Enrique Viramontes is a Mexican immigrant who has come to Los Angeles in search of a better life.
Marshall Cromwell is a returning war veteran who has come home but leaves his small town to become an actor.
At first, the two get off on the wrong foo...
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Enrique
I've lived in Tinseltown for about a few weeks at this point. I've yet to hear about any casting calls. And majority of those casting calls that I have seen require whites or are given to already shining stars.
I've been working at a diner for a while. Business is quick, seeing as how close this diner was located to the iconic Metro-Goldwyn Mayer studio. So it was constantly busy.
Some moments here and there were very uncomfortable. Some women, and men, would touch me in places that I didn't enjoy. Some would whisper that I had the body of a Greek god. And some would say that I could become an ecdysiast as they say. And while I was flattered, it's not what I wanted.
I want to be a star.
It was an ordinary day when I began to walk home after my shift. Along the way, I walked through Wilshire Boulevard. In the distance, I witnessed showlights illuminating the night sky as the sunset dimmed the day. It was time for the stars to shine.
I stopped when a paper on the floor interrupted my steps. It was a flier which fell off from God knows where. Its bright red color intrigued me. I bent down and picked it up.
'LOOKING FOR ACTORS: Must be foreign or exotic looking.'
I mentally palmed at the request for exotic people. In Hollywood terms, exotic means anyone who is of color. Hispanic, black, Asian, Arabic. All qualify under the term "exotic".
Hey! I fit the criteria. This is it. This is the sign for me. I can finally get the shot that I was meant to take. I checked the date for the casting call. It was for tomorrow in the morning. I stuffed the paper in my pocket and ran home to sleep.
The morning sun radiated through my foggy window. My hands covered my eyes as I shielded the rays. I groaned because my back ached. I turned sideways and saw a ball of crumpled up paper on the desk. My brain woke up and I leaned over and picked up the paper and unwrapped it. I read the time.
8:00 am.
I checked the time and it was 7:30. Crap! I need to dress now. I got up and dressed myself, careful to choose an outfit that will look good enough. I gel my hair and shave to look... sexy.
I ran out the house and got in my horrible car I bought off a sketchy guy a few weeks ago. The car was fine. But I'll just pretend that I didn't see a stain of blood in the back seat. The reason I don't take my car to work is because I want to save on gas and thus I walk to work.
