By Misti
Date: 2002 Jul 12
Comment on this Work
[[2002.07.12.00.07.7417]]

Daisies

Starla arrived in L.A. on a Greyhound bus. She had a suitcase filled with clothes and a purse filled with makeup and her high school graduation money.
"Let me get that for you."
A Hispanic man grabbed Starla's suitcase. Starla followed the man to a taxi. The man put Starla's suitcase in the trunk.
"Welcome to Hell, babe," a tattooed guy in black leather said to Starla as he strode by.
The sounds of the street made Starla nervous. Cars honking, people yelling, music blaring. Starla had lived in the same small town in North Central Texas her entire eighteen years of life. She was overwhelmed by the enormity of Los Angeles and the assault on her senses.
"Where we goin'?"
"Uh...I'm not sure. I need a hotel."
Starla looked out the window as the taxi sped away from the bus station. She saw women she assumed were prostitutes hanging out in front of a taco stand. They wore high heels and short skirts and lots of glittery makeup.
"A hotel. Which part of L.A.? Culver City? Beverly Hills? West Hollywood? Where we goin'?"
"West Hollywood sounds good. That's where all the big studios are, right?"
"Sure. They gots big studios there. MGM, Warner Brothers. You gonna be a star?"
"I'm gonna try."
"Well...good luck. That's all I can say. In this city you need lots of luck. Even if you're Irish."
The taxi stopped in front of a Holiday Inn. The driver took the suitcase out of the trunk. Starla paid the driver and gave him a five dollar tip.
"Thank you. God be with you. Don't talk to any weirdos, okay? Okay. Catch ya on the flip side."
After Starla had unpacked her suitcase and freshened up, she took the elevator down to the lobby. She went inside the small lounge and ordered a martini. Extra dry with an olive. Shaken, not stirred. The bartender asked to see her driver's license. Starla showed him her fake ID.

As the bartender made the martini, Starla took out her compact and reapplied her Sugar Plum Yum lipgloss. She looked to her right and saw a man sitting at the other end of the bar. He was watching Starla with a smirk on his suntanned face. His eyes made Starla melt. They were marble green and intense. Overall, the man reminded Starla of her favorite Ken doll. The man stood up and walked over to Starla.
"I've got it," he told the bartender, handing him a ten dollar bill.
"And I need a refill," he added.
"Another Jack and Coke on the rocks. You want a cherry in that?"
Starla studied the interaction between the bartender and the Ken doll lookalike. They were obviously making a joke at her expense.
"Thanks for the martini. I've gotta go," Starla said.
"Don't you want to drink it first? I'm Lloyd, by the way. Lloyd Becker. I'm a talent scout for MGM."
The bartender was intent on refilling Lloyd's drink so Starla was unable to study his reaction.
"I didn't come in here to get laid," Starla stated.
She took a sip of the martini and winced.
"Tastes like rubbing alcohol, doesn't it? Let's leave the martinis to 007. What are you really thirsty for? And don't try to impress me because the last lady I bought a drink for ordered a Sex on the Beach and I respected her, anyway. So what'll it be- I'm sorry, what's your name?"
"Starla."
"Your full name."
"Starla Silver Green."
"No, that won't work. No offense. Why don't we get rid of the Green? Starla Silver sounds much better."
"Whatever. I'd like a French 75, please."
"Ooh la la. Make her a French 75, John."
"Ay ay, sir."
"May I?" Lloyd asked, motioning toward the bar stool to Starla's right.
"Sure. Are you really a talent scout for MGM?"
"You're breaking my heart, babe. John, did you hear that? Miss Silver doesn't believe a word I say."
"Smart girl," John said. He winked at Starla and handed her a French 75.
"Tell her it's true, man," Lloyd insisted.
"It's true. Everything he says is the gospel truth," John said, throwing his hands up in the air.
"So you're a talent scout for MGM. What a coincidence. I'm the new virgin in town and oh golly oh gosh! I want to be the next Julia Roberts."
John guffawed and gave Starla a high five. Lloyd pouted. Starla had never seen a grown man pout before. It had an unsettling effect on her stomach. She took a sip of her French 75 and ignored Lloyd, who was staring at her in hurt silence.
"So where did you come from?" John asked.
"A little town I'm sure you've never heard of. It's in North Central Texas. Not too far from Fort Worth."
"What's the name of the town?"
"Bridgeport."
"Believe it or not, my ex-wife went to kindergarten in Bridgeport, Texas."
"Are you serious? That is too weird. What's her name?"
"Oh, she's a lot older than you. Mandy Richardson. She was only there for kindergarten. Then she and her parents moved to Jacksboro."
"Jacksboro...wow. I know a lot of people from Jacksboro. Because of football games and parties."
"Yeah. She graduated from Jacksboro High. I met her at the University of North Texas in Denton."
"That's where I was thinkin' of goin'."
"But you decided to come to L.A. instead and be the next Pretty Woman."
"I'd like to get into acting, ideally. Yeah. That's why I'm  here."
"I can help you with that," Lloyd interjected.
"With what? A casting couch?"
"Those went out with Bette Davis. Let me take you out to dinner tonight. This needs to be discussed over steak and wine."
"See, I disagree. Thanks for the martini and French 75. I'm going to bed."
"Can I come?"
"I'm sure you can but I don't want any proof. Good-night."

The next day Starla was eating French toast in the Holiday Inn restaurant. Lloyd walked up to her booth holding a bouquet of daisies.
"I won't take no for an answer, Miss Silver. Come with me. Let me be your host to the City of Angels."
"Okay. Let me finish my coffee. Where am I gonna put these flowers?"
"On an anonymous grave. Someone who shares your birthday. I know this great cemetery a few blocks away."
"That should scare me but it doesn't."

In the daylight, Lloyd looked even more appealing. He had longish dirty blonde hair. He was wearing a blue bucket hat, a Froot Loops t-shirt, denim cut-offs and thong sandals. Lloyd grabbed Starla's hand as they crossed the street. He walked fast. Starla was out of breath.
"Why the rush?"
"We've got a long day ahead of us. A long day indeed."

As they walked along, Starla took in the street life. Bag ladies sat on benches talking to themselves. Prostitutes strolled along the sidewalks drinking Slurpees and Big Gulps. Homeless teenagers roamed around in packs.
"This place is so seedy," Starla said.
"That's part of its charm. It's a juicy watermelon, West Hollywood. I grew up here. Some people say L.A. is the anus of Western civilization."
"Well, I wouldn't go that far. It does have a bit of glamour."

At the cemetery, sprinklers were hissing rainbows into the sunlit air. Starla was enchanted. She walked slowly, reading the names and dates on the tombstones. Lloyd walked alongside Starla in silence.
"There's one that has my birthday. Sylvia Rose Wallace. Born 7-8-15. Died 11-10-65. Beloved wife and mother."
Starla placed the daisies on the grave, which was adorned with red and white silk roses and a white ceramic swan.
"She was fifty. I guess she lived a full life," Lloyd stated.
"Fifty seems young to me. I don't think I want to live that much longer after fifty, though. It's bad enough being poor in this country. But being old and poor? Forget about it. I'd rather die right now."
"I feel the same way. So you're a Cancer. A moon goddess. Guess my sign."
"Well, you certainly don't lack confidence or histrionics so I'd guess that you're a Leo."
"You're way off. I'm a Pisces. So you can be Courtney Love and I can be Kurt Cobain. Except you won't cheat on me with other rock stars and we won't chase the dragon and I won't blow my brains out."
"You aren't really a talent scout for MGM. So what are you?"
"I'm not sure. Today I'm your playmate. Say playmate, can you come out to play? And bring your dollies three, climb up my apple tree. Slide down my rain barrel, knock on my cellar door. And we'll be jolly friends forevermore."
"Oh my god. I haven't heard that song in years! My mom used to sing it to me while she was combing my hair."
"My mom sang it to me, too. Seriously, I'm just your average UCLA film school drop-out. I work at a record shop part-time. I could get you a job there, if you want."
"Is it one of those funky independent record stores that also sells incense and Jim Morrison posters?"
"You called it. The owner is a good friend of mine."
"Then yes, I'd love to work there."
"What kind of music do you like? You can't work there if you like the Monkees or Steely Dan."
"Oh, please. 'Daydream Believer' is one of my favorite songs, though. But I really like the Doors, Jimi Hendrix, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Clash, the Ramones, the Church, Lou Reed, Billie Holiday, Otis Redding, Ozzy Osbourne and Freddy Fender."
"Who the fuck is Freddy Fender?"
"I guess he's not too well-known outside of Texas. He's country slash Tejano. He sings 'Wasted Days and Wasted Nights,' the story of my life. You'd like him. He wears his heart on his sleeve."
"Well, I'm glad he figured out a way to get paid for it. As it is, I'm running out of Spray-n-Wash."
Starla laughed and threw her arms around Lloyd. She suddenly felt spontaneous and giddy and five years old. And acting was the furthest thing from her mind.