Van Man had begun rehearsals on his twentieth show in Los Angeles. And the symmetry was eerie. His first LA show was the same play. Waiting for Godot. Or, as Lou Reed would say, Waiting for the Man. Perhaps, that was what the play was all about. Two junkies waiting in the ghetto for their connection to arrive with the fix. Van Man felt inspired by that revelation and knew how he was to approach the role.
He thought about the dream. It had become a comfort, something to liven the deadened world. But it was also something else. The dream was the only thing Van Man respected himself for. Acting kept him out of trouble. Acting washed away his past. And the craft was the one purpose he had ever known. That was the true definition of love.
When it came to crawling out of the muck, the odds would always be stacked against the poor and impoverished. Even the middle class did not stand a reasonable chance. But Van Man had a purpose. He had love. And a bad motherfucker of a van. So, the cloudy days of winter would come to an end one day and The Sun would make it's triumphant return over the city of Los Angeles. That was inevitable. One could bet all they had on that fact. The Van Man would keep filling his tank and driving towards the dream. He bet his life that the van would go all the way.