"Street Art on Brick Wall" by Eva Bronzini (Pexels)
by Alexis MacIsaac
Winner: 2023 Story Award
Nestled within a balding patch of brush that grows on Mount Lee is the iconic Hollywood sign. It once spelled out Hollywoodland, until it simply became Hollywood, a white smile in the distant wilderness. But the letters withered over the decades, until the emblem morphed into a carcass, reborn only when it was rebuilt. Hugh Hefner, the crimson-draped, pipe-smoking playboy who plied pretty girls with Quaaludes (“thigh openers,” one playmate recalled), rescued it not once, but twice; the first time by throwing a celebrity-studded fundraiser, the second, by ponying up the money himself. He explained his generosity in 2010 to People Magazine: “It’s become something iconic and represents not only the town but represents Hollywood dreams, and I think that’s something worth preserving.”
The best view of the sign is at the mouth of the Griffith Observatory, a public building that serves as a scientific refuge and a lookout into the vault of heaven. Tourists especially flock to a mounted set of golden wings strategically positioned at the lip of a hill with the Hollywood sign poised in the background. You can pretend you’re an angel while someone snaps a picture. But the observatory is meant to be something of substance, something enduring. Griffith J. Griffith built it as a legacy, a gift to America. He also later shot his wife while she knelt, supplicant, on the floor before him. She didn’t die; only lost an eye. A tour guide pontificates to a group of visitors from the Northwest: “Griffith was a visionary. Look at what he gave us. He was a bit of a jerk but also a philanthropist. Both can be true.” The tourists don’t seem to care; most of them have fixed their smartphones on the Foucault pendulum suspended from forty feet on high within the interior of the building. A 240-pound bronzed ball swings at a snail’s pace as the Earth rotates on its axis.
The best view of the sign is at the mouth of the Griffith Observatory, a public building that serves as a scientific refuge and a lookout into the vault of heaven. Tourists especially flock to a mounted set of golden wings strategically positioned at the lip of a hill with the Hollywood sign poised in the background. You can pretend you’re an angel while someone snaps a picture. But the observatory is meant to be something of substance, something enduring. Griffith J. Griffith built it as a legacy, a gift to America. He also later shot his wife while she knelt, supplicant, on the floor before him. She didn’t die; only lost an eye. A tour guide pontificates to a group of visitors from the Northwest: “Griffith was a visionary. Look at what he gave us. He was a bit of a jerk but also a philanthropist. Both can be true.” The tourists don’t seem to care; most of them have fixed their smartphones on the Foucault pendulum suspended from forty feet on high within the interior of the building. A 240-pound bronzed ball swings at a snail’s pace as the Earth rotates on its axis.
A woman named Charmaine lives in San Francisco, but she’s visiting Pacific Palisades for a women’s weekend retreat dedicated to the politically homeless. She’s tall, over six feet, and has sharply drawn bangs and angular cheeks, alabaster skin carved out of soapstone. A native of Tennessee, she’s “a recovering Evangelical,” she tells everyone upon introduction. “But you know, I’d take that church bullshit a million times over what I’m seeing now.”
She leans into a kitchen island erected in the middle of a multi-million dollar mansion. Thirteen middle-aged women are sprinkled throughout the living room area, accents from all parts of the United States of America. Light spills from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The space is cool, sterile, white-washed and sinuous, like Charmaine. “This idiotic time I find myself in,” she continues, “is the age of narcissism. Cluster B personalities in charge and proliferating. I’m constantly having to deal with the children I never wanted."
“What’s a Cluster B personality?” somebody asks.
Charmaine’s eyes alight. Cluster B, everyone soon learns, is her thing.
“Cluster Bs. Basically everyone in the entertainment industry. People who never grew up. The charismatic type who’ll suck you in. You ever met someone who love bombs? Red flag, red flag, red flag. Always a pathway to narcissistic rage.”
Her friend Savannah nods, placid green eyes transfixed on Charmaine’s mouth. Savannah’s balletic body crunches into itself on a chair, like a contortionist. She’s the fitness instructor in Hollywood. The best of the best. She’s touched the bodies of virtually every celebrity who still walks the halls of fame.
For a moment, it looks as though she’s holding her breath, but then she interjects. “Yeah, the kind who discards you after they’ve used you. People like my ex.”
“Well, I’ve been with twenty of them,” Charmaine says. “So I should know.”
“Twenty?” someone else exclaims.
“Twenty. And those are only the ones I’ve slept with. My mother was the original. And she was a real piece of work. High-powered lawyer with five ex-husbands and who treated me like a handbag. I shed exactly three tears when she died.”
Savannah’s not smiling. Her pale eyes have turned inward, and she’s angrily chewing on her lower lip.
“You know, it was so depressing when I turned thirty and realized what all this was.”
Charmaine says, “That you were nothing more than a babysitter to toddler-adults?”
“More than that. That my heroes were such disappointments. All those beautiful people who’d sell their kid for a good contract.”
“Is it true about the fake pregnancies and the fake marriages?” someone asks, hopefully.
Savannah scoffs. Her white teeth are jagged and mesmerizing. “Of course it’s true. People in this town will do anything to keep up. Full pockets, empty souls.”
Charmaine laughs, but Savannah’s tight-lipped. It wasn’t a joke. She continues.
“I did a contract for Vivid Entertainment once with the porn actresses. Never again. I went home each night after I trained them and cried.”
Silence ripples, until someone cracks a coffee pod and starts the espresso machine.
Savannah turns her head toward a window; despite the opulence, the view isn’t all that great. There’s a pool marked by a stone statue in the form of a human, arms splayed, faceless head bent to the ground, and beyond the statue is a cliff, but all that can be seen from the inside of the mansion is sculpted rock and grass and a gaping hole. Savannah says to no one in particular, “It’s difficult being honest with yourself sometimes.”
She leans into a kitchen island erected in the middle of a multi-million dollar mansion. Thirteen middle-aged women are sprinkled throughout the living room area, accents from all parts of the United States of America. Light spills from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The space is cool, sterile, white-washed and sinuous, like Charmaine. “This idiotic time I find myself in,” she continues, “is the age of narcissism. Cluster B personalities in charge and proliferating. I’m constantly having to deal with the children I never wanted."
“What’s a Cluster B personality?” somebody asks.
Charmaine’s eyes alight. Cluster B, everyone soon learns, is her thing.
“Cluster Bs. Basically everyone in the entertainment industry. People who never grew up. The charismatic type who’ll suck you in. You ever met someone who love bombs? Red flag, red flag, red flag. Always a pathway to narcissistic rage.”
Her friend Savannah nods, placid green eyes transfixed on Charmaine’s mouth. Savannah’s balletic body crunches into itself on a chair, like a contortionist. She’s the fitness instructor in Hollywood. The best of the best. She’s touched the bodies of virtually every celebrity who still walks the halls of fame.
For a moment, it looks as though she’s holding her breath, but then she interjects. “Yeah, the kind who discards you after they’ve used you. People like my ex.”
“Well, I’ve been with twenty of them,” Charmaine says. “So I should know.”
“Twenty?” someone else exclaims.
“Twenty. And those are only the ones I’ve slept with. My mother was the original. And she was a real piece of work. High-powered lawyer with five ex-husbands and who treated me like a handbag. I shed exactly three tears when she died.”
Savannah’s not smiling. Her pale eyes have turned inward, and she’s angrily chewing on her lower lip.
“You know, it was so depressing when I turned thirty and realized what all this was.”
Charmaine says, “That you were nothing more than a babysitter to toddler-adults?”
“More than that. That my heroes were such disappointments. All those beautiful people who’d sell their kid for a good contract.”
“Is it true about the fake pregnancies and the fake marriages?” someone asks, hopefully.
Savannah scoffs. Her white teeth are jagged and mesmerizing. “Of course it’s true. People in this town will do anything to keep up. Full pockets, empty souls.”
Charmaine laughs, but Savannah’s tight-lipped. It wasn’t a joke. She continues.
“I did a contract for Vivid Entertainment once with the porn actresses. Never again. I went home each night after I trained them and cried.”
Silence ripples, until someone cracks a coffee pod and starts the espresso machine.
Savannah turns her head toward a window; despite the opulence, the view isn’t all that great. There’s a pool marked by a stone statue in the form of a human, arms splayed, faceless head bent to the ground, and beyond the statue is a cliff, but all that can be seen from the inside of the mansion is sculpted rock and grass and a gaping hole. Savannah says to no one in particular, “It’s difficult being honest with yourself sometimes.”
In Santa Monica, a semi-retired writer named Betty sits at the kitchen table in her flannel pink housecoat. Her chin-length brown hair is swept back as if windblown, though she hasn’t yet been outside today.
“I swear I was born anxious,” she says. “My mother was a complete neurotic.”
The sun filters weakly in from behind the cracked curtain. Everything is tinged with grey, as if Betty’s apartment is in a basement and not the top floor of a condo building.
Betty stabs at the couch she sits upon, striking it repeatedly with the edge of her hand. A tick she doesn’t seem to be aware of. The couch is worn, almost threadbare, with a dated red and green floral print.
“It didn’t help, growing up in the Sixties. My sister and I were talking the other day about the pill. We thought it was a godsend, but I don’t think it was.” She stares at her hands, and then she laughs as if she’s surprised by what she sees.
“We used to make ourselves sick with booze if we didn’t want to sleep with a guy. That’s how we got out of it. They expected sex then. As my mother used to say, though, ‘Why would someone pay for the cow when they can get the milk for free?’”
She laughs, but it doesn’t feel funny.
“You know, I never wanted kids. I would have hated to be tied to my ex-husband for life. My parents offered me money once, to have a grandchild, and I said no thanks. But I think you might need younger people in your life. It can’t just be you when you get old.”
But it is just Betty, in a condo, with the occasional houseguest who passes through. A shared bathroom has a nightlight because she needs to pee every few hours and worries about tripping and breaking a hip. A writer who did ads and copy editing, who loves NPR and who used to love Alice Walker until she found out she was an anti-Semite.
“I had breast cancer,” she says. “It wasn’t a big deal. Not a big deal at all. Barely even an inconvenience. They cut it out and that was that.” Her hand stabs at the couch again, like she’s exorcising a ghost. “But you know, I have a scan coming up in a few months, and I don’t want to go.”
California has been Betty’s home for most of her adult life and she will never leave.
“What’s there not to like?” She tries to smile. “The West Coast is the best coast.”
“I swear I was born anxious,” she says. “My mother was a complete neurotic.”
The sun filters weakly in from behind the cracked curtain. Everything is tinged with grey, as if Betty’s apartment is in a basement and not the top floor of a condo building.
Betty stabs at the couch she sits upon, striking it repeatedly with the edge of her hand. A tick she doesn’t seem to be aware of. The couch is worn, almost threadbare, with a dated red and green floral print.
“It didn’t help, growing up in the Sixties. My sister and I were talking the other day about the pill. We thought it was a godsend, but I don’t think it was.” She stares at her hands, and then she laughs as if she’s surprised by what she sees.
“We used to make ourselves sick with booze if we didn’t want to sleep with a guy. That’s how we got out of it. They expected sex then. As my mother used to say, though, ‘Why would someone pay for the cow when they can get the milk for free?’”
She laughs, but it doesn’t feel funny.
“You know, I never wanted kids. I would have hated to be tied to my ex-husband for life. My parents offered me money once, to have a grandchild, and I said no thanks. But I think you might need younger people in your life. It can’t just be you when you get old.”
But it is just Betty, in a condo, with the occasional houseguest who passes through. A shared bathroom has a nightlight because she needs to pee every few hours and worries about tripping and breaking a hip. A writer who did ads and copy editing, who loves NPR and who used to love Alice Walker until she found out she was an anti-Semite.
“I had breast cancer,” she says. “It wasn’t a big deal. Not a big deal at all. Barely even an inconvenience. They cut it out and that was that.” Her hand stabs at the couch again, like she’s exorcising a ghost. “But you know, I have a scan coming up in a few months, and I don’t want to go.”
California has been Betty’s home for most of her adult life and she will never leave.
“What’s there not to like?” She tries to smile. “The West Coast is the best coast.”
An obnoxious tour bus, royal blue and mustard yellow, emblazoned with a “Hollywood bus tours” logo, palm-treed and neon, drives along the sunset strip. The tourists have seen all the major sites. The Chateau Marmont, romantically hidden behind a swell of greenery. The site of real-life scandals, like when John Belushi died of a drug overdose in Bungalow 3 on March 5, 1982 and when Lindsay Lohan was evicted after failing to pay a $46,000 bill. Santa Monica Pier, with its salty shoreline littered with shells and the occasional blunted cigarette. Homeless people sleep along the boardwalk. The Original Farmers Market, which isn’t a farmers market at all, but somewhere to buy a cappuccino and a piece of gluten-free cake, where smooth-haired mothers with teddy coats and Botoxed foreheads hold hands with their children as they saunter the wide sidewalks. The Hollywood Walk of Fame with its thousands of flattened stars.
A Honda Civic pulls up next to the tourists at a traffic light. The driver beckons the bus driver to roll down the windows; a sprawling tattoo is smeared across his neck, and one of his incisors is capped in gold. He flashes silver-laden fingers that glint underneath the Californian sun.
The tourists wave, enthused by this real-life encounter with a specimen from the wild.
The tattooed man smiles, and then he snarls.
“Welcome to Hollywood, motherfuckers!”
He revs his engine, spewing noise into the crystalline air; the tourists watch as the car speeds past. The traffic light changes from red to green.
A Honda Civic pulls up next to the tourists at a traffic light. The driver beckons the bus driver to roll down the windows; a sprawling tattoo is smeared across his neck, and one of his incisors is capped in gold. He flashes silver-laden fingers that glint underneath the Californian sun.
The tourists wave, enthused by this real-life encounter with a specimen from the wild.
The tattooed man smiles, and then he snarls.
“Welcome to Hollywood, motherfuckers!”
He revs his engine, spewing noise into the crystalline air; the tourists watch as the car speeds past. The traffic light changes from red to green.
