Things had a way of working out. That was the simple philosophy which many lived by. The Van Man was one of those people. The Monster Maker was also one of those people. The Monster Maker was a man of character with a Dr. Frankenstein soul. His purpose in life was to create. In his case, it was creatures.
Van Man and The Monster Maker had become fast friends on a horror movie set years before. At one point, Van Man had lived in The Monster Maker's crypt. A home for the wicked. An abode made for the blackest of souls. Van Man loved it. Horror was the name and The Monster Maker played the game. But LA has a way of bleeding you out while The Sun shines its deceptive rays and makes everything seem so golden. It bled The Monster Maker. He took his bride and traveled east. Florida. The home of oranges and swamps and a genuine southern charm that intoxicated him. The Monster Maker decided he did not want to make monsters anymore. He wanted to make a family. And he did.
In LA, Van Man sweated it out. His friend was gone. Much worse, however, was the dream had died for his comrade. Van Man continued on even without being quite certain of which path to take. He lived in a van. A beautiful van, but a van. He auditioned and he drank coffee and he dug dirt and he swung sledge hammers. On a Sunday, Van Man had an audition for a play by a man named Ibsen. Something that was pure. Van Man could have used something pure. But he had been on a mighty cold streak. The auditions did not come as much as they had in the heat of September and fear had set in. Am I done?, he thought. He went to the audition. It went well. They all seemed to go well.
In the east, The Monster Maker had an epiphany. The "normal" life he had taken on with the "normal" job was not what he wanted. He appreciated the life and the people who could do "normal". The world needs some normal, he thought. The Monster Maker was not "normal" and wanted no part of it. He needed his fingers to mold and paint. His mind needed to imagine the gnarly and his arms needed to create it. He was thirty-three and he had just begun. The decision was made.
In the west, Van Man earned some filthy money and philosophized about his place in the universe. The two things he did mostly. The phone rang. It was the Casting Director from the play and she offered Van Man the role he had auditioned for. He gladly accepted. He hung up and knew there was no need to doubt. He was good. And he wanted to be great. There was still time.
After some time, the phone rang again. It was The Monster Maker. Van Man listened intently as The Monster Maker made official his return to the creature creation life. They conversed for a long time and touched on a number of subjects that ranged from the moral compass of their generation to the relentless spirit of a true dreamer. It was a good talk. It was better. It was a great one. The phone call ended and Van Man felt anew. He did not feel the loneliness that comes with the chase for a dream. He knew that his friend, The Monster Maker, was still in the chase. They were in it together and they were only thirty-three.
Van Man relaxed in the back of his van. Dusk had settled into evening and Halloween approached. The Van Man had not a clue what his costume would be. But he was at ease. After all, things had a way of working out.