Where Stars go to Die

I. A Girl Named Claire

            The glow of the T.V. was her light, her shining beacon in the night; that one place to turn to where everything was perfect and ended just as it should. For Claire, the T.V. was more than a piece of high-tech furniture, more than simple, cathartic entertainment; it was her teacher, her future, her life.

        She felt she had nothing to lose and so set off from her town of Lanesboro, Minnesota in the fall of 2009; but with her naïve hopes, came plenty of baggage: a backpack full of make-up to disguise her beautiful face, a set of shoes to match for every occasion, and all the designer clothes she could find; she desperately hoped these things would elevate her state of mind.

        When she left, her father was drunk again, in reprieve, at the Parkway Pub, his favorite local establishment; he loved that bar so much, his personal tab alone must have paid the monthly rent; hell, at least he paid for someone’s. And Claire’s mother, well, she was so deliberately ignorant of her family’s secular indulgences and completely oblivious to the fact that her daughter was well on her way from any sort of normal life, but then again Claire’s parents never did pay much attention to her.

        A bus ticket to Hollywood, CA was just $27.85 of the last forty dollars Claire had until she could hit the town for work; she was determined to become famous and start her new life. Her bus arrived at 10:45am local time. I was at the stop, checking out the tourists, hopefuls, and poor hipster kids.  They would move to this city with everything they could save, with such high dreams, and with so low the chance of success, it was basically a service I provided; I mean one mugging and anyone was sure to turn right around; it wasn’t even like I needed the extra cash, I just couldn’t dare see any more innocent souls sacrificed to this town. There were so many coming off of that bus that I could scam or simply swipe their pockets for cash; one flash of a knife would surely have scared half those poor people.

            That was when I saw her, carrying her Vogue like a bible, and doused in Chanel as if it were holy water, meant to ward off her many demons; my earth stopped. No amount of money from any tourist, no noble cause could get my attention now, now that she had it; and oh, did she have it! She had everything. I still don’t know if it was her pure and radiant beauty, the naivety she exhibited about the world, or perhaps it was the courage she displayed, the courage to fight the city alone; whatever it was, it captivated the hell out of me. Little did she know that the sight of life was so limited here on the streets of L.A., that even the most unwanted and hated of weeds were welcomed between the cracks in concrete, and unfortunately, the fact was the same for the people who walked above them; but she was a flower, an extravagant flower among all the thorn bushes and weeds that grew through the streets. She was a flower and I could not have her picked; I would not let her be displayed in a crystal vase on some glamorous shelf for an uncaring, unworthy audience, only to be forgotten with time.

        We never spoke that day, although the opportunity may never have come again, I just let her pass me by; I was in a trance; I couldn’t say a word. It was in that moment of delusion that I thought that maybe she’d find someone, maybe she’d land the perfect audition and become famous; I’d see her on the big screen and say, “There she is! That’s my flower, my beautiful flower! I saw her grow and bloom.” But I should have known better; I should have known that such a dream couldn’t last around here, not where the stars go to die.

She sold her boots for stilettos &

moved to the city from the meadows.

Her studio was overpriced & infested,

rundown & decrepit! However,

the view out of her window was