The muffled crashing and thumping of car doors
outside the old Hollywood building hid the sound of the rain. People
in dark trench coats, and buttoned up wool sweaters ran inside the
blood red double doors. As they entered they shook their umbrellas
of the moisture, and tried to get a seat. The walls on the inside
of the room were pealing of their brown paint. The cracks were either
painfully visible, or covered by posters of Tennessee Williams,
Stanislavki, and Kazan. There were three rows of lights on the yellow
ceiling that made the rain on everyone's jackets sparkle. All the
people waited patiently in the creaky red seats, to see what was
going appear on the stage.
When the lights dimmed the mumbles from the crowd ceased, and silence
and dust floated on the air. A young man in his early 20s came on
stage. His hair was blonde and sticking in varied directions, his
eyes were barely visible, and he didn't move a muscle. He then lit
a cigarette, and puffed in and out the gray blue smoke. He then
lifted out a crinkled letter from his pocket. A wave of nervousness
came from the crowd until the boy spoke. His voice was very low
and everyone had to lean in to hear him. "I don't like it here.
I don't like people here. I like it home (N.Y.) and I like you and
I want to see you." The audience was captivated.
Outside the smell of old rain, and ladies perfume hovered above
the people. The street lamp had just turned on, and the city was
moving. The rain had stopped and the few figures that were on the
street rushed to get home before it picked up again. The theatre
itself was only a street distance away from residential homes, and
gaited communities of the late 50s. All outside was peaceful, all
outside was calm, but inside a new feeling was growing, a feeling
of anger, confusion, and rebellion.
The boy was almost finished with his letter. "I'm sad most
of the time. Awful lonely too. (I hope you're dying) BECAUSE I AM."
The audience was silent. The boy without even looking into the crowd,
finished his cigarette, took the note and stuffed it inside the
pocket of his denim jean pants. He walked off the stage a little
hunched over, and put on his necessary brown glasses. The audience
at once started to comment on the boy's performance. Teachers could
be heard praising him, and others condemning him, but all would
forget it in an hour or so. Everyone moved into cattle like formation,
and proceeded out the blood red doors into the damp Hollywood air.
They all got into there cars, and headed for home sweet home.
James Dean stood in the parking lot, finished a beer, and tossed
the bottle up at the cloudy gray sky. He laughed to himself as it
crashed back down into the pavement. He then lit another cigarette,
and drove off down the dimly lit road.
Taylor Horsley will be attending Humboldt University
in the fall as a junior and will be studying English literature.
She loves finding obscure information having to do with history
of music and old movies. She writes songs as well as poetry and
short stories and hopes all the knowledge she accumulates will be
put to good use.