Cracked Actor

Cracked Actor
Part One-
Endowment

    Is it beautiful,
    “Pain is just fear leaving the body.”
    Room 212. La Quinta Inn. This isn’t exactly how I met Sierra. 
    But this is where we ended up.
    The anklet mirrored the light, reeling among shadows, a celluloid film of amber calves, shapely thighs, scented and tall, she smelled of velvet Hibiscus and death.
    Her laugh heavy like stone roses. 
    I gummed the snub nose .38 revolver with broken Chicklets, pressing the weapon against my cheek. I see the ghost in the mirror, my looks abused, worn, tarnished and leathery.  Slowly killing myself to live, I was the polkadot cadaver. 
    That’s what they call my condition in the Game. 
    Later for all of that. 
    Stay in the moment. 
    Allow the tongue to frolic with impending death, savor the taint of oil, the twang of copper penny, and listen to the wings of the fly buzzing feverishly against the ceiling fan. Capture Polaroid’s of each instant, for it’s my last.  Poetic. The truth dissipates like smoke. Her fingers too slender, they would fail catch the rain. This is the masterpiece I called my life.
    And I smile.
    Admission one:


The Fuhre-

….
Before Room 212, before the Fuhre, before Ms. Sierra Nevada, before I forged some name on this badge, I was a nobody.
Give me a savior. Give me truth. Grant me escape.

Anger Management class, Friday night. 6:30 P.M. Surrounded by strangers and parole violators, the room was hopeless. It reeked stale, an astray pregnant and overflowed of contents.  Kind of like the people here, ground and smoked to the filter, we were sour losers, rejects, and devil’s pawns.  I pick at the gum and grime with my shoe. The carpet a nappy relic, once  lush shag now a hand-me-down, worn brittle and left at the Salvation Army, until donated to this church.  Like us the rug had come here to die.  Tales of sorrow and abuse wept into its fibers, a life recalled over coffee stains and cigarette ash.  The mediator always brought the food, setting the room up an hour before the others arrived.  At first, I would help set-up.  We always brewed coffee, set out cookies and bagels, though they were never Pepperidge Farm cookies, the bastard too cheap for Chessman.  The bagels were day-old, dry dough and sand.  It’s okay though I never really ate much more these days.  This was what it was. A comfortable life of mediocrity, rinse, dry, repeat.  Everything was humdrum, for the lack of a better word everything was perfect.  Until I saw her.

Enter: Sierra Nevada

The introduction of a young vixen, lips full and red like a sour candy, her aura enlightened the room. The Monroe look-a-like dropped her cigarette, her leg moves subtle with grace like a leaf dancing on air, in one motion the embers snuffed upon the floor, demanding all of our attention. The black smudge smeared to the fibers, similar to the wills of men she had smothered.  This girl who smelled of Japanese Cherry Blossoms was not to be trusted.  I raised my hand to my face, and rubbed at the slight ache burrowed behind my eyes, tense and building pressure.  Everything about her was dangerous. Her teeth reared back like a hyena seethed with jealousy.  She bit her lip when she spoke, a trickle of sweat teared from her cheek, and I swear it would taste of dirt.  My eyes groped her, leaving me feeling a bit of a pedophile because of her age. But for an hour, I study her words.  Sierra Nevada was the type of woman who with one look, men got things done.  Her flesh gleamed like a dagger, her cheeks chiseled like a model. She was deadly and could kill with a glance.

I always play the victim.

She lowered her glasses fixed upon me.  Her eyes stabbed through me with their cold shade of blue. Not just the blue of an ocean, but more blue of a cadaver at the morgue. I can say this, if the eyes are the windows of the soul, hers was icy cold. Not just icy cold, but glacial as the bottom realm of Hell.

The Queen had arrived, and I her pawn.

My palms and forehead broke out in sweat. Inside I cursed God for creating his image with sweat glands. I was never smooth with the ladies. It’s been even longer since I’ve been with one. 2271 days to be exact, but who’s counting. I’m a rehabilitated man.  Inside you wait to wash, you wait to eat, you wait to shit, but most of all you wait to be free.  This isn’t what I was waiting for.

She sat next to me.

Intently, I studied her. Watch her breast calmly rise and fall.  I want to poke her. Her skin is milky and wax-like, fails to be real. Her head cocks sideways, batting slivers of bamboo lashes. An innate motion all girls commit, she reaches and twirls a finger in the mane upon her head. To most, her outer allure would woo and dazzle, distracting the commoner within her playmate curves and savvy European styled fashion. Women were always my weakness, but I was not fooled. There was evil within her. Not the malice of the Anti-Christ, but Darkness all the same.
Enchantress. Oh how I despise you.
Translation: Oh how I will love you.
God set this challenge before. Why else could she be here?
(Give me redemption. Give me release. Give me peace.) 

It was break, and half way through the session. The degenerates and rejects frolic to the cafeteria and gather munchies. I never ate. Mescaline doesn’t agree. So I chain smoked cigarettes, the butts line the shadows, one after another trying to comprehend the situation. Each of us has a story to tell, each of us with our own demons, their nails curled into the nape of our necks, craving to be free.  The others listen, passing judgment, none of us could understand what the other has gone through, yet we bear witness.  In open group individuals have to expose themselves, stand naked and fall backward into the trust circle, like confession, a bunch of bull if anyone asked, but it was State property if I didn’t.  So I play their game.

Ms. Sierra Nevada was some bigwig Hollywood type relocated here to serve out Court appointed deferral away from the tabloids and paparazzi. You can learn a person’s life in an hour of group-share. (If you listen closely enough.)  In short, Ms. Exulted had a little spat with her lover's new interest. She handed the adulteress a fire extinguisher and proceeded to ignite an inferno within the Hollywood Mansion. The hoopla graced enough covers and tabloids to slay a small rainforest.

Now this girl sat next to me, the chips on the fold-away card table the only thing separating us, chain-smoking strangers we breathed the silence. For a second I could hear the sounds of the tides, but then I realized it was the blood suffocating the heart. Believe when I say 3 is the strongest power in the universe.  Fate revolves around its principles, tethered like where this rock orbits from the sun. In spite of my rage we are caged like rats in a maze. I remove my head phone, silencing Billy Corgan and feel the knot constrict in my stomach.

And this is the way the world ends, not with a whimper but with a bang...

“Hey, my name is. . .”

“Shh, you can hear the tide.”  She reached out and took my hand, pulling me closer to her. Our ears nearly smashed together awkwardly and surprised. “Listen . . . Can you hear them?” Her breath hits my neck, it smells redolent of honey.  “The Gods are speaking.” She swallows a handful of blue and yellow pills from a plain orange bottle with no label.

“Doc’s orders huh,” I paused, wondering if I offend her, then I realize insults are below her. I am dumb for words awkward and clumsy, finally I begin again. “I was sayin’. . .”

“I know what you were saying.” She curled her lip, the sliver scar beneath a gemstone of imperfection, and eyed me with disappointment. “But I’m telling you what you are going to say.”

“Really, have at it.”

“Your name is Chili Siesto. You lived in this hellhole dreaming to push down the walls of this dollhouse. You’ve suffered your fair share of burdens.  And most days you can’t even drag your sorry ass out of bed, evading the revolver in your nightstand.”

Everything about her mystified me. God had smashed the mold after her.

“Well almost.” I take the smoke from her lips without invitation, I see in her eyes she doesn’t mind the action, I tasted her menthol and lipstick.  Suddenly I’ve never been so smooth.  “The revolver is under my pillow.” I chuckled and looked down at the name scrawled in red marker. Austin, I thought that was a good name.

“Everyone has a past,” She jabbed at my badge. “Austin.” She grabbed the smoke back, “But who cares about that?  I’m talking about the future. Right here and now.”  The smoke clouds between us. “I’m gonna call you Chili, and Chili I need a friend.” 
Her eyes are shaped like almonds, they blink too fast to be trusted, everything to actors can turn on and off like a switch.
“Will you be my friend?” I answer before I can think with a nod of the head. “Good choice Chil. Let’s get out of here.”

“Leave the group?”

“Leave this world. . .” She whispered.

“Are you nuts?”

“I’ve been called worse.  Fuck it Chili. What have you got to lose?”

“Bullshit. I skip class, that’s it for me.”

“What back to the pen?  Shit man, you’re in the same prison out here. Just the walls are a little wider. More transparent.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“How old are you...No wait, I say you’re 31. And in those 31 years you never once breathed freedom.”

“What I’m some slave to this society?”  My forehead crinkled, and I was sure that bulging vein was popping out. “Who the hell are you?”

“A free child. This world has no rasp over me. And I can show you.”

“No bullshit?” I looked solidly in her eyes, her irises split in an ecstasy of fireworks, hypnotic she toyed with my emotions.  Later she would call this Henge, a spell even the youngest Nystle could execute.

“No bullshit. Let’s get out of here.”

“OK, Sierra Nevada. I’m Chili Siesto, and I will be your friend. Let’s get out of here.”

“Now you’re talking. First, we’re going to take you shopping. Your style sucks.” She stood screeching her chair across the cafeteria floor. 

With a smirk of excitement, Sierra pulled me from the room. I bounced after her, feeling like Tom chasing Jerry.  Ousted from Babylon, to the rubbish of upstate New York, Sierra Nevada entered my life; a Queen without a kingdom, an heir without a throne, and a Realm without a king.
Give me destiny. Give me failure. Give me revelation.