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Return To Los Angeles
Copyright 2014 Christina M. Guerrero
DEDICATION
This is for Los Angeles.
STORY BEHIND THE STORY
I was in L.A., and felt as if I were being comforted and pampered.
NOTES ABOUT DRAFT TWO
This ends a bit too abruptly.
Hoping the city seems somewhat sentient.
It needs to be more magical. The experiences were too incredible to be believed.
“Welcome back!”
If Los Angeles were sentient, it would have greeted me with those words.
“Thanks,” I said.
“So ....” Los Angeles said. “What’s up?”
“Life. By the way, you look different.”
“Yep. You haven’t been here in a long time. A few things about me have changed.”
“Not just a few. A lot!” I took some time going to and fro. It was a bit different than what I remembered.
Los Angeles smiled. “Are you okay?”
“No. Something isn’t quite right. I don’t feel good.”
“You need a place to stay?”
“Maybe. I might have to go somewhere else for a while, and then come back. But what do you have?”
Los Angeles showed me a pretty decent apartment for a decent price.
“Cute,” I said.
“And a job?” Los Angeles asked.
“What were you thinking?” I asked.
I examined an opportunity. It looked promising.
But I thought about something else I had to do.
“Look,” I said. “I have to go somewhere else for a while. It may not be appreciated now. But about thirty, thirty-five years from now, for about five minutes, someone will expand upon ‘thanks for doing that; it was nice to see you that year.’ And I want to hear those words instead of ‘why didn’t you ever do that? Why didn’t you ever?’ I’d rather have those five minutes of good feelings rather than a few seconds of bad feelings.”
Los Angeles considered this. “What about ... well ... ahem ... fundage? You know ... dinero?”
“Ah. Well. When we talk about fundage and dinero, aren’t we really talking about ... blood, sweat and tears? And whether we’re willing to do whatever it takes to get to where we want to be?”
“BAHAHA. Yep.”
“Do you know me to shirk?”
“BAHAHA. Rarely,” Los Angeles said. “I remember the last time you were here. Dang. You did good.”
“Thanks. Frankly ... no. That issue ... no. It's not what I want it to be. But at this point, there are more important things. I may be in my last days. If I am, the fundage/dinero thing is irrelevant.”
Los Angeles listened, then, for a long time, protecting me, just listening.
And then ....
“You’re not in your last days,” Los Angeles said. “Remember the actor? You’re not seriously ill. It’s not what you think it is. Remember this?”
And I remembered:
I was in a movie theater, watching the actor onscreen. There was a closeup. I noticed something odd.
A thought flitted through my mind and vanished.
When I was ready to examine the thought, it went like this: That’s odd. Most directors would instruct the actor to hide all evidence of anything unrelated to the character being portrayed. That is clearly a characteristic of the actor. In fact, it is clearly a disability.
In another scene the actor was walking.
Yet again I noticed something odd.
And I had those thoughts again. I wondered why the director had allowed the actor to display characteristics that were at slight odds with the character.
“What is that?” I asked Los Angeles. “What is it? I think I did look it up, once.”
“Look it up again.” Los Angeles was protective around me, checking to be sure we would not be disturbed.
I did look it up.
And I was surprised.
“This is me,” I said. “Like that actor. I have this, only it’s mild. It’s just enough to be an irritation, but not enough to interfere too often with day to day activities. Wow.”
I can’t say I had fun in Los Angeles. I continued to feel unwell. Eventually, I figured out why, and understood that I needed to be truthful with myself, and mind my health, in order to function at my absolute best.
However, Los Angeles was there for me, as it was when I was a child, and as it was when I have returned through the years. I didn’t have to search long for anything I needed. Solutions popped up; food appeared; safe harbor was offered.
Los Angeles, if it were sentient, would be tall and lanky, with a suit the color of its pavement: gold marble; with a sombrero of the same color; with skin a combination of its residents: the pale white of Asians, the rich array of African American tones, the dark tan of Hispanics. Los Angeles’s eyes would be a cheeky dark brown, and its face would be mostly hidden under that sombrero.
I thought of all of this as I left.
And I imagined Los Angeles touching the sombrero politely and saying, “You’re always welcome back. Godspeed.”
Thank you, my friend.
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