Page 1 of Glamour and Grit

1

SELENE

The shambling mass of rotting flesh stalks the terrified blonde as she runs, screaming, through the junkyard. Ignoring the numerous paths to safety, she continues to run in a straight line.

My eyes narrow behind my aviator shades. No, no, no, this isn’t right.

“Damn it, Samir,” I mutter very softly under my breath. “You’re going to get me killed. I told you to keep the camera off the left side of your face.”

But he just keeps right on shambling, leading with his left leg. The camera zooms right in on the tiny, inch wide piece of prosthetic nose that just won’t stay down, thanks to Samir’s excessively oily skin.

“Ah well, they can fix it in editing,” I sigh.

This was the big leagues. After years of slogging away on microbudget independent films, I’d finally worked my way into a temp job on the set ofShambling Dead 6: Breaking New Ground.

The hit streaming series is big on gore, and short on plot. At least, a coherent plot. I’m not sure of a lot of things about the story to be honest. Like, who’s cutting the grass during the zombie apocalypse?And how come the guy who was the bad guy last season is the good guy this season?

It’s all confusing, but the great part about my job is I don’t have to understand what’s going on. The producers tell me they want a zombie with a putrid eye and maggots crawling around in it, I deliver that.

I’m not here for armchair critiques of the narrative, or to ruffle feathers by pointing out the obvious plot holes. I’m here to make magnificent looking zombies, bullet wounds, and the occasional severed limb.

I’m hoping my temp job will turn into a full-time gig. It would be nice to have a steady paycheck, and this franchise has legs for at least another season or three. Who knows, I might run into the right person working on this set and catapult my career to where I want it to be: big studio films.

Sure, computer generated graphics have taken the place of a lot of prosthetics and practical effects…but not all. Even the big budget movies still call people like me in for our expertise.

It’s a pretty great gig. Most people are happy for me. Not so much my brother, who thinks I should be working as a makeup artist in a fancy Hollywood salon.

The pay would be better, but I wouldn’t be able to stretch myself creatively. That’s why I heave a sigh of relief when the director yells cut and doesn’t mention Samir’s nose.

When I go to collect my pay at the end of the day, they hand me two paychecks. Frowning, I look up at the tired, elderly secretary before she can walk away from me.

“Excuse me, I think there’s been a mistake. I have two checks here.”

“Yes,” she says, lips twisted into a dry prune. “You started as liquid manpower at the beginning of the week, but they converted you to full-time special effects assistant on Thursday.”

“Wait, does that mean I have a job? Like a real job? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

She shrugs. “I’m telling ya now, ain’t I? Do you mind? My feet are killing me and I’ve only got like a zillion of these left to hand out.”

I let go of her sleeve and stare down at the dual checks. Holy shit, a full-time gig? On a hit show? I must be living right. I can buy actual groceries instead of instant ramen and canned ravioli. Time to celebrate!

My puttering, reasonably priced Honda Accord feels positively dwarfed by some of the SUVs on the freeway during my drive home. I can envision myself being run over by one of them, and the driver not even noticing.

At least the sun is gorgeous as it splashes its brilliance over LA. I remind myself that this is the big time. If you live and work in Hollywood, you have to accept the bad traffic, the crime, and the lack of non-cringe men in the dating pool.

To amuse myself through the traffic jam, I scrutinize the other drivers to try and guess what kind of products they use.

Like the Karen in the Cadillac sitting beside me. I can tell she uses a bronzer and some kind of heavy foundation under her chin, but she doesn’t do anything for her crow’s feet. I could do a better job applying makeup with one hand tied behind my back in the dark.

I’m not judging. Lord knows I’m not perfect. I’m recording information for use in my job later. I might have to do makeup on a Karen, or a washed up frat boy trying to relive his past glory. It’s important to have an internal library of these things.

Now, the man sitting on my right side is trying to look natural, but his guy-liner betrays him. As does the way his lips don’t quite match the rest of his face in color. This is a man in his forties trying desperately to look younger. And who can blame him? This is LA. The only thing people fear more than gluten is getting older.

My heart swells with sympathy for this man, an aging actor who never has quite made it but hasn’t given up on his dream yet.

I record his exact look in my mind, the way he’s trying to project strength and youth while hiding a middle-aged droop. I can’t do much for him specifically, but I can use him as a template to create a character for a future movie. It’s immortality of a sort.

When I finally make it back to my neighborhood in Eagle Rock, the sun is a fat, blurry, red marble on the horizon. Soon it will sink below the waves and LA will be bathed in darkness, only to explode into a galaxy of light.

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