The Los Angeles heat is too strong a beast for even Hollywood villains to handle, pushing us out of character, out of costume and into this spot of shade, tucked underneath a staircase. Taking a breath from stealing souls, I set my camera down on the steps.
It is heavy with little girls pressing their hands into concrete, angry red tourists, failed expectations, and simply the weight of Los Angeles.
The relief around my neck is immediate but quickly interrupted.
Resting on my shoulder is a slick blade, speckled with blood poking the skin under my ponytail. There is Jason. The sun reflects off the blade and into my eyes as it rests half in the shade and in the sun. I ask him how long he has lived in Los Angeles . He puts up two fingers. I ask him why he is here. He shrugs his shoulders. I pull back my lips, drag them across my teeth, hope my dimples are where I left them and then ask him what his favorite word is.
Come on, man, step into the shade, break character… for me. He pauses, steps into the cool air and then presses his mask against my ear.
“Mom,” he breathes and then steps back to his position.
Freddie decides it is his turn for a break. He lifts his chin in acknowledgment, wipes the sweat from his collar, a tricky task with five inch fingernails and then takes a swig from a blue children’s sippie-cup. His face, a red cratered planet, sore from a recent meteor-collision, suckling smooth blue plastic. My fingers jump towards the camera strap snaked around my feet. His eyes settle on mine. Come on, kid. I’ve had enough of that already. Here he isn’t Freddie, I’m not the photographer, and I don’t want to add five inches of glass to the space between us.
I wipe my face and see swirls of make-up in my hand. You’re melting. The camera may already be down but there must be more of this costume to come off. Too bad I don’t know where it ends and where I begin.
A purple alien shuffles into the oasis. He sits a few stairs below me, carefully takes off his head and places it next to him. I ask him why he is an alien and he takes a deep breath. He explains to me he is the oldest Hollywood villain.
“Think of War of the Worlds.”
He points up and I follow his finger to the faded blue sky.
“People have been obsessed forever.”
He quickly assures me that he doesn’t do this for money, he has a real job and he doesn’t hassle the tourists like the other guys.
“I just like making people happy,“ and I believe him. He also does birthday parties. He used to work with his wife. He corrects himself. Ex-wife. He asks me for my name and takes my hand. His rough fingers make mine feel safe. His name is Michael and I haven’t felt this solid in a long time.
We look out at the steaming sidewalk and can tell time is almost up. The masks can’t stay off forever. I want to trade with him. I’ll be behind the alien mask, making children jump, and grown men giggle. I’ll give him the camera and let him load, aim and capture as much of Los Angeles as he can. I trust his eyes far more than I trust mine—who knows, a little bit longer in this shade and my eyes could be gone, too.
He reaches for his head and I know it’s time.
BB
