The Podcast

Chapter 32

Tuesday evening (Yesterday)

An entire swath of Hollywood Boulevard is barricaded in downtown Los Angeles as a crew of workers lay down purple carpet, piece by piece, in the late afternoon sun. Even against the backdrop of an urban, high traffic street, the preparation is reminiscent of an ancient demarcation—signifying those who are to be looked at and those who are to do the looking. In many ways, it feels rather outdated and cringeworthy, its appeal arcane.

But when paparazzi line the edges of the walkway, their cameras glittering like a trim of silver tinsel against the purple carpet, its eggplant color growing more luxurious in the evening light, punctured by the blinding of bright camera flashes, and the fans flank to bleacher stands if not willingly crushing their sternums against temporary barricades, arms outstretched in the hopes of getting a photo or a video with someone they've only ever seen in the same two-dimensional medium, it will feel something truly magical is about to happen.

As the Hollywood stars arrive, beginning with the acting equivalent of musical openers that escalate in popularity, the cacophony of fans' cheering and cameras' clicking gather like an unhinged crescendo. The more popular stars of the moment emerge against a backdrop of perfectly manufactured mania.

The stars are each instructed to make their way down the carpet, their stylists having selected outfits with the notorious purple carpet in mind. They are puppeteered by a series of handlers and hackled by shameless paparazzi, the power dynamic fluid and often inverted.

It's approximately 5:42 PM when one such star, television's up-and-comer of the moment, is first spotted by a hungry pack of devoted fans who had not been able to force their way to the front of the barricade. In lieu of their initial plan, they perch themselves up high on the bleachers for the advantage of a better view, homemade posters clutched between their hands.

"Ohmygod! There she is! Violet! It's really her! Over here, Violet! We love you!"

Clad in a skin tight yellow glittery dress with '90's spaghetti straps and a low straight line across the chest, a piece that on anyone else could risk giving tacky prom, Violet Russell's dark skin glows against the banana yellow fabric, her full breasts and fit hips flaring outward, accentuating a small, hard-earned waist threading in between. The boobs had been purchased but the rest is all natural. Everyone on the carpet is some sort of hybrid, even the heralded natural beauties like Violet.

Her movements are elegant, measured. This isn't her first rodeo. And even if it had been, Violet would have practiced in the mirror, perfecting her angles, the shape of her hips and her waist, the delicate bend of her wrist or the gentleness of a casual wave. Look left, hold, slowly move a few degrees to the right, play with the fabric of the dress, face straight ahead, hold, smile open, smile closed, swish the hair down the pack, pan right, repeat. Violet Russell is a serious actor starring as the female lead on a borderline serious show, Two Rivers. She is eager to wrap up her contract in the next year with season four and doesn't harp much on the unexpectedly early heartbreak it may cause her fans. She has her eye on a period piece audition and she isn't about to lose out on another role to her show's grueling filming schedule just because it has become too wildly popular for its own good. The writers have lost the plot, not that the fans seem to mind.

But fame without the craft doesn't appeal to Violet Russell, a sentiment not universally shared among many of her emerging counterparts.

Not too far behind Violet on the carpet, another star asserts herself for the cameras. She's both fashionably and intentionally late. Draped in an off white deep v neckline with three delicate gold chain links stretching across her exposed chest, photographers yell her name in between brusqué commands that in any other context would sound downright patronizing and rude. But here, under the veil of glamour and adoration, crudeness exists on full display without recrimination or backlash.