What about that Chicano mechanic?
The thought popped into my mind on the bus, as the bare blocks of Pico inched by.
Could I start something with him? We’d met in my apartment lobby at the mailboxes, he was interested, judging from the look he gave me. They all have the same look.
Maybe he could get my car fixed for less. Or, free.
Those tear drop tattoos under his left eye. Did they mean he had been in prison?
No, too squeamish to pull off a false relationship for car repair. That was for other people.
The Hollywood Reporter advertised an open call for the dance segment of a TV awards show.
I didn't need an agent for an open call. If I could get noticed by the choreographer, a woman who'd worked with Michael Jackson, I could get representation.
I was going for it.
Four miles from my door to the West Hollywood studio. I miscalculated how long it would take by bus and was an hour late.
The purple-haired goth with a headset and a clipboard who answered the door wouldn’t even let me enter the building.