fresh oranges for their first LA breakfast. They have a poolside room in the Vagabond Inn Motel in Glendale. They’ve slept two days without waking in the vast and unwelcoming city, firemen’s sirens bringing them ill, heavy dreams.

Here they are.

Now they have to finish the story and sell it. Find an agent, find a publisher - the movie rights, the instant glory!

The buses here seem programmed to sidetrack. So they walk. The Hollywood Sign is sunk in mist like a veil-hidden, shy child-bride. Anorexic palm trees offer no shade, billboards offer no clue.

- What now? – Oblak asks when they no longer know their way back to the motel.

The sun is too strong and the two of them are the only people on foot. There’s a large lady sleeping on the sidewalk. On her back.

- Where to? – Nasha whispers.

Actually they had a plan. Before coming here everything seemed so simple, a ten-step plan - success guaranteed. Where is it now? They must’ve misplaced it.

Cars mill about in the noon sun, gleaming like roaches’ exoskeletons. A big glazed donut in the sky. A double-decker full of sight-sick tourists


passes by. Dozens of cameras go off capturing the two of them and their contorted worried faces. Just to be on the safe side. They might be someone famous.

- Only fifty dollars, c’mon, man, you and your lady both, I’ll make you happy! – a short, skinny tran-boy with screaming lipstick and a pair of perfectly shaped boobs confronts Oblak.

- No, thank you – Nasha grabs Oblak’s sweaty hand pulling him along – We’re already happy!

They walk in silence. For hours. Counting steps, in hundreds, not having a clue as to where. The traffic lights work perfectly. The smell of fast food disintegrates the air, makes it heavier.

- We have to buy a car – Oblak thinks aloud.

- I can’t stand this sun anymore – Nasha complains.

- We should buy papers, check how are things back home.

- Let’s go see a movie.

But they just go on, legging behind their own shadows. Till they end up in the middle of the Walk of Fame.

Too tired to admire the names in the pavement – they step on their stardom… shop’s windows crammed with loud colored wigs and bordello garments. LA sundown smells of despair and


... buckets of rancid butter...