Direction Man

The sun creeps over the palm tree and smog skyline, hits my forehead and draws a bead of sweat down my brow to the tip of my nose. I reach to dab it away. This early morning heat is more than I anticipated. Though my daily commute now consists of what may be called ‘a short walk’ of 15 minutes from my apartment to my office, I find that when I arrive at work, it is though I have just run a marathon wearing a plastic garbage bag. I adjust my Capezio dance bag and count down the minutes. I squint from behind a pair of sunglasses at the pavement ahead. I know what will happen on my way. It always happens, this coming moment, this transformation. One minute I am my normal, smallish self, trudging along toward the light, the next I am metamorphosed into something greater than the sum of my parts, some Oracle of information on two legs, a neon signpost of the mind, pointing the way for wayward citizens. I become Direction Man.

Today it is 9 minutes into my journey when I am summoned to my higher calling as Direction Man. With superhuman hearing, I sense a car approaching me from behind, traveling slowly, erratically, touristly. I lower my eyes and scrunch my neck down into my shoulders, an imaginary shell for my tortoise head. The car approaches cautiously. It rattles with the distinctive sound of a car made before the invention of fuel injection. I quicken my pace and furtively gaze ahead for signs of another pedestrian, someone with whom I can share this impending burden. There is a group of gardeners standing a football field’s length ahead. I begin to trot. Surely I can reach them before it’s too late. The car behind me rolls on and before I can duck into a garden or alleyway or sinkhole, it is upon me. a multicolored Chevy of some dubious origins bearing four occupants, all wearing hair from the early 90s, pulls directly along side me and squeaks to a stop. I can feel the blood boiling inside me, the inevitability of this moment. I am The Hulk, choiceless and afraid. Direction Man need only be summoned and I will be him.

“Excuse me! Can you tell us how to find the Hollywood Sign?” Just like that, Direction Man springs into action. He turns his torso, gleaming in the sun, to look at the lost travelers from afar, raises his glasses to look directly into their eyes and grows a smile a tour guide would be envious of. “We’ve been circling the neighborhood since 8am.” Four pairs of expectant eyes wait on Direction Man’s next move. Their plans are in his hands. Lucky for them, Direction Man has never met a geographical puzzle he couldn’t solve. He takes a breath and, as if reading it from a book, says, “Yes, you simply take this road which you are already on, continue east, which would be into the sun, and travel for approximately three miles. Once you have reached Beachwood Canyon, you must turn left, which would be north, and make your way into the beautiful Hollywood Hills. The sign is well guarded but as long as you have no untoward intentions, you should have no difficulty in accessing this glorious landmark of considerable history and meaning. Good day fair citizens. Now I must be off as there are many more folk just like you in need of help finding places of interest like Hooters and the freeway.”

A small gesture of thanks is all Direction Man needs. The car speeds off armed with a renewed sense of hope and disposable cameras with flash capability. Direction Man follows after them with his eyes, needing no sunglasses to dim the warmth of the generous rising sun. The smile he grew blossoms into fullness and then, in one fluid motion, withers and fades away.

I am so sweaty. I have lost four minutes. Why is it so bright? I pull my sunglasses down from head and over my eyes. I stand still for a moment to let my eyes adjust. Finally able to see clearly, I continue on. Damn you Direction Man! Damn you and your sense of duty, your sense of human compassion, your sense of…direction! I frown purposefully, regaining my inner equilibrium, my own sense of bitterness and suspicion of others. Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent shouldered light and fluffy burdens compared to the weight of my own alter ego. Direction Man can never be stopped or killed or put to pasture. Every inquiry only makes him stronger.

The Barricades of Freedom

I am walking into the lobby of a many storied office building on Hollywood Boulevard.  The building sits along the Walk of Fame across the street from the Grauman's Chinese Theatre and the L. Ron Hubbard Center.  I alight into an elevator car, press the 8th floor button and watch the doors woosh closed.  A few seconds go by and the car does a little dance, up and down.  The doors woosh open and I step into a new lobby, the lobby of my new office, my new job.  I swore I would never do again what I am about to do, but circumstance often overrides ethical fastidiousness and I have caved under the economic pressure.

My new job is telemarketing for a business called Watch That Talent.  Watch That Talent is not an agent or a manager or a casting director or a production house.  It is a very large,very dirty office space on the 8th floor, filled with and managed by society's rejects.  As I walk into the suite my nostrils are overcome by the smell of Cheetos, Diet Coke and poor dental hygiene.  My new 'Boss' is a Hispanic man in his late 30s, straight out of the video game Vice City.  He looks like an extra on Miami Vice.  His pants are loose-fitting, pleated and dart at the ankes.  His shirt is a Hawaiian print in blue and pink.  On his neck is a tattooed serial number.  I'm fairly certain that it is not only decorative, but that it used to serve a function.  Images of Jean Val Jean from Les Miserables fill my head, and I hear the song One Day More, but this time the lyrics are in Spanish.  Una Dia Mas!

My boss, Vice City, uses words like hesitational and motivationer.  Training for this job included a sppech from Vice City in which he said, "people are like hundreds of times of more likely to sign up if you can get them over their hesitational problems and stuff.  You have to be the motivationer in the situation and stuff.  Like tell them what is real and what is totally not real.  And stuff."

I pass through the rows of cubicles and find one that suits me.  Vice City told me that it didn't matter where I sat so I take a seat near the window. It occurs to me that the phone I am about to use for the next six hours has been used by hundreds of people before me.  I am totally going to get Pink Eye.

My job description is simple: call hundreds of potential models and actors who live in Tujunga and Valencia and convince them that they should become one of my 39,000 clients this month.  For the low price of $29.95 a month, I can gaurantee people named Yuma or Shunt or Gramach that they will be submitted for auditions.  Some of our 'Clients' have actually asked for our help by sending us their "headshots".  I have included one for your amusement that needs no punchline.  The background is particularly attractive.

I am sitting next to a man with the fewest number of teeth I have ever seen on a live person.  I imagine his toothless mouth using the phone I am on, perhaps on a day when I am not here and I cringe.  I am literally on overload.  The amount of material here is so great, I am having trouble keeping focused.  I am in a nightmare that is inside the head of a child in a horror film that is being shown in a small town in Idaho.

One more day before the storm
And the barricades of freedom!

On The Hunt

I am Poor. P-O-O-R, Poor. I am Single. I am Horny. While being any two of these things would not be a problem, all three is quite a predicament. If I was poor and single, but had no sex drive, perhaps I could spend all my efforts making scientific discoveries that would lead to wealth and boyfriends. If I was single and horny but rich, I could just buy hookers of the first class and satiate my singleness and hornihood all at once. If I was poor and horny but in a loving relationship, my partner and I could face the harsh realities of this world together while making it on the kitchen floor. As it stands, the closest I have ever been to scientific discoveries is figuring out how to make pasta sauce from flour, water and red food dye. Hookers are way beyond my reach – and dirty – and boyfriends are more elusive than the Yeti, hiding in the snowdrifts of life, making footprints for me to follow down dark paths where men will never be found, only swirling snowflakes.

Perhaps I should get a job. I hesitate however, because a job will require that I be someplace at a certain time, sit in a specific chair, have some kind of phone extension. I’ll have to set up a voicemail box, buy a Rolodex, wear a tie. I hate conformity. I scoff at authority. Memos and office politics make me woozy. I once hated an office job so much that I quit by sending my letter of resignation to the entire company staff worldwide, including the board of directors, a letter in which I slandered my boss, the CEO, and call him ‘sad, fat and narcissistic.’ The company was a publicly traded company on the Australian stock exchange; the CEO was a veritable Aussie celebrity. My letter was published in no less than two top-tier newspapers the next week in Sydney. Forever I will be able to say that that was the first time my writing was published. I should look into getting a tear sheet of those articles.

Or I could get another job in the service industry, which would be tantamount to suicide. I was never as good at bringing patrons soup and bread as I let on. The way I told it, I was the best waiter in all the land, winning waiter awards in waiter competitions with games like Carry All Those Scalding Plates While Running and Chase That Patron Out To Get Your Tip Money. No, sadly, the service industry has no place for me. I don’t much like people, and the first tenet of the service industry is ‘thou shalt get along with all people whether thou hast been spat upon, ignored or spoken rudely to by them or not.’

The biggest consequence of not having a job is considerably less access to Things That Require Power, Gas And/Or A Working Phone Line

Things That Require Power, Gas And/Or A Working Phone Line

Beep Beep Beep. The number you have reached has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please check the number and try your call again. If you need help, dial your operator.

We are all familiar with the message; three tones of increasing pitch, a strange woman who sounds like your grandmother telling you that something has gone horribly awry in your dialing process. Whenever one is greeted with such an omen it can portend one of only three things: the person you are calling has forgotten to pay his or her bill; the person you are calling has entered the witness protection program without your knowledge; you have actually dialed wrong. I can claim some personal experience with the first of these three possible scenarios. Occasionally I have ‘forgotten’ to pay 7 or 8 phone bills in a row which then leads someone at the phone company to throw some giant switch labeled ‘Jimmy’ into the off position. Friends and family then have to either call my cell phone or send smoke signals to get my attention. Sometimes I have even dealt those closest to me a One-Two Punch, neglecting both my cell phone and home phone simultaneously. My cell phone is prepaid, in order to avoid such circumstance, but all too often one may hear me answer my cell and say, “Hi (insert name here), I know it’s you but I can’t talk because I’m down to 4 minutes of talk time. Let’s catch up in the fall when I have had a chance to work out a payment plan with Verizon.” In such instances it would be wise for my inner circle to assess just how many times they have heard me say, “I’m not really hungry, I just ate on Friday.”

As I look for a job, the real challenge will not be finding the right employer, or writing the right cover letter. Rather, I will have to convince my potential employers to give concise directions to their office as I can only dedicate 2 minutes of talk time to each call.

“So you would like to see me for an interview? That’s great. What’s your address? What time would you like me there? Is it difficult to get there? On the Freeway? Wow, I didn’t realize that you were so far from me? Do you think maybe we could meet halfway? I’m not sure I have enough….uh….no, don’t worry with giving me directions, I’ll just ask around. Your company sounds great. I’d love to hear more but I really have to go. Why? No reason. I just really have to go. Now. No, I don’t have time to hear about the position. Can we just do that in person? Yeah, that would be great. So where would you say the closest bus stop is?”