la la land
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Drama › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
14
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1,152
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Currently Reading:
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Category:
Drama › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
14
Views:
1,152
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
seven
when you’re swinging by your ankles you have a whole new perspective on things
Gregario: Remember when we could sense danger a mile away?
Ingrid: Those were the days.
- from Spy Kids
It’s Wednesday, my day off. My co-workers laugh at me for being a sucker and accepting Wednesday as a day off. But personally, I prefer it to the weekend because there are fewer people around to annoy me. The Troublemaker has taken the day off as well and decided we need to drive down to Tijuana for “research.” We rise from my rumpled bed and dress reluctantly. I wear something completely nondescript and pull my hair back.
“Careful, someone might mistake you for a day laborer,” he tells me as he puts on yesterday’s attire.
“Not a chance, I’m too white.”
“How much money you got?”
I grab my purse out of the closet and check my wallet. “Twenty-seven bucks.”
“Don’t bring your purse.”
“I’m not planning to. Of course, if the federales decide to wrongfully imprison me, I guess I’m fucked either way, right?”
“The policia is the least of your worries. There’s a kidnapping ring that uses people for slave labor, plus, if they find personal effects like house keys, bank cards, stuff like that, they’ll cross the border and take it all.”
“Oh c’mon, that’s as bad as the kidney thieves urban legend! I may be a guera but I’m not a gringa!”
He smiles and I’m in love with that smile. Little boy mischievous. A more rational part of me lectures that I should not encourage this perpetual residence in adolescence, despite his actual age being nearly equal to mine, but then another part answers that it’s where he lives and he’s not moving out any time soon. He has a round face, deep brown eyes and his teeth are white. He says one of his sisters bleaches them for him because she’s learning to be a dental hygienist. Another hairdresser sibling snips at the curls, keeping split ends at bay. All the women in his family have taught him how to cook but it will never be a vocation because that’s the fate of too many Hispanic men in this country: line cooks, slaving away in shitty chain restaurants and fast food franchises. And he seems to have misplaced his work ethic somewhere, the odd artist in a family of grim overachievers.
“Yeah, you are too white, I agree. Your ass glows in the dark, did you know that?”
“And yet you’re completely fascinated by it.”
“Genetic encoding. Have you ever been to TJ? They’ll be a line of spics following you down the Avenida Revolution, because despite those baggy jeans they know a smokin’ ass when they see one.”
“Oh great, an entire city of perverts, you included.”
The smile broadened to a grin and despite our garbed status I was ready to jump him. Sex had the effect of making his wisecracks more evocative of intimacy, and it was the language I spoke fluently, despite not getting much practice of late.
“Why don’t I buy breakfast and you can finance the research? You’re less likely to get swindled, after all.”
We go around the corner from my apartment building to a Thai deli I’m fond of. The owner is gracious, a character trait I know he reserves primarily for fellow countrymen, but as I’m a loyal customer I appreciate it and bow in response. I order khao thom gai for each of us, and our host garnishes our bowls with slices of hard-boiled egg, a concession to Western tastes. The iced coffee he provides clears the remaining post-coital fog from my brain.
“Here’s to one of the highlights of Thai culture,” I toast, “the other being sex tourism.”
He nearly loses his mouthful of boiled rice.
“Ever been to a donkey show?” he asks me after it choking it down.
“Now why couldn’t you have done that instead of torturing me with afternoons of watching you eat at McDonalds?’” I ask. “Can you imagine a more romantic gesture?”
“Yes, but as it involves role-playing that I’m an alien and you’re my abductee, it’s not a polite subject for mealtime.”
This time I almost lose my sip of coffee. I anticipate the time is going to be filled with sardonic one-upsmanship, and I can’t imagine a better thing to do on my day off, inherent risk notwithstanding.
“I’ll drive, so we need to go over to my house to pick up my car.”
My eyes widen in unconscious response and he smirks.
“Don’t worry, it’s not like I’d let you get jumped, or anything.”
“What? No, I’d never –“
“It’s okay. You’re over here in reasonably bland Mid-Wilshire, and I live in Boyle Heights, where gringos fear to tread. But it’s daylight, and the vatos in my varrio are all at home, sleeping off their hangovers.”
I giggled nervously, but at that moment the cultural divide was a canyon the size of that one in Arizona somewhere. He reached across the table and took my hand. I instantly attempted to take it back to check for sweat, but he wouldn’t let go.
“Wait, my palm is all sweaty.”
“It’s okay. Did I tell you one of the characters in my screenplay has hyperhidrosis? I make fun of him, though, he drops his gun during a robbery.”
“I’m not offended by that, oddly. And I should be.” Then I laugh, spoiling the effect of my arch disapproval. We finish eating and drive over to the Eastside.
“What’s your favorite pickup line?” I ask him, as he guides me through rush hour traffic on a shortcut of side streets into parts of Los Angeles I’ve never seen. Anywhere in the city that hasn’t been taken over by the bland façade of corporate culture possesses history, an inherent interest, in the configuration of concrete and the myriad architectural details that populate the sprawl under the sky.
“I live with my parents. Yours?”
“I don’t really like sex.”
“Liar.”
“So are you – pretending like you didn’t know what you were doing!”
“Well, I honestly thought I didn’t. I never believed that whole ‘it’s like riding a bike’ thing.”
“I guess there’s something to be said for muscle memory after all.”
He does an impression of our screenwriting instructor and replies, “Absodamnlutely.”
Do you need narrative? Absodamnlutely!
Do you need plot? Not really.
Do you need strong characters that are riveting to watch? Absodamnlutely!
Do you need scintillating dialogue and poignant observations? Hell no. Not unless you want your movie to be worshipped by postmodern geeks who verbally masturbate over the symbolism and the mise en scene. And I say, if you want to succeed, fuck that shit. Fuck. That. Shit. Say it with me now!
“I don’t know why I’m paying legal tender to listen to that guy. He’s so obnoxious.”
“Because although he’s reduced to trading on his past glory, which is a Hollywood tradition, he did write a lot of movies, and that’s more than most of the people teaching screenwriting in this town.”
“Oh I know he’s got the credentials, but he’s still a prick. And not even an interesting prick, like you.”
“Stop with the mushy talk, I’m gonna get hives.”
As we enter his neighborhood, a panorama of 20s-era homes with overgrown yards, bright murals on the sides of stores and classic cars cruising the streets, I am reminded of attending UCLA and going to the Tommy Burger at Rampart and Beverly. My friends and I were observed like animals in the wild any time we ventured out of Westwood. The kitchen crew never failed to razz me every time I asked for my burger without chili. There’s something alien about my relationship with this city, despite the fact that I grew up in its’ shadow and never aspired to be anywhere else in the world. Maybe that is what is alien: that my orbit is so conscribed. His street is lined with palm trees, stretching to the distance where the Los Angeles River trickles through a channel of concrete. The restaurant owned by his family is also surrounded by palm trees, I recall, and has cheerful blue awnings to match the blue lettering on the sign. He directs me to pull into the alleyway behind the houses, and the asphalt is cracked and pitted. Turning up into a dirt driveway, he hops out and unlocks a chain-link fence, motioning me to pull farther up into the yard. I park next to a white Dodge sedan of indeterminate age, which I assume to be his, and turn off my engine. He has locked the gate behind me. The silence is shocking, only birdsong is audible, as we are far from the freeway and main streets. Emerging from my car, I see he now stands on the dirt path and motions towards the house.
“C’mon, I’ve got to get some stuff. And you can have some of my mother’s Tres Leches cake, if you want. You had some at the restaurant last night, didn’t you?”
“No, I had the flan.”
He rolls his eyes, teasingly. “See, you are such a white girl.”
He puts his arm around me, and regardless of the fact that I feel I’m entering the lions den, for a moment I am without fear, without the discomfort I wear like skin, as it is so much more tenacious than mere clothing.
“You’re not just setting me up because you have nothing better to do, right?”
He can’t resist a barely-voiced chuckle, but then his expression softens.
“No mija, I’ve got much more imaginative things planned for your torture, trust me.”
And because I imagine I am strange and I like that sort of thing, I smile and wonder what they might be. I also smile because I’m possessed of a sudden urge to attempt to talk him into having sex in his room, but I don’t want to get him kicked out of the house...it’s not like I want him living with me, after all.
Gregario: Remember when we could sense danger a mile away?
Ingrid: Those were the days.
- from Spy Kids
It’s Wednesday, my day off. My co-workers laugh at me for being a sucker and accepting Wednesday as a day off. But personally, I prefer it to the weekend because there are fewer people around to annoy me. The Troublemaker has taken the day off as well and decided we need to drive down to Tijuana for “research.” We rise from my rumpled bed and dress reluctantly. I wear something completely nondescript and pull my hair back.
“Careful, someone might mistake you for a day laborer,” he tells me as he puts on yesterday’s attire.
“Not a chance, I’m too white.”
“How much money you got?”
I grab my purse out of the closet and check my wallet. “Twenty-seven bucks.”
“Don’t bring your purse.”
“I’m not planning to. Of course, if the federales decide to wrongfully imprison me, I guess I’m fucked either way, right?”
“The policia is the least of your worries. There’s a kidnapping ring that uses people for slave labor, plus, if they find personal effects like house keys, bank cards, stuff like that, they’ll cross the border and take it all.”
“Oh c’mon, that’s as bad as the kidney thieves urban legend! I may be a guera but I’m not a gringa!”
He smiles and I’m in love with that smile. Little boy mischievous. A more rational part of me lectures that I should not encourage this perpetual residence in adolescence, despite his actual age being nearly equal to mine, but then another part answers that it’s where he lives and he’s not moving out any time soon. He has a round face, deep brown eyes and his teeth are white. He says one of his sisters bleaches them for him because she’s learning to be a dental hygienist. Another hairdresser sibling snips at the curls, keeping split ends at bay. All the women in his family have taught him how to cook but it will never be a vocation because that’s the fate of too many Hispanic men in this country: line cooks, slaving away in shitty chain restaurants and fast food franchises. And he seems to have misplaced his work ethic somewhere, the odd artist in a family of grim overachievers.
“Yeah, you are too white, I agree. Your ass glows in the dark, did you know that?”
“And yet you’re completely fascinated by it.”
“Genetic encoding. Have you ever been to TJ? They’ll be a line of spics following you down the Avenida Revolution, because despite those baggy jeans they know a smokin’ ass when they see one.”
“Oh great, an entire city of perverts, you included.”
The smile broadened to a grin and despite our garbed status I was ready to jump him. Sex had the effect of making his wisecracks more evocative of intimacy, and it was the language I spoke fluently, despite not getting much practice of late.
“Why don’t I buy breakfast and you can finance the research? You’re less likely to get swindled, after all.”
We go around the corner from my apartment building to a Thai deli I’m fond of. The owner is gracious, a character trait I know he reserves primarily for fellow countrymen, but as I’m a loyal customer I appreciate it and bow in response. I order khao thom gai for each of us, and our host garnishes our bowls with slices of hard-boiled egg, a concession to Western tastes. The iced coffee he provides clears the remaining post-coital fog from my brain.
“Here’s to one of the highlights of Thai culture,” I toast, “the other being sex tourism.”
He nearly loses his mouthful of boiled rice.
“Ever been to a donkey show?” he asks me after it choking it down.
“Now why couldn’t you have done that instead of torturing me with afternoons of watching you eat at McDonalds?’” I ask. “Can you imagine a more romantic gesture?”
“Yes, but as it involves role-playing that I’m an alien and you’re my abductee, it’s not a polite subject for mealtime.”
This time I almost lose my sip of coffee. I anticipate the time is going to be filled with sardonic one-upsmanship, and I can’t imagine a better thing to do on my day off, inherent risk notwithstanding.
“I’ll drive, so we need to go over to my house to pick up my car.”
My eyes widen in unconscious response and he smirks.
“Don’t worry, it’s not like I’d let you get jumped, or anything.”
“What? No, I’d never –“
“It’s okay. You’re over here in reasonably bland Mid-Wilshire, and I live in Boyle Heights, where gringos fear to tread. But it’s daylight, and the vatos in my varrio are all at home, sleeping off their hangovers.”
I giggled nervously, but at that moment the cultural divide was a canyon the size of that one in Arizona somewhere. He reached across the table and took my hand. I instantly attempted to take it back to check for sweat, but he wouldn’t let go.
“Wait, my palm is all sweaty.”
“It’s okay. Did I tell you one of the characters in my screenplay has hyperhidrosis? I make fun of him, though, he drops his gun during a robbery.”
“I’m not offended by that, oddly. And I should be.” Then I laugh, spoiling the effect of my arch disapproval. We finish eating and drive over to the Eastside.
“What’s your favorite pickup line?” I ask him, as he guides me through rush hour traffic on a shortcut of side streets into parts of Los Angeles I’ve never seen. Anywhere in the city that hasn’t been taken over by the bland façade of corporate culture possesses history, an inherent interest, in the configuration of concrete and the myriad architectural details that populate the sprawl under the sky.
“I live with my parents. Yours?”
“I don’t really like sex.”
“Liar.”
“So are you – pretending like you didn’t know what you were doing!”
“Well, I honestly thought I didn’t. I never believed that whole ‘it’s like riding a bike’ thing.”
“I guess there’s something to be said for muscle memory after all.”
He does an impression of our screenwriting instructor and replies, “Absodamnlutely.”
Do you need narrative? Absodamnlutely!
Do you need plot? Not really.
Do you need strong characters that are riveting to watch? Absodamnlutely!
Do you need scintillating dialogue and poignant observations? Hell no. Not unless you want your movie to be worshipped by postmodern geeks who verbally masturbate over the symbolism and the mise en scene. And I say, if you want to succeed, fuck that shit. Fuck. That. Shit. Say it with me now!
“I don’t know why I’m paying legal tender to listen to that guy. He’s so obnoxious.”
“Because although he’s reduced to trading on his past glory, which is a Hollywood tradition, he did write a lot of movies, and that’s more than most of the people teaching screenwriting in this town.”
“Oh I know he’s got the credentials, but he’s still a prick. And not even an interesting prick, like you.”
“Stop with the mushy talk, I’m gonna get hives.”
As we enter his neighborhood, a panorama of 20s-era homes with overgrown yards, bright murals on the sides of stores and classic cars cruising the streets, I am reminded of attending UCLA and going to the Tommy Burger at Rampart and Beverly. My friends and I were observed like animals in the wild any time we ventured out of Westwood. The kitchen crew never failed to razz me every time I asked for my burger without chili. There’s something alien about my relationship with this city, despite the fact that I grew up in its’ shadow and never aspired to be anywhere else in the world. Maybe that is what is alien: that my orbit is so conscribed. His street is lined with palm trees, stretching to the distance where the Los Angeles River trickles through a channel of concrete. The restaurant owned by his family is also surrounded by palm trees, I recall, and has cheerful blue awnings to match the blue lettering on the sign. He directs me to pull into the alleyway behind the houses, and the asphalt is cracked and pitted. Turning up into a dirt driveway, he hops out and unlocks a chain-link fence, motioning me to pull farther up into the yard. I park next to a white Dodge sedan of indeterminate age, which I assume to be his, and turn off my engine. He has locked the gate behind me. The silence is shocking, only birdsong is audible, as we are far from the freeway and main streets. Emerging from my car, I see he now stands on the dirt path and motions towards the house.
“C’mon, I’ve got to get some stuff. And you can have some of my mother’s Tres Leches cake, if you want. You had some at the restaurant last night, didn’t you?”
“No, I had the flan.”
He rolls his eyes, teasingly. “See, you are such a white girl.”
He puts his arm around me, and regardless of the fact that I feel I’m entering the lions den, for a moment I am without fear, without the discomfort I wear like skin, as it is so much more tenacious than mere clothing.
“You’re not just setting me up because you have nothing better to do, right?”
He can’t resist a barely-voiced chuckle, but then his expression softens.
“No mija, I’ve got much more imaginative things planned for your torture, trust me.”
And because I imagine I am strange and I like that sort of thing, I smile and wonder what they might be. I also smile because I’m possessed of a sudden urge to attempt to talk him into having sex in his room, but I don’t want to get him kicked out of the house...it’s not like I want him living with me, after all.