Goddamn, its hot as hell out. My body feels like a melting popsicle, and this metal bench is clinging to me like some sticky four year old. You know, if some scientist found out a way to purify the sweat that has been pooling under my shirt, I swear California would instantly be saved from this drought. It really would.

Has it really been that long since I wrote in this stupid journal? The last time I remember picking this thing up was when I dropped it as I was sprinting to make my flight over here. If there is one thing I hate more than LaGuardia, it has to be Hollywood. Up until two hours ago, I had lived and worked here for six years. Up until two hours ago, I had not noticed that there was small park two blocks away from the studios where I worked. But who can blame me? Hollywood has made some of the world’s biggest stars by turning them blind. 

About ten minutes ago, some lady with a small boy asked me if I had a map to spare. The mother and her son looked relatively wealthy. She had gold pin of a dove neatly stapled to her breezy, summer blouse, and her cropped ‘do nestled tightly in her hat. However, her pale-skinned son remained clasped to his mother’s skirts, his hands only turning redder as she tried to brush him off.

“This your first time in Tinseltown?” God, had I ever sounded cornier. I had only said six words and already talked like a bigshot. Despite my bastard appearance, I sensed that I was not the only one wearing a mask.

“Well, no. We lived in Santa Monica,” She said as she petted the child’s curls. So I guess that pin is real gold.

“Santa Monica? That’s a swell place. The waves are just beautiful at sunset. Just gorgeous.” I grinned as I let those sugary words ooze out of my mouth. I hope anyone who is reading this realizes how hard it is for me to look back at the sop I said and not want to nail plyboard onto my face. I’m broke as of now, but once I find something to do I think purchasing a hammer would be a wise financial step. As much as I wanted to stop, something about that kid’s stare made me feel obliged to act cheery.

“Where do you folks live now?” I didn’t expect her to turn pale as her response. The kid just continued to glare at me with icy blue eyes.

“We… live in Santa Monica. Did you not hear me the first time?” I understood something was wrong, but I was so scattered at that time I stupidly let her anger and confusion bounce back.

“Then why do you need a map?” I could feel my deeper tone vibrate in my throat.

“Forget the map. Can you just tell me where the nearest bus station is?” She kept shifting her head in different directions, avoiding eye contact like I was some pushy in-law. I was now an obstacle.

“Its about two blocks and a half south from here. Past Mitchell and Sons Studios. Do you want me to show you-”

“No. No thank you sir. I know where that is,” She stuttered. Like I was going to show her anyway. Not when I wanted more than anything for Old Mitchell and his little henchmen offspring to crash in a limo accident. Then, all of the sudden, she just stared at me. Her lips, bare of lipstick but tinted red from heavy use, tried to form words. I could hear her breath stop short as she once again looked down.

“Do you… need a quarter for the ride?” This may seem far-fetched, but ever since I abandoned Manhattan I promised myself that I would try to be the nice guy. In movies we would call this the “straight man.” It took me two days at the studios to realize that it was harder to pretend to be angry than it was to be nice.

“No thanks. I’ll be alright.” She started to walk away mid-sentence. So did I. We fake so many of our emotions nowadays, that when we actually react to something sudden and begin to actually feel, all we can either do is look or walk away.

“But mom! We don’t have a-”

“I said just keep walking dammit.

“Mom please! Just let me ask the man-”

“Tommy! Walk. Now.”

When my father died, I packed up my things and left on the next flight to California. When I listened to that boy and his mother, I just sat myself on this bench, and pulled this journal out. At least I can use that quarter to buy a new pen. I think this one is about to run out.

When I first arrived at D.B.’s doorstep six years ago, it was two-thirty in the morning. I knew very well that his insomnia turned him nocturnal, and that he was also so lazy that he answered the door two hours later. As a kid I used to call him “Nowerewolf” because instead of going about town during the night, he wouldn’t go anywhere and just read at home. It was stupid both then and now, but it killed me every time I said it. Like I would just think about it and then would be spitting all over the place with my laughter.
I knocked on his door for about a half-hour straight before I gave up and collapsed on the porch. I remember what I thought about as I waited in the cold, using my suitcase as a pillow. First, I thought about how freaking freezing it was and wished D.B. would get off his sloth ass. Second, I wondered if by climbing that giant palm tree by the side of his house I could see all of Los Angeles. Finally, I thought about a certain book that I read a long time ago.

After my therapist released me from my sessions, he made me make three promises. I guaranteed him that I would definitely follow through on one or less. Promise one was to read more books. Promise two was to not use the word “phony” in my writing. (Let me check to see if I actually kept this promise. Well, so far so good). The third promise was to establish a group of people that I felt comfortable expressing my feelings with. Since my inner school-girl had no interest in forming a clique, I took to reading books to pass the time.

I often have this reoccurring dream of getting lost in a library. It’s empty and late at night, with the waxy tables reflecting the pale glow of the ceiling lights. I climb up the stairs to the highest floor, and I walk to the furthest corner I can find. On the bottom shelf there is a dusty, ripped book that has been at this library since words were invented. I open this neglected book and read the first page, and instantly I get hooked. One day, as ditched the tour of Eagle Rock Prep in New Hampshire by hiding in their library, that dream came true.

The O’Neill’s Guide to Norse Mythology and Runes is a book whose title would make a kid like Old Ackley want to burn it in a summer bonfire. Hell, the introduction about O’Neill by O’Neill was worse than the thirty-two penciled in drawings of penises it contained. It really was. But the collection of tales it contained were absolutely beautiful. Out of a culture that survived on warfare, the arts seemed to thrive. It was amazing how the Norse imagined these gods who hated each other’s guts, but still connected them with a giant tree of life. I would have liked to see Phoebe try to pronounce this tree’s name, “Yggdrasil.” She would have shanked me with her number 2 pencil if I snickered at her, but I wouldn’t of cared anyway. I’d be happy if she’d even flinch at me nowadays.

You always have to seem proud. Every time she walks into a room its “Good job” this and “Almost there” that. At first, I was ecstatic that she was one of five girls that made the Political Science program. But after three years, she’s tried to prove herself so many times that she has completely erased who she was before.

When D.B. opened his door at four thirty, he asked me if my knuckles had started to bleed yet. I said that I had hands like the god Thor, and could throw a hammer at the speed of lightning if I pleased.

“Then why the hell are you here? Go to ‘Nam or something.” For someone who was only there for half of my childhood, he sure did know how to tick me off. He always saw me at the worst times of my life. Even when I was born did he see the nurses pump the water out of my lungs.

I don’t remember exactly what I said. I passed out on his couch right after. But somehow he interpreted it that I needed a job.

If there was any piece of advice I’d give to any Jack or Jill trying to accomplish the American Dream, don’t go into the movie business if you hate the movies. I mentioned before of my hatred towards Hollywood, but I don’t think I’ve told you why yet. Say you’re a scriptwriter. Your brother who co-wrote this script drank like a fish during the casting party last night, while you spent the night walking the cool streets, drowning in your own cigarette smoke. Your brother calls in sick to the studios, again, which means you have to enter the lion cage alone. The studio is dark and muggy. As the actors rip apart the script with razor sharp teeth and tongues, the ass director immediately stresses over the target audience. And in that dark, smoky, dense studio do the actors practice their crackling laughs and sultry voices.  

That has to be the most depressing part of Hollywood ever. All the world sees is the glitz and glamour that the phony-sensitive cameras capture. Nobody sees the drunks, brawls, breakdowns, lies, betrayals, or tears because all of that is hidden by the goddam pitch-black darkness because goddam Mitchell won’t spend any goddam money to put in new lights. And if you don’t believe me, just remember that surrounding Los Angeles is one of the driest deserts in the world.

Today we were in the middle of filming the movie I wrote. For six years I bugged D.B. to pitch my script to Mitchell and his executives. Hell, I even said that he could take full ownership of it if it got produced. At this point of my life the only sign I want to feature my name will be my grave.

I know what you are thinking. I know what you have been thinking the entire time you have been reading this journal either with or without my permission. Phoebe, despite everything I’ve done, if you happen to be the one reading this right now I just want to say that I am sorry for leaving. I am. I really am. But I chose this life because I needed a place where I didn’t have to be honest to what I really was. I really messed up my life when I was seventeen. When I worked with D.B., I thought I didn’t have to try anymore to fit in. However, this script was different than the trash I had written before. It was based on the Norse myth of the Apocalypse. Where the trolls from the north come and conquer the Aesir gods, who fight their hardest despite knowing that fate will destroy them in the end. It was epic. When Mitchell chose to produce it, for a short while I felt like I was on Cloud Nine. Until I realized that the board had only chose the pitch in order to compete with Kinograph Studios’ "Zeus the Lightning God" coming out in October.

Today was my tipping point. I walked on the set looking for where I left my jacket. I didn’t see my jacket, or anybody else’s clothes. There were the Valkryies, wearing these horns and little armor bikinis straight out of Dr. No. All blondes wearing ruby red lipstick, probably picked up last night by Mitchell’s little trolls. I was enraged. Mitchell had gone too far. 

He took the idea of a Valkryie, the epitome of a strong woman, and turned her into an American blonde bombshell. Valkryies were not supposed to be an object of sex. Valkryies were supposed to be like Phoebe. They were supposed to save you at your worst time in your life, when you can’t think of any other reason to exist on this Earth. They would come to you, in a place like that museum, and refuse to leave your side unless you came home. That was a Valkryie.

I went up to Mitchell straight away. Dan Mitchell was a man who believed that he was doing the world a great favor by flooding the movie theaters with “Happily Ever Afters.” Believe me, he was no Walt Disney. He drank more Jack Daniels than Frank Sinatra or even Jack Daniels himself did. He had three sons who lived in Vegas I think, however they came like mercenaries whenever Old Mitchell had “business” to attend to. I marched right past his secretary and his award cabinet and through his oak doors.

“Mr. Mitchell!”

“Huh? Caulfield?” His bald spot was covered in sweat. His tie was on the floor. He sure did know to put on appearances.

“Mr. Mitchell, who chose the costumes for the Valkryies!? Was it Bob? That bastard!”

“What about hawkeyes?” I knew how angry he got when he was drunk, but I think at that time I was angrier than I had ever been in ten years.

“The VALKRYIES. In my MOVIE. That ROBERT DOMINIC is directing.”

“WHAT about them?” He coughed as he responded but I could tell his anger was escalating.

“Their costumes are too… you know… revealing. Scantly. Whatever. It clashes with the character. I need them changed.” Mitchell’s face smirked at me as he turned towards the window.

“What’s wrong with a little skin?”

“Listen to me-”

“I don’t halfta listen to you, Caulfield.”

“Dan, I am trying to-”

“It’s Mr. Mitchell to you!” He staggered from his chair. The empty Jack Daniels crashed on the tile floor.

“You don’t get to walk in my office and like that and just tell me what I can and cannot do!” He was furious. And I don’t know how much of that aggression was that alcohol.

“I wanted those costumes! And there’s nothing wrong with a little artistic license so that’s that have a good day Caulfield goodbye.” He slumped over his chair and pressed his hands over his forehead and eyes.

The story of the beginning of the world in Norse mythology does not begin with nothing. It starts with a giant. He floats in space in a gap between a world of fire and a world of ice. He is alone.
I don’t know where I’m going to end up next. I don’t know when I am going to write in this journal again. I guess I can finally say to D.B. that my knuckles are actually bleeding, since I clocked Mitchell right in the nose two hours ago. I might go up north, to Berkeley to something, or I might not. All I know is that there is a big field about a mile out of town. I think I will spend some time there for a while to think things out again.

-Holden