The Van Man awoke with a two-day hangover. An opening night, tikki hut celebration in NoHo coerced him into too many pina coladas and some fanciful concoction dubbed The Scorpion Bowl. He was finally at ease with his performance. The audience did not hate his Iago. An Iago for the van people.
The late-morning Sun burned off the June Gloom. Van Man checked his account. Near empty. The fruitless days had come. Again. No money, no job. Just the van. The headache came and went, but the lethargy stayed. That life on Easy Street, where he could always find an extra ten bucks for whatever called, was gone. It was time for Van Man to get on his knees and beg. He would beg to everyone. Everyone except Van Mother and The Hustler. I ain't gonna ask them for shit, thought Van Man as he cruised the Burbank streets and searched for a shaded spot to park in for the day. He found one.
Van Man was grateful for all the opportunities. The ones he took and the ones he squandered. His stomach grumbled. The meat in the cooler was old, but he'd eat it. Gladly. The broke days had arrived and The Van Man was so grateful for the shade. There was nothing worse than a hot, LA day inside an unshaded van.