True to his word, the Greek restaurant that Michael had recommended was delicious, and during the time it took me to wolf down two massive gyro sandwiches, I didn’t even mind that my eyes still watered like uncontrollable geysers. As I paid and thanked the elderly woman who I assumed owned the place, she clasped my hands in hers and exclaimed, “Come back soon, handsome boy.”

Frankly, there’s nothing in the world better for your self-esteem than being complimented by older women. Nothing. I whistled a made up tune as I made my way to the pharmacy next door, feeling good despite an underwhelming morning and my lingering inability to breathe out of my left nostril.

I felt bad about Melanie having to clean up my office, so after I’d picked up my medication from the pharmacy, I made a stop in the candy aisle to grab something for her. Maybe it was a thinly veiled bribe, but so far, she was the only human interaction that I’d had at work aside from my brief conversation with Michael. I’d been disappointed when she’d told me that I would be the only intern (“We only had one storage room to convert,”), so I figured I should make an effort to keep her on my team. I looked around at the options, frowning at the rainbow of brightly packaged sugar, as I tried to remember what I’d seen her subtly sneaking from the candy bowl that sat in front of her. Clueless, I grabbed the first King Size option within arm’s reach and headed to the check out.  

Once outside, I ripped open the packaging of the antihistamines that I had purchased and chased the recommended dosage with a swig from the water bottle I’d also bought. I checked my cell phone idly and with forty-five minutes left of my lunch break, I decided to walk around Beverly Hills until the medication had kicked in. Wealthy housewives strolled beside me in skintight workout gear that clung to their perfectly toned bodies. A few of the younger ones shot me flirtatious looks but for the most part no one noticed me.

Something about L.A. that’s always freaked me out is the fact that aside from the hottest celebrities and their massive entourages, this city is filled with four million anonymous people. No one casts a glance at the homeless men and women that use the night as cover while they forage for empty cans in dumpsters. No one looks too long at the drug dealers selling coke to kids, despite the signs on every street corner boasting the promise that each neighborhood is full of crime watchers.

I assume the city's disinterest in the individual is a blessing when you choose to live as an unknown, but a much sadder segment of the invisible is filled with those who spend their entire lives trying to be noticed--by anyone, really. The street performers that line the sidewalks of Venice Beach paint themselves from head to foot in golden hues while pretending to be statues, and others stand on their head for hours with the hopes of being seen by passing tourists. A dollar tossed into an open guitar case, a quarter chucked at their heads to make them stop singing into a tin can microphone; at the end of the day, it all adds up to a lot of people whose lives probably fell pretty short of their dreams.

And truthfully, I hate them all.

They don’t deserve my animosity in any way, but they remind me of what I could become. Go to school, become an engineer, go to work with Dad. That’s the smart path; the path I'd follow if I wanted a surefire way to make something out of my life. Yet, I’m on that road and I’m looking for an exit ramp to a life of uncertainty.  

I’m not a stupid guy. I know the odds of making it in a town whose entire population has the dream of fame embedded in its DNA. I don’t need a flashy car or a million dollar home in the Hills to be happy, but I don’t know what I’ll do if my life accomplishment is nothing more than being a once well off kid from Massachusetts who ended up fading into the shadows of Los Angeles. It happens to so many people--here one day, gone the next.

After shaking off the glum feeling that I get whenever I try to make a decision about my career, I decided to resume practicing the role of the character that I’d made up this morning. I drew myself to my full height as I strode briskly towards a fictitious destination.

Dammit, I’m late, I silently narrated, checking my watch as I weaved through the throngs of slow moving tourists. Jessica Donnelly, this year’s It girl, was waiting for me at a café on Rodeo; she’d called me over to discuss the movie she was auditioning for later today. Apparently there were rumors the director had his mind set on some new girl in town, but we’d see about that.

I continued on like that for a while until glanced at my watch again and saw that it was nearly time to head back to work. I took a moment to orient myself towards my building, and once I was sure I was walking in the right direction, I fished a small bottle of eye drops out of the plastic bag that I’d been holding. The pills had made my head feel better, thank God, but my eyes still felt gritty and dry. It was a miracle that I hadn't lost a contact.

I twisted off the cap and tilted my head back, trying to aim the droplet of saline into my right eye. I missed horribly, and swore aloud as the eye drop made its way up my nose. I tried again with the same infuriating result and decided to give up until I could find a mirror.

The closest one hung near the exit of a parking structure, a few feet below where the sidewalk and driveway met. As I stopped in front of it, unscrewing the bottle’s cap again, I peered down the sloping mouth that formed the underground garage’s exit. I’d have to stand in the middle of the driveway to use the mirror and my limited engineering skills told me that this mirror had been hung to compensate for the blind turn that cars came around on their way out. I hesitated but figured that it would only take a minute. Besides, I could see where the speed limit was posted and at 10MPH, I doubted that anyone making his or her way out wouldn’t have enough time to see me and honk for me to move.

I tilted my head back again, this time following the movement of my hand in the oddly distorted reflection that the parking lot mirror created; it felt like I was looking at myself through a fisheye lens. When the first drop landed in my grateful eye, spreading over the irritated surface, I sighed with contented relief. I let two more drops glide in for good measure and then blinked to move the fluid around.

I’d just started working on my other eye when it happened.

The sudden crash of metal into my side sent a terrible pain through my body and I let out a startled yelp of anguish as my body went soaring upwards and landed with a sharp thud on the white hood of a BMW. I’d fallen facing the front window and I could see the driver’s mouth wide with surprise as she let out a colorful series of curses. I heard the engine die, as I lay motionless, testing each body part for permanent damage.

After I’d wiggled the last of my toes and decided that it was probably safe to move, I slid off the hood feeling dazed. Once on my feet, I turned angrily towards the driver, who by that point had exited her car and was standing a few feet away from me. I could feel her stare boring holes into my skull even from behind her dark, oversized sunglasses.

“You hit me—“ I started but she quickly gave a derisive snort.

“That’s what happens when you stand in the path of moving vehicles. Anything broken?” she demanded, hands on her slender hips.

I shook my head.

“Bleeding anywhere?”

I shook my head again and she looked me up and down.

“Good.” I stared in disbelief as the tall blonde whirled around and yanked open her driver’s side door, sliding back into her seat. Was she going to leave without even apologizing? My blood started to boil and I swiftly made my way over to her open car window.

“You could at least say ‘sorry’,” I snapped. “You could’ve killed me.”

The blonde’s face, or what I could see of it from behind her eyewear, was expressionless. “I’m sorry, but, you could’ve killed yourself,” she said coolly, jerking her thumb towards a sign that hung on the wall further down the exit ramp. The sign featured a picture of a stick figure in mid-stride, crossed out with a bright red line. Beneath the image were the words, “THIS IS NOT A WALKWAY.” 

I looked back at the girl, whose lips had drawn into a tight smile. “I’d say we’re both at fault, wouldn’t you?”

With that, she started up her car and I watched helplessly as she tapped a plastic key card against the machine controlling the barrier arm that blocked the exit. As the arm rose, she simultaneously rolled up her window and pulled slightly forward onto the dip in the sidewalk, waiting for a break in traffic so she could make a left. What was wrong with this girl? Maybe it was partially my fault, but then again, maybe this was the first sign that I was becoming one of Los Angeles’ unseen. Would she have apologized if I’d been someone that she could recognize? I began angrily pounding on her window and yelled, “Hey, stop! This is messed up.”

The girl was motionless and I saw the flow of cars driving in both directions beginning to slow. Before she could drive away, I looked around for potential witnesses to back up my story in case something was broken and I needed to file a police report. My eyes landed on a man in a baseball cap standing a few yards away. He was staring at the entrance of the building as if waiting for someone to come out, but I didn't care. A massive telephoto lens hung around his neck and I began waving at him frantically.

“Hey!” I cried desperately, and he glanced over disinterestedly. “She just hit me!” I continued. “She hit me and she’s trying to drive off, get a picture of her license plate for me!”

The guy started to shrug but then his eyes widened in excitement. He drew his camera up to his eye, snapping pictures furiously, and I let out a triumphant laugh. Now that I had proof, I turned towards the girl again to offer her the chance to apologize before I went to the cops. I was tempted to tell her, “That’s what you get for screwing with me,” but I didn’t have the chance. A swarm of photographers began crowding around her car, shoving me forward and pushing me out of the way. The bright flashes of light exploding around my head disoriented me but once the dark spots dancing in front of my eyes had subsided, I caught a glimpse of the ashen-faced blonde as she looked around wildly for an escape.

“Go away!” I heard her cry. “Please leave me alone. Don’t do this to me today, please! Please!”

“Sophie!” the photographers yelled in response to her pleas. “Sophie, look over here! Is it true? Did you really hit this guy and try to drive off?”

“Sophie, didn’t they suspend your license last month? Will this affect your court hearing?”

“Sophie! Sophie! Over here! Were you really dropped from the Kohn movie? How do you feel about the rumors that they’ve already found your replacement?”

I watched in dismay as the girl buried her face in her bony hands. The unmistakable sound of crying was audible even through her luxury car’s closed windows. I had no idea what was going on, and maybe I should’ve just walked away--a part of me felt as if she would’ve deserved to be left to the mercy of these random cameramen after being so rude. Would it really have been such a bad thing?

Yet, as I watched her shoulders heave and shudder while the photographers’ lenses drew closer and their voices grew louder, I knew I couldn’t leave. Call me a pushover, but one side effect of my dad working such long hours was that I spent most of my childhood with my mom. My dad, always the scientist and never the poet, was often the cause when Mom burst into tears, though admittedly, it didn’t take much to set her off; even an innocent remark about the meatloaf being too dry might trigger a sniffle. Slightly more socially aware than my father, it was always my job to comfort her--her, and every other girl that shed a tear within a ten-mile radius of me. Maybe that’s why even after almost running me over, I’d still rather be hit by this girl’s car again than see her so upset.

I looked around and noticed a sign listing three different streets that those parked in the garage could exit onto. Hurriedly, I began pounding on the BMW’s window again. The girl jumped and jerked around in her seat to look at me.

I began pulling on the driver’s side back seat door handle as I yelled, “There’s another exit, I can help you!”

She shook her head furiously, and I saw tears streaking down her ghostly pale face. I hesitated but then continued urgently, “You can get out on Belford, I’ll help you get back down the ramp.” She started to shake her head again and I shouted in frustration, “Come on!  Just trust me—what’s worse? Me, or these cameras?”

Her lips parted slightly and I could see that she was considering what I’d said. At first I watched in exasperation as she faced forward in her seat but then I heard the faint sound of her car unlocking. I swung the door open and dove into her back seat, pulling it shut behind me.

“Sophie!” The men outside cried.

“Sophie!” Had the number of voices doubled?

“Put it in reverse!” I ordered, “Go!”

With a weak nod, the blonde shifted gears and the car began rolling back down the sloping road. “Start turning your wheels slightly to the left,” I instructed, looking out the back window as I tried to ignore the clamoring ruckus surrounding us. “There’s a pole at the base that you’ll need about two extra feet of space to clear,”

She didn’t say anything in response, but I felt the car begin to angle. The girl let out a strangled cry and from the corner of my eye, I could see the photographers beginning to descend after us, ignoring both the barrier arm that had returned to its resting position and the sign I'd missed prohibiting pedestrians. “Hey, Sophie,” I said levelly, using the name they’d been shouting and the tone that I knew worked on my mom. “It’s going to be fine. Once we get to the bottom and turn around, they won’t be able to keep up with us.”

Again, Sophie was silent, but she must’ve realized that what I said was true because the car began picking up speed. “Angle left a little bit more,” I urged, eyeing the looming concrete cylinder that stood at the foot of the ramp. I held my breath until I saw that she was no longer in danger of colliding with it, and then exclaimed, “That’s it, you’re clear.”

With that, she shifted the car into drive and pushed down hard on the gas pedal. The tires screeched angrily as she rounded the corner I’d studied earlier and began speeding through the garage without a trace of concern for the posted speed limit. As I buckled my seatbelt and looked back over my shoulder, I saw a few of the more athletic photographers attempting to give chase. Their cameras flashed angrily and the light was even more painful to look at in the full dimness of the underground parking structure. After a hundred feet or so, however, even the most eager among them had fallen back in an unheard retreat. I sat back victoriously as the blonde in the seat in front of me deftly maneuvered her sedan through the lot until we finally emerged onto Belford Avenue.