Boy
I was at the corner of Sunset and Bronson when I saw him driving the car in the lane to my right. I don’t remember what kind of car, something small and dark and not very expensive. What I remember is him. He looked to be about 20, and had long, dark blond hair gathered loosely at the nape, with artistic strands falling forward along his jawline.
His neck was long, his face was pale and thin with dramatic cheekbones and large, deep set eyes. But what struck me was how dreamy and far away was the look in those eyes. I immediately decided that he was a musician and a poet, and he did indeed seem to be lost in the music that was audible from his speakers. He wasn’t unusually handsome; slender, pale young men are a dime a dozen in any college town. It was that absent, introspective gaze that threw me.
As he pulled away, I saw his license plate was Arizona, not California, and suddenly I felt an ah-ha! in my throat. Of course he was not yet a denizen of Los Angeles. I noticed him not because he was particularly striking, but because he did not have that L.A. look.
The L.A. look is alert, intent… the cool, scanning readiness of a hungry cat. Those are the people who are here for a reason, and are ever on the lookout for someone who can help them, someone to pitch their idea to, their script, their music, their talent. Their eyes assess you in a flash when you pass them by. This boy didn’t have that look yet.
But if he’s a musician, and he’s here, he’ll soon develop it, thus losing the one thing that, to me anyway, made him unique.
