To say that I was simply whiling away time would be an understatement. I was really washing away the years of my life in the cool air of the Los Angeles beachfront with my arms stretched across the length of the green benches they put up all around this part of the world. The sun was shining fading orange light through my now-useless sunglasses, and the wind was gathering speed in preparation for the very long L.A. night. Sundown in L.A. brings three kinds of people out onto the beach: the junkies, the lovers, and the cops. Sometimes the cops are the lovers, the lovers the junkies, and the junkies the cops. By some strange algorithm, the most absurd combinations usually make their way to my little nest on the green bench every night.
Soon the sun went down, and I must’ve been a pretty subject for an aspiring photographer with my stretched arms against the drowning ball of fire. L.A. is one giant aspiration; almost every other human entity you see is an aspiring actor/singer/writer/director/prom queen/human being. I, for the most part, am just an aspiring aspiration. I never really had any clue as to what that means, but people have told me that it sounds poetic, so I like to keep it that way.
The first wave of humanity was now beginning to appear in my narrowed field of vision. A hand holding another hand soon popped in. Lovers, I said. A stunning girl in a white Mötley Crüe shirt and a tight black skirt, wearing the most precarious high heels that I was afraid would make cracks in the earth, walked out onto the beach. She was holding the hand of a fat man in a dark, ill-fitting suit that looked like a family heirloom, a head of hair as sparse as mine, and a face quite like a pig. Business associates, I corrected myself. The pig face proceeded to kiss the angel whore and carefully take off her shirt. Tommy Lee would be proud. Darkness clouded my field of vision as dull kiss now turned to making duller love…or having bad sex. Beauty and the Beast came to mind. The Beast, however, would soon leave with a promise of referring the Beauty to his “close friends in Hollywood,” and boast to his fellow fat friends about his moonlight sexual escapades over two rounds of $4 beer served in dirty, unwashed brown glasses by an unattractive bartender. The Beauty, on the other hand, would go home and wash the filthy fingerprints off her fine body, smiling all the while over her dream of becoming an actress finally coming true. She had, after all, proven her acting talent—it is no easy job faking an orgasm. And thus would live the Beauty and the Beast, smug and satisfied in the fake belief of their self-worth, until the day reality would fall on them like the night at my little L.A. beach. In Plastic Town, they even make dreams of polyurethane.
After the amusement of hearing the obviously fake orgasmic screams of the stunning girl, I turned my attention to the lone figure in the oversized Tupac Shakur shirt with a gold medallion studded with pink and green diamonds hanging around his neck. The hat he wore cocked to the left made it pretty much impossible for a man with non-X-ray vision to gather any information about his facial features. But he was patrolling the beachfront with the enthusiastic stealth of someone who receives a stash of poor quality cocaine—the best of which he keeps for himself—from a guy named Bud every month to peddle off to the perpetually high L.A. population. He, of course, invested an equal amount of time on his clothing and practicing cool lingo. I reckon they call him MaddDogg or InfinnityPoet where he came from.
I could see another figure approach him in the darkness, its crouched head tucked away into the night. This man looked like he hadn’t eaten in the last decade, and whenever he did have the money to eat anything that resembled food, he gave it up for a glass of coke and a pinch of cocaine. His clothes weren’t what you would find at Gap—the Mecca of the Modern Man—although there is a slight possibility that you could arrange his entire wardrobe from the dumpster behind Old Navy. His cheeks were hollowed, as if he’d made a deliberate attempt to suck every milligram of flesh from them, his skin was pale from years of a lifestyle that made it necessary to sleep through the day and wander through the night, and his crooked, broken nose gave away the fact that he had been in a lot of fist fights—and lost most of them. He exchanged a complicated looking handshake that involved multiple arm twists and low-fives with MaddDogg. The Shepherd herding his Sheep, I thought. His tired, poor hand movements were in a direct contrast to the energetic, rich ones of Mr. Dogg. There was a short monologue from MaddDogg that included some talk of the quality of his “stuff” versus that of Jim down the other street, interspersed by the excited use of the term “bitch” and a little rap routine. But then I guess they teach all kids the basic of rapping in elementary school these days.
Soon a wad of cash and a small packet of white powder exchanged hands. I looked on, wondering as to the amazing magical properties contained in that little pouch of powder that looked suspiciously like broken chalk. Then I looked at the happy, gaunt face tucking it away into his back pocket and realized its incredible superpowers, such as hollowed eyes, sunken cheeks, and 12” biceps. And so goes the sheep, I thought, as both figures moved to separate parts of the beach.
L.A. beaches are never without action, and it is perhaps only on Mondays that the footprints left in the sand seem a bit wayward and slow. But today was a Saturday, and as anyone who ever has had a life would know, Saturdays are the primary motive for human survival through the week. Monday through Friday we are simply mindless zombies wandering aimlessly through office corridors for that cup of coffee that will boost our lazy heart rates for the next half hour. But then again, L.A. streets have always overflowed with enough colorful characters to keep a color-by-the-numbers book occupied. There are probably more losers here than anyplace else. Losers, mind you, make for some very exciting people. A 45-year-old balding man who thinks he’s the reincarnation of Elvis is bound to be interesting. If there is ever a mindless zombie invasion, I reckon L.A. would be the last to fall.
The wind had settled and the palm trees had ceased swaying like topless hula girls on a sun-kissed Hawaiian beach. The night had a firm grip on the entire beachfront. I was perhaps the lone figure in the vicinity. Just then, a man in dark overalls carrying a large briefcase in his hand walked in from the right. My contact was finally here. I walked over to him, safe in the little asylum made by the darkness. “Mr. Grey,” he said, smiling like a shark with a bad toothache. “We are pleased to work with you again,” he added in a gruff, monotone voice, and handed me a briefcase.
I fondled the briefcase for a minute and smiled as my hands rolled over its edges. Even after all these years, the touch of the briefcase still made me beam like a six-year-old sitting under the Christmas tree on the morning of December 25. “Who is it this time?” I asked my contact.
“Nobody that you know.”
“But still…I’m curious.”
“Everything’s in the briefcase, Mr. Grey…like always…”
“Oh come on…you know I never read that shit. You really think I care if the guy watches Seinfeld reruns, jerks off to Jenna Haze, or cheats on his wife?” I pressed on, clutching the briefcase under my arm.
I looked at him for a minute. The wind ran up my naked legs as his face broke into another shark-tooth smile.
“It’s two men this time. Easy picks. Same pay rate,” he said in the same gravely tone.
“And would your kind highness let me know who the fuck they actually are?”
“The first one is a small time talent agent for cheap B-grade movies with an eye for young girls and a thick sadistic streak. The daughter of one of our clients on the East Coast ran away to be an actress. I believe you would know the rest.”
“Fat and bald, with a pig-like face?” I asked.
“Yeah, exactly.”
“And the other guy?”
“A small-time drug peddler with a bit of guts and tons of ambition. Has a perennial crush on Tupac Shakur, dresses smart, and hopes to be a rapper. Got our client out of business on the beachfront area, but the he does not want to get his hands dirty. And hence…”
“…I step into the picture.” I smiled broadly as I completed his sentence.
“Yes. Precisely.”
“Like always, the job will be completed. Tell your clients to sleep tight.”
“Just the answer I was looking for,” he said, turning away. “Oh, and Mr. Grey,” he added, “what’s with the Hawaiian shirt, shorts and sandals?”
“It’s the beach…always been a friend,” I said, walking into the night.
