Getting short term employment is
an early bird occupation though, and when all hope seems to be lost that
gainful employment will be secured, the action moves to a street in back, where
a dice game begins for those that wish to try winning their pay for the day.
It’s a shabby place, a short cut
between two major thoroughfares, and nobody ever goes there because they want
to, they go there because they have to.
It’s the kind of place where the lost go to get lost, an inevitability
in the center of a large city.
But when the sun goes down, and
the gamblers leave the stage, the place gets quiet, and if you were looking
down upon it from a roof or a high window, you’d see it’s a crossroads
illuminated by a street lamp shedding a cone of pure light onto a filthy sidewalk:
a sidewalk about to be cleansed, by the hot steam of pure genius.
The urban theater falls silent as
intermittent sets of anonymous headlights sweep by, creating an eerie prelude
for this evening’s program. A program devised by a wickedly talented impresario,
and as the air tingles with electricity, anticipation builds to a crescendo.
Nobody knows who he is. He is an
anonymous donor to the splendor of Los Angelean culture. He comes and goes like
a shadow, and he performs a sacred task for the spirits of all the nameless
actors that have pounded the streets of Hollywood looking for a role in a
silent movie, a talkie, or a 3D blockbuster.
His mind is not complicated by
highfalutin cultural ideals. His mission is carried out in secrecy, for only in
secrecy can the truth of the moment be totally revealed. Only in secrecy can
the flower of talent blossom. Only in secrecy can the energies that permeate
the universe be configured into a vehicle that carries the heart onward toward
its dream.
He steps out of the shadows as if
he were stepping through the doorway of his soul. Cloaked in darkness he moves
swiftly to the base of the streetlamp, it’s a comfortable place for him, a
place where his whole being is nurtured by healing rays that move up from the
earth, and transfuse with their counterparts that fall upon him from the
heavens.
He has a moment of doubt as his
long dark cloak slips from his shoulders and falls to the hard concrete. He is
free. The plunging neckline from his dirty white shirt is tucked tightly into
his trousers, and his round Buddha belly protrudes from it like a melon. He
rubs it softly with both hands while wondering if he will be able to do what he
has to do once more, to save the human race and the universe from total
destruction.
He stretches out his arms and
gazes at his hands; he then looks at his thumbs and his fingers. Everything
depends on the next move. He brings his hands toward the shirt covering his
breasts and slowly pulls away the material. He has arrived at the moment: the piece
de résistance.
His thumbs and forefingers
encircle his nipples, and twist. A look of ecstasy invades his face. He twists
them tighter, harder, and faster, and then before he knows it he is lost.
A symphony begins playing in his
head, and the cruel harsh world beneath the streetlamp disappears. This is
where he really lives, this is his moment to shine, and this is what he was
born for. He has no idea how long he’ll stand here twisting his nipples. Until
they’re sore for sure: and even beyond hopefully.
He knows only one thing; he is
driven. He also knows that every religious figure in history was laughed at
when they first brought their message to the masses: and as cars drive by
filled with incredulous faces staring at him in awe, he knows that one-day his
way will enslave them all, just as it has enslaved him.
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