big risk, big reward?



               

              It is called the City of Angels, a place where few dreams come true and millions of souls are trampled. The neon lights are bright but so aren’t the hungry eyes of the masses that gaze at the starless sky at night, praying for their big break.

In LA, everybody thinks they’re someone and they never let you forget it. On my first and only trip to Los Angeles I remember being taken aback by the number of people I met who “worked” with insert famous person here. Relatively trusting in normal life, I was suddenly skeptical of every person I met. The distrust left me with a gross feeling in my stomach, unsettling, as if I were so hungry I couldn’t eat. I wondered if I could get used to the incessant name dropping and blatant lies.

One particular man passionately told me about his experience as a producer for NBC/Universal. We were on the train at Union Station when he sat across me, ready to talk. His name was Manny and he appeared to be in his mid-fifties. His dark hair was thick and though he spoke English better than some Americans he couldn’t shake his Mexican accent. “Yeah, me and Fergie,” he said. “She loves me because she knows I’ll tell her the truth.  One time…she came up to me in hoochie-mama dress. Tits hanging out, her ass wasn’t covered and she said ‘Manny, how do I look?’ You know what I told her? I said ‘Baby, you look like a hoochie –mama!! You gotta leave something to the imagination, girl. Make them want more! You know what I’m saying?”

I’m polite. I smiled and feigned interest in the appropriate places, feeling bad for the guy whose self-worth was attached to embellished relationships with the rich and famous. I wanted to believe he was telling the truth, that part of his story was real, but it was difficult to believe the man sitting across from me in dirty jeans and a Hanes tee-shirt had close relationships with Dave Matthews and Britney.  

I’ve fantasized about living in LA for years and even though I was disgusted by the dirty streets and cinder block buildings covered in graffiti, it’s a part of me. The strip-mall atmosphere and smog wasn’t enough to pollute my dream, so I have to go. Even though most people I talk to question my sanity and people who live there advise against it, I have to go. “Good luck finding a job,” said a woman I called about a sublet. “I don’t know if you know this or not but the competition for servers is high. You need a portfolio full of things you’re working on, what your goal is, pictures….and once you get a serving job, you don’t give it up. There. Aren’t. Any.” I told her I’d have six months rent saved up and she said “Well….you might be able to find a job by then,” but her voice was thick with skepticism.

Thank you, kind lady, for your advice and encouragement.

I got off the phone and panicked. Was I really that naïve? I thought that I would fly into LAX with three suitcases and my cat and find a job within a week. Maybe a month. It had never crossed my mind that this plan might not work out. The idealistic optimism that had given me the courage to go was suddenly my downfall.

I was thinking the worst. The cute apartment in a secure building became a small room on the first floor with five locks and bars in the windows. I’d spend my days aimlessly searching for a job in the miniature cities that make up LA without luck until my money ran out, no other option but to go home. It wasn’t going to happen for me. I wasn’t going to be a fashion journalist; there are millions of writers just like me who, more talented or not, have connections I don’t.

It’s sad, I think, that before I even arrive, I’m discouraged. Maybe it’s just fear that has overtaken my excitement or maybe the reality this might not work out has cut deeper than I realized because I don’t feel like myself. Maybe I know I’m doing the wrong thing but don’t care. Maybe I’m crazy for giving up everything or maybe my risk will get me everything I ever wanted.

I’ll keep you posted.