Oh, roll me over, in the clover, red hot rover, white cliffs of Dover…
Yeah, man. Cry me a river, baby. You came alive once, once in a blue moon, Angie, and it hurt me so badly to see your frantic performances on the patio stage as you, demonstrating no talent at all, sought to rely on your physical beauty to somehow pull you through the darkening nightmare of your life. Your voice, hoarse from too many cigarettes, cigarettes given you by using malcontents who wanted a piece of you for their self-gratification; your poetry a litany of hurt; then you disappeared.
I watched you, restive, worried, as you drifted into exhaustion after a longish drive to San Antonio, a drug run, and the green lounger, matched to your lovely skin, somehow made me sad to know how easily you allowed yourself to be used. Truly, in another world, you would have been an Irish beauty, yet the stories you told me horrified: You, walking alone through a dark part of town, a little too tipsy as you walked uptown, and the gang-bangers in their tricked-out car with spinners and black-light flashing, slowing down, threatening to rape you; how you screeched-out, and then proudly told me your voice had frightened them into moving on, away from you.
What on earth were you trying to do with your life?
Those nasty-assed boys: Knowing they could gimp you out with hot cocaine and you’d get down on them all night long—up there in the fancy club offices, you like a little swan, the black swan, doing the final dance of “Swan Lake,” beautiful ballerina—and then leaving you to walk back to your unemployment, your frantic fears, your apartment nothing but a roomful of broken furniture.
Remember when I made you lemon chicken just a week before Christmas, how you sat at the couch, incapable of even connecting to Jimmy Stewart being loved by the entire town in It’s A Wonderful Life? I would never have moved on you. You were fragile. I offered you dignity, and then disappeared.
Carl, the so-called successful businessman, a computer expert, wooed you, laughing and what he only believed was my innocence as you sat next to him in the front of his ironically-named Subaru, Japanese for “love,” buying us three ice cream, taking me home and then shagging you until your knees bled, oblivious he may have been of the danger signals of an apartment almost destroyed. How could you take care of yourself? As you lap-danced him in the only viable chair, you were on your menses, and he laughingly told his friends that driving through Jack in the Box with blood all over his blue jeans was funny.
Angie: Nothing but a fuck. Something you did to ease the pain.
The Irish lilt of your voice.
Then you disappeared. Told everyone you were heading to Chicago to become a Delta stewardess. We called Chicago: The Delta stewardess academy was in Atlanta. What was that message, Angie?
The grip. Universal Studios. The casting couch. He had told you he was a Hollywood director (you had gone to Hollywood believing in innocence and desperation your beauty would ensure immediate success), and knocked you up. Him, his bomber jacket. You kept the child like a protest veiled with the vestigial cowl of a seer telling the world: Look, look what you are doing to me?
Remember when we visited the skyscraper under construction? We rode the engineering elevator to the very pinnacle of the tower and gazed out late at night through the full, wall-to-ceiling open space without glass. Not nearly as breathtaking as the thrill in your eye. You wanted me to teach you how to use the dictionary.
You sued the grip. Took $50,000 out of his nasty pockets. Hitchhiked home, pregnant, morning sickness in Death Valley. Told your girlfriends it was nothing but Disneyland, anyway. Your hopes? Crushed and dashed by lust and selfishness. How do some people profess to be human when all they know how to do is use others?
You, lying prone in that green beanbag chair. Pretty in the green grass of Ireland. Your almost Nordic beauty impossible to resist. I could have taken you. But why? I am a human being, others treated you as if they were animals out for a ride with an AK-47 in the jungle. Which sounds silly, but given the cultural revolution in the air, it wasn’t.
You laughed at me because I say, “Man!”
And then the cocaine. Self-gratification. Pain killer. You, in your tight jeans, looking ready for sunset.
Then the sun set. Hollywood became a joke to you. A crying child. A broken woman. A life interrupted. A silent movie.
This is my letter to Mister Hollywood Zero. To take advantage of the desperate, to use money as a way to luxuriate her into giving you what you wanted for your physical lust and jealousy towards those who can truly love.
Angie, in Death Valley, crying, holding out her thumbs, pregnant, sick, thirsty, hungry, a moving target; and you, Mister Hollywood Zero, thinking you could cop some ass by lying and acting.
An Academy Award bent upon saving your fallen star, Mister Hollywood Zero.
The crying baby. The cocaine. The poverty. By a miracle, I found myself shoved out of the way of the train wreck you perpetuated, Hollywood. Rock star. You, and your irritable grasping. The meteor crater near Winslow, Arizona. Win slow, revolution. Barringer. Remove from us the parasites. Movies.