The Marilyns' of Hollywood

       Every afternoon at precisely 4 o’clock the older women of the Hollywood Towne House descend like a flock of tired geese into the vestibule of our dated apartment building. These women, ranging from 70 to 100 with their walkers and canes are defined by the surrounding decor. An obscenely large Warhol-esque Marilyn Monroe painting presides over their space like a crumbling figure head of days gone by. The 1960s wood paneling adds another element of nostalgia to the scene; as does, I'm sure, the faded china green walls and green linoleum which I liken to melted mint chocolate chip ice cream that has been dropped in the dirt. These Marilyn's sit for roughly one hour to “discuss" the weather or the overpriced rent. I'm not quite sure. They throw around their period names like it is a Dick Tracey movie. Maud this, or Betty that. I imagine in their eyes that their conversations are full of sentences that in turn are full of descriptive words, colorful adjectives, and a few wild hand gestures. But for onlookers their conversations are hardly that. It is a discussion in slow mode...or no mode.  Their “talks" instead involve a lot of staring wistfully out at the roundabout or grunting to one another listlessly while their bodies sag into the ornate and very uncomfortable baroque chairs.
 
    I am fascinated by this world of women who have said so much in their lives and are now exhausted by it all. Many of my neighbors brusquely walk by without even so much as a breath between them.  Me, well lets just say I learned from my father, for when I enter into their walker jungle I can’t help but shout. One of the few men of my past liken my entering a room to a fishing boat that has been tossed at sea into a terrible shit storm. I can’t just pass by listlessly, I must disrupt absolutely. With the Marilyn's I do precisely that and I do it marvelously.

Before I disrupt their silent interaction I become a voyeur. I study their weathered frowns, manically frizzy or puffy hair, and slouched posture. They are bored with life....Then I gather myself and enter their lounge like a fireworks display. My favorite part is seeing their eyes go from dead to twinkling, their posture from unforgiving to straight and welcoming, and their droopy cheeks become propped into tent like smiles. They always ask “Lexie, where have you gone today!?” and most of the time I answer honestly but sometimes...sometimes when I see that their smiles are less broad or their eyes a little less twinkly I stretch the truth just a little.

“I just got back from Spain. It was amazing! I met a man named Hugo who had an unbelievably delicious six-pack and olive skin. He didn’t speak a word of English and it didn’t matter. I liked him all the same. We drank sangria every day while he gave me these incredible foot massages that made me comatose. But to be honest my favorite part was simply eating tapas while watching the European world pass me by. It was beautiful....But I am exhausted. How are you ladies?”

The Marilyn's smile and laugh and for just that brief moment feel young again. These women are my past and they are my future.

When I leave them I always peak around the corner to see how the scene has changed since I first spotted them from the roundabout. I always notice their eyes are a little bit brighter, their smiles linger, and their posture just a little less sagged. The Marilyn’s of Hollywood, if only for a few moments, had just gone to Spain.