hired ahead of the the rush; Politicians take note: operators are standing by to take your calls now. A word of caution: calls are monitored for quality assurance.

This month marks a milestone for me. The “anger management” classes, yoga and meditation are paying off – 6 months of inner peace, 6 months of limited outbursts, and 6 months of happy(ish) employees. To celebrate, I bought a new pussy! Who knew that sitting around stroking my pussy’s fur could be so relaxing? I’m addicted.

Now, besides it being the season of politics, you may have noticed it is the seasons of orgiastic shopping and consumption. It’s all so heartwarming to witness such pious restraint to mark a season of religious observation. Why am I mentioning this? Well, it’s not because I am bitter or anything – I mean few celebrate my birthday…which happens to be May 25… but, I digress. I mention the topic of orgiastic shopping because as I was watching a candidate struggling for attention without my help, an image more precious and rare than the Virgin Mary on a cheese sandwich appeared on my 60 inch plasma TV – the largest pair of diamond earrings I have ever seen outside a museum. I was mesmerized – the sparkle – the carat weight – the 3 billion year old egg-sized rocks ripped from the heart of the earth (6,000 years max, according to one candidate’s calculations) hanging from the plump candy earlobes of a queen; a representative of all that is right with the world – the one, the only… Oprah. Hell, I was so taken aback, I almost picked up the phone and handed over my Titanium American Express Card to this particular candidate just for a dream opportunity to see those earrings up close.

So, kids… who is this Oprah woman and why doesn’t she work for me? I did some research and she has more money than the Vatican. How could this be? Even the Vatican calls me up now and again. I’ve never heard of this woman. (Yes, I do live under a rock.) People worship this Oprah woman. Her ability to sway public opinion worries me and the bitch is mean. I saw her tear some guy a new asshole just because he stretched the truth a bit. Kids, I worry that she some sort of evil deity with a powerful ability to steal away my thunder.

Now, listen up while you have the chance!

Beware people of the Earth – my loyal followers, my fellow consumers. Turn away – do not be mesmerized by the Oprah woman’s blasphemous words. Resist her gifts of cars, washing machines and electoral votes. Turn away from the hypnotic lure of those bloody diamond earrings. She’s evil I tell you! However, if any of you do happen to get tickets to her show, give her my phone number. Operators are standing by.

*

Copyright© 2007 Mark B. Papale All rights reserved

Lying on the bed
View of green
Heaven
Grandma lay
Rotting
Cells killing cells killing skin
Yellow
Eyes cloudy eyes like
Granite

Sit next to me
Here, on the bed

Fearful
Weight on the blanket
Fearful
Might break
Fearful
Might…

Fearful
Promise me

Hands of bone of
Glass
Hands
Green
Promise me you will never stop writing
Promise
Promise you will always remember
Promise

I Promise

*

Copyright© 2007 Mark B. Papale All rights reserved

It started at 3AM on a warm August night, first as a low and distant rumble, then as an audible, alarming roar. Many people, most conditioned by years of clichéd news-bites, would later describe the sound as something resembling a freight train barreling down upon their house. Others thought it was something else. “It was a horror! I thought it was a terror attack,” reported Leonora Schmidt from the Fairfax district. Susie Kim in Mid-Wilshire remarked “I thought [a] car crashed [into] my house.” Kris-Allen in West Hollywood added, “Gurl! I thought Rosie O’Donnell was breaking into my apartment.” Indeed, like a freight train, it did travel, originating east of the city in a sparsely populated desert community, growing louder and traveling faster in a westerly direction until it disappeared under the calming waves of the Pacific.

All along its path the earthquake jolted a million car alarms to life and left the residents of Los Angeles in a state of panic. Waken from sleep or simply surprised, people ran into the streets, hid under beds, or lay frozen in a state of fear induced coma. When it was over, 90 seconds in all, people began the task of checking their homes for damage, calling loved ones or cursing themselves for not stocking up on water, bullets and canned beef.

Early estimates from the United States Geological Survey said the earthquake registered as a magnitude 7.2 on the Richter scale. An event of “significant” note; severe and widespread damage was expected. News helicopters took to the air. Looters prepared. People in Beverly Hills reset their alarms and hoped for the best. What happened next was quite unexpected.

Not a single death was reported. Nobody suffered the slightest injury. No homes, apartments or condo developments were damaged. Hospitals, schools and government buildings rode out the quake unscathed. Airports and rail lines continued on schedule. The power grid never surged or shut down. City streets and freeways remained open, and despite a massive inspection campaign, no damage could be found to any bridges or overpasses. Strip malls on the other hand, did not fare so well.

Throughout the city, all 498 square miles, the only damage reported occurred at strip malls and in fact, every last one in the city fell to the ground or burned. Most of Van Nuys and Ventura Boulevards were leveled. Nail salons in Brentwood, massage parlors in Hollywood, ticket brokers Westwood, liquor stores in Inglewood, bail-bond shops Knollwood, check-cashing services in Beverlywood; you name it – if it occupied a spot in a strip mall, it perished.

For days, firefighters tried in vain to extinguish the fires. Help was called in from surrounding cities and states. A state of emergency was called. The National Guard arrived. Four days and 90 seconds later, Los Angeles was faced with an unforeseen dilemma: what to do with millions of acres of open and undeveloped corner lots. The cost to rebuild was estimated in the trillions; insurance companies filed for bankruptcy protection.

At first, people and politicians rallied in a show of unity. They made calls for aid; financial pledges to assist with the rebuilding poured in from around the globe. Movie stars pitched in and generously hosted a two day telethon. Music legends sponsored a massive concert and donated all profits to the City. The president flew in and standing on a smoldering pile of rubble that once housed a doughnut shop, a frozen yogurt parlor and exterminator service, promised financial support for “the worst natural disaster to strike America since Hurricane Barbara flooded Houston.” She promised interest free loans and grants. She spoke of a massive insurance industry bail out; calling to the Congress to pass a bill without the need to raise taxes.

But as time went on, residents of Los Angeles had a change of heart. After weeks and months of doing without lottery tickets, tattoos, spray-tans and “happy endings,” they realized how much better their city looked without all the strip malls. No more were they accosted by corner lots filled with cars and tattered shops. No longer was the view of the Santa Monica and San Gabriel Mountains blocked by sign after neon sign, advertising a mishmash of businesses in a hodgepodge of varying and mismatched styles.

After a few years of debate, all the lots were cleared and parks were planted. On some locations, buildings were erected, but care was taken to ensure all parking and shopping was conducted underground, out of the sight of the populous. Further action was taken and laws were put into place to limit the use of “Japanese” or “Persian” or “French” or “Mediterranean” or “Swiss” or [insert faux theme] styles. After few years, Los Angeles was voted “America’s Most Beautiful City,” by the American Institute of Architects. The City of Angels was now known around the world as the City of Parks.

It started at 3AM on a warm August night, at first, as a low and distant rumble, then as an audible, alarming roar. It traveled the distance of 30 miles in 90 seconds and most people if asked, will say the earthquake left in its wake the greatest opportunity for reinvention America faced since the sea reclaimed Florida.

*

Copyright© 2007 Mark B. Papale All rights reserved