There’s a woman who lives on my street. She has unusually tan skin, bleached blond hair and wears stretched leopard print pants, platform shoes, and a neon blue blouse. She can’t be older than fifty. And at first glance you would never know that she was homeless. But at night she sleeps in the parking lot behind the Masonic temple.

For the most part we exist as strangers whose sole source of communication are eye glances that acknowledge each other’s existence. I know her, she knows me, and neither of us talks to one another.

Until this morning when she stole my Variety Magazine and sat on the bench at the bus stop smoking the ends of stamped out cigarettes, and casually read each page with the weight and understanding of a true Hollywood insider.

She was looking for auditions. She’s an actress.

I suppose that in a town where police officers, car salesmen, and waitresses are quick to hand out their head shots on the job, it shouldn’t have taken me by surprise that in Hollywood even the homeless want to be stars, but it did.

I wanted to take the magazine back, scold her for stealing from me. But then who am I to wreck her dream? After all, we both want to succeed in this town.

So I wished her luck, and continued on.

• Share The Love
  
  • Subscribe
  • Digg
  • del.icio.us
  • NewsVine
  • StumbleUpon