Her pretty brown eyes have disappeared behind black fabric, which is crunching down her hair. That beautiful hair. For a second, then gone. A vision. The vision doctors call “mania” and subdue with medicine. I was being guided. I knew not to fight it. I was to study it. Like the entomologist who guest hosts on Wild America. “Ants live in colonies, cockroaches live in walls, and actors live in L.A.” Tools of the trade would be my car. A gray 1980 Honda Accord hatchback I had inherited from my grandma when she got too old to drive. I am a refugee. I kept repeating the part about being a refugee. And the cockroaches. “Just be cool, button your shirt, try not to drool…man I’m so wasted. That meter maid has some serious tits.” Mumbling to myself a poorly worded mantra as I pulled up to The Big Pizza, running on fumes, not a dime in my pocket. A shimmering Mecca of golden light and pizza grease. Magnificent! It used to be a dry cleaners, but they had to shut it down and remove the asbestos.
