Fearing and Loathing the American Dream - Volume 3: Los Angeles Part 2

I was so conked out from the excitement of the previous day that I slept right through my wake-up call. Only when Sarge stumbled into my room, bleary-eyed, and told me that the concierge had just informed us that our check-out was in fifteen minutes did I snap up.

            “That’s impossible! We couldn’t have slept that late…” I mumbled, stealing a glance at the bedside clock. To my surprise it was a quarter to two. I jumped out of bed and made for the door.

            “Okay, I’ll pick up the car from the rental place,” I said over my shoulder to Sarge, snatching up my bag and a jacket.

            “Do I have to check us out?” she asked wearily.

            “Yes, but first I need to you pack, Sarge. Pack like the wind. Pack like you’ve never packed before!” I slammed the door behind me before she could get in another word.

* * *

Once the technicalities at the rental place had been attended to and I had the keys to the dusty pink ’55 Chevy Bel Air in hand, I returned to the Roosevelt to find Sarge in the lobby, perched atop my suitcase.

            “Excuse me.” I snapped my fingers at the bellboy standing idly by, and motioned towards the luggage. I opened the boot for the boy to maneuver my suitcase into it, and got behind the wheel and threw my bag into the backseat of the convertible. Sarge dropped her duffel bag in with it and got into the passenger seat. The bellboy came round to my side of the car and stood there patiently.

            “Oh, you’re waiting for a tip, huh?” I nodded and leaded over to him. “Nothing says ‘thank you’ like dollars in the waistband. Think about it.” I saluted the confused employee and sped off.

* * *

After I had parked a sensible distance from the hotel and its grudging bellboy, Sarge and I began our trek, cameras and all, down Hollywood Boulevard—LA’s most notorious tourist attraction. We moseyed through the Hard Rock Café and got all chirpy every time we saw a name we recognized on the Walk of Fame.

            And much to my embarrassment, Sarge insisted on purchasing horrendously overpriced boxing gloves just to have her picture taken alongside Muhammad Ali’s star.

            At one point during the walk a look-alike Zoro handed Sarge a rose, after which we had a good fifteen-minute argument as I tried to convince her that, NO, that guy wasn’t really Antonio Banderas, and, NO, I wasn’t just saying that because I was jealous.

            When we paused outside the Madame Tussauds celebrity wax museum I grabbed Sarge by the arm and said, “Hey! Isn’t that Samuel L. Jackson?”

            She gaped at the burly, black-clad figure. “Omigod, it is! Shit, reckon I should ask for his autograph?”

            I smiled. “I don’t see why not.”

            She tore over to the lone figure with her hand outstretched and introduced herself. For near five minutes I watched with a fiendish glee as she tried to coax the wax statue into conversation, before she eventually gave up and trudged away.

            “How rude!” she said. “He totally gave me the Hollywood brush off. Just stood there, didn’t say a word, as if he was a statue!”

            “The injustice of it,” I said with a compassionate shake of the head. “C’mon, seeing the Charmed house will totally perk you up!”

            On the walk back to the car we passed a homeless man who’d coma’d out in a puddle of God-only-knew-what. I was willing to bet that wasn’t something Hollywood marketing agents would want gracing their ‘Come to Hollywood—It’s amazingly amazing!’ brochures. It was almost a surreal sight—seeing the poverty and lost hope amongst the glamour and extravagance so often attributed with Hollywood—and that made it all the more saddening. Like being slapped in the face with the harsh reality of Tinseltown.

* * *

I parked the car outside the house – I’d found the address on a Charmed fan site, and had ignored the accompanying warning about not disturbing the occupants as it was a residential home.

            “C’mon, Sarge, let’s go-go-go!” I said, hurrying her up the path. I was just so excited—it was no secret I was a Charmed freak, not to mention a fan of Victorian architecture, and the opportunity was too good to pass up!

            Of course, upon arriving at the door, I realised I had no idea what to say.

            So, pragmatically, I rang the doorbell.

            An elderly woman opened it and looked quizzically at me.

            I peered over her shoulder into the house. I couldn’t see much, but from what I could see it looked nice. Old fashioned-sy and quaint.

            “Hello, ma’am,” I said with a bright smile and a southern twang, saying the first thing that came to mind. “Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal saviour? Perhaps my associate and I should come inside and talk about it. And are any of the Halliwell sisters home, by chance?”

            “Tourists,” the lady muttered to herself, and slammed the door.

            “Huh,” Sarge said from behind me. “Guess they weren’t home.”

            “Ah, well.” I shrugged. “Vegas awaits!”

* * *

We circled back onto the Hollywood freeway, headed for Vegas. I cranked the radio and was settling into the musical stylings of The Eagles when Sarge got out her numerous Vegas maps and brochures and pulled me out of my reverie.

            “Hey, check it out!” she said, pointing to a photograph on one of the brochures. They have their own Eiffel Tower!”

            “Yeah, you didn’t know? They really went the whole nine yards. Replica Eiffel Tower, replica Statue of Liberty, replica ancient ruins—sounds like a city with the hookup for all your replica needs,” I answered a touch sourly.

            “Aw, sure, it’s tacky, but it looks like fun, nonetheless. But you know what’s weird? In the movies and stuff, Hollywood looks so flashy, like you just can’t wait to go there. But when you see it firsthand, it’s of a letdown to be truthful,” she concluded thoughtfully.

            I sighed. So much for reveries and The Eagles. It looked like this was going to be one of those deeply profound and moving four-hour-drives. “Yeah, well you’re preaching to the choir, Sarge. But you know those corporate-types blow everything out of proportion to tempt people into coming here. It’s all part of American Dream image. It’s—”

            “It’s nonsensical is what it is!” Sarge broke in angrily, whacking the dashboard. “Just like those people who keep insisting on making more American Idol seasons. It’s dead without Simon. When are they gonna give it up and go home?”

© 2011 Anne Oddity. All rights reserved.