Drenched, windy days were uncommon in Los Angeles. And when they happened, all hell broke loose. The Van Man witnessed the aftermath first hand in the Silverlake neighborhood. He had a meeting that morning with a director. It was a short film gig about a man having a change of heart with a hobo. Touching. Trees were down on Lyric Avenue. A gigantic one almost took out the funky, little theatre on the corner. Big fuckin' tree, thought Van Man. Oak? Whatever, it's big as shit. Debris was strewn all over Hyperion Avenue. Or, perhaps, he mistook it for the early morning hipsters.
Van Man waited at the meeting location. A tiny breakfast joint right in the middle of Silverlake, at the corner of affectation and artificiality. Van Man sipped his four dollar, black coffee. The air was thick with pretension. He began to recite his Shakespeare.
The Bard's words flowed from Van Man's mouth. He had become quite good at hitting the T's seductively light. A woman stared at him. Maybe he, too, was artificial and Van Man stopped reciting. Or maybe she thought he was just crazy and homeless. He was, after all, wearing an old military jacket. That usually read vagrant, did it not? He began to think of the tramps that walked around talking to themselves. Could it be that they were not crazy? Maybe they were running lines, preparing themselves for their next audition. The big one. The first job interview in six years or last chance to speak with family for the rest of their life. If they killed it at the audition, it might mean they get off the streets.
Van Man enjoyed the coffee and looked out the window. An empty baby stroller toppled over while a motorcycle crashed and skidded. The biker stood from the wreckage and a mother picked up the stroller. The wind was intense that first morning of February. Valentine's Day was not far off and The Van Man did not have a date. That was common in Los Angeles.