Los Angeles Paz
Los Angeles Paz
8:38 a.m. (Pacific Daylight Time)
It’s been one year since we moved from New York to a neighborhood in Los Angeles called Miracle Mile, and I gotta say, it
hasn’t lived up to its name.
An angry, late-night Google search taught me that this part of LA is known as Miracle Mile because of its once “improbable
rise to prominence” from a dirt road to million-dollar properties. I don’t know the first thing about building buildings except
that it’s gotta be hard. But can it be harder than rebuilding my reputation after killing Dad? Isn’t it harder for me to rise
to prominence than all these museums and restaurants and parks? And would it be so hard for someone to give me a miracle so
I can get my life back on track?
Mom calls our home a miracle. She leased the place off Zillow before we even moved out here, and it was love at first sight: a single-story, white-bricked Spanish colonial house with the clay-barrel-tiled roof that all our neighbors have; two bedrooms, which we desperately needed after squeezing into Rolando’s apartment for years; a tiny but big enough backyard that Mom loved when it was greener and not looking like its own dirt road; and it’s walking distance to all those miraculous museums and restaurants and parks, which was great since we didn’t have our car yet. Mom believes the biggest miracle of all was when the original owners decided to sell to her in December, but I think the true miracle was that they didn’t have her and Rolando evicted for housing a killer.
To get to the casting office sooner, I cut through the La Brea Tar Pits even though I hate the smell of sulfur. The first
time I heard about the tar pits I thought it was gonna be so much cooler since it’s the only Ice Age fossil site in an urban
city, but it’s basically just a park with models of prehistoric animals getting stuck in the very real bubbling tar. On the
suicide survivor forum, Edge-of-the-Deck, I read about a man who tried killing himself in the tar pit, but it took so long
for him to sink that he changed his mind and fought his way out. I’ve looked into a lot of ways to die, but that’s not something
I would do after my first failed attempt. It needs to be faster with no time to second-guess myself.
This whole thing makes me want a cigarette.
Most people quit smoking in January, but that’s when I started. The holiday season is always depressing, but this last one was the worst in years. I couldn’t go on my secret Instagram without seeing happy families dressed in their holiday sweaters or go on TikTok since the feed was flooded with gift unboxings. Meanwhile we had another quiet Christmas with a simple tree that I hated decorating because I can never get through that holiday without remembering the times I sat on Dad’s shoulders to put the star on our tree. Then on New Year’s, after Mom and Rolando shared their midnight kiss while I stood alone as usual, Mom got down on one knee and asked Rolando to be her life partner. I didn’t know she was going to propose or that Rolando could cry from happiness. Knowing that Mom felt safe enough to marry Rolando after being so scarred by her relationship with Dad was beautiful, but it also made me feel even lonelier.
That’s when I started smoking to help take the edge off. Sometimes when I’m smoking, I picture my pink lungs blackening with
every inhale, just to remind myself why I’m still doing this even though I hate the taste and smell. This isn’t me being rebellious,
Mom and Rolando still have no idea because I cover my tracks with the mints and the extra shirt I usually carry on me. I smoke
because I’m chasing death. Smoking isn’t the fastest way to die, but if dying is gonna be a long game, then I need to play
as much as possible to win.
But I’m not gonna smoke right now. I gotta be fresh and need healthy lungs for this role I’m gonna book.
Once I exit the park, I take a left on Sixth Street and go up Fairfax, where the Academy Museum of Motion Pictures is under
construction. Before this callback, I swore that I would never be given a chance to achieve something worthy enough to be
featured in this Death Star–looking building, but we’ll see.
A couple blocks down, across the street from the Writers Guild, I arrive at the Hruska Casting office, where I’m hoping to
make a name for myself.
A better, different name for myself.
“Checking in?” the clerk asks.
“Howie Medina,” I lie.
I’m sent to the waiting area upstairs.
Look, I love my name, but that docuseries was watched by hundreds of millions of people, and there aren’t exactly hundreds
of millions of Paz Darios running around the world. I needed a new identity if I was gonna have any shot of booking my dream
role. So I’m honoring my roots with Mom’s maiden name as well as the actor Howie Maldonado, who died in a car crash three
years ago. Howie played Scorpius Hawthorne’s evil rival, but when I was on set playing his character’s younger version for
the flashback scene, he couldn’t have been chiller. He even testified as a character witness in my trial (not that anyone
would know, since the docuseries apparently excluded anything that would make me look good). I legit believe Howie would like
that I’m representing him through my stage name.
I exit the elevator, and there’s another guy in the waiting area. He’s dressed in all black like me, but he’s gorgeous, with
natural blond hair, the brightest green eyes, a sharp chin, and lean muscles. He must usually get booked off his headshot
alone. The guy—my competition—politely smiles, and he has a goddamn dimple.
“How’s it going?” he asks in a voice deeper than I thought, like he might look young but he’s older than you’d think, which
is perfect for the character. I hope to everything that he can’t act, not that it matters in Hollywood when you’re this hot,
but I’m screwed if he’s legit.
“I’m good,” I lie as I take a seat on the opposite couch. “You?”
“Excited. I’m Bodie.”
“Pa— Howie,” I say, clearing my throat. “Howie.”
“I’ve been wanting to do a big fantasy movie. I can’t wait.”
It’s almost like he thinks he’s booked it already. Maybe that smile wasn’t polite. Maybe it was victorious because he doesn’t
see me as real competition.
“It’ll be epic,” I say, like the role is mine.
He squints, sizing me up—or trying to recognize me. “Have you acted before?”
Yeah, in the biggest fantasy franchise of all time, motherfucker is what I wanna say.
“Just a small role” is what I actually say.
That seems to give Bodie some relief.
“You?”
“A few things,” Bodie says, like he must have some booming IMDb page. “But I’ve never been the star of anything. This project
seems like it’s going to be huge.”
“Yeah, it’s based on a bestselling book. You should check it out.”
“It’s like a thousand pages.” He shrugs. “I’m going to put my own spin on the character.”
As a fan, I already know I would hate watching his interpretation. “Good luck with that.”
The door opens, and an assistant lets Bodie know the casting director is ready to see him.
“Thanks,” Bodie tells us both, stepping inside with his shoulders held high, like he’s about to claim his destiny.
This adaptation deserves actors who give a shit about the source material. Someone like me.
Golden Heart is an epic love story between the Immortal and Death. It’s about this once-nineteen-year-old, Vale Príncipe, who falls into
an unmarked grave while staring at a total eclipse, and when he climbs out, he’s been graced with a golden heart that grants
him immortality. He spends his long and lonely life caring for others, particularly the sick and the dying. Throughout the
first century of his immortality, Vale is visited by Orson Segador, the latest incarnation of Death, who doesn’t understand
why Vale won’t die. They get to know each other whenever Orson appears to claim the souls of Vale’s companions. Then Orson
starts mysteriously dying, and he needs Vale’s golden heart to survive and reap souls as the natural order demands. That’s
when it gets wild because the Immortal has to choose between letting Death die so all the sick and dying he tends to can be
graced with immortality too or surrender his golden heart to save the only soul he’s ever loved, even if that means the Immortal
has to die so Death can live.
The novel is so damn epic and gonna make an amazing movie and break millions of hearts. The scene where Vale discovers he’s immortal is gonna be the first scene that does people in; it definitely got me. Basically, Vale returns home from his first date with a boy who once tended to his family’s garden, and when he shares the news with his parents, Vale’s father beats him to death. Except not really. Vale awakens during a terrible storm as his parents are dragging him through the woods and toward the ocean. They’re shocked to discover he’s alive, and his mother questions where all his bloody cuts have gone, but the father shakes it off as nothing but the rain washing everything away. The father ties Vale’s hands behind his back with fishing wire, stuffs his pockets with stones, and casts him off a cliff. Vale plummets through a crashing wave and tumbles around in the ocean before sinking. Minutes pass, and Vale knows he should be out of breath, but somehow he’s surviving . . . then he sees Death for the first time. Death is nothing but a dark, skeletal-shaped blur at first, and he swims around Vale, waiting for him to die, but Vale keeps living against all odds. He breaks free from the fishing wire, ditches the stones, and swims back to the surface, where the storm has cleared and the sun is bright and Death is gone.
The actor playing Vale needs range, which I think I got, but not only has Vale already been cast by a young movie star, it’s
also not my dream role.
I’m auditioning for Death.
The first time I read the book, I felt so connected to Death because he was feared and viewed as nothing but a soulless soul-taker
and an enemy to living beings. But then that connection deepened when Death’s backstory gets revealed. He was once a boy who
chose to die by suicide, and since he chose death, that’s what—who—he became when he killed himself while staring at the same
eclipse that made Vale immortal.
A suicidal soul that’s treated like a killer? Yeah, I was born to play Death.
I also have another deep connection to this book. I sorta know the author, but it’s very complicated.
The author, Orion Pagan, is alive today because he fell in love with a guy, Valentino Prince, who literally gave him his heart
on the first End Day. He wrote this novel to keep his memory alive.
I also met Valentino on Death-Cast Eve, when he moved into the old building my dad used to manage. I only got to talk to him
for a couple minutes, but he was a really nice guy. Brave too.
I’m getting anxious, like I’m about to mess up or I won’t be good enough. I try focusing on the audition sides, but my nerves
are too damn strong, the words are blurs. There’s so much riding on this audition, it’s literally life or death for me. It
should feel like a win-win scenario because if I don’t get this, I get to go die. But I’ve read enough stories on Edge-of-the-Deck
to know that it isn’t that simple, especially since no one has ever proven Death-Cast wrong and I’m gonna have to be the luckiest
person in the world to be the first one—and my life has been anything but lucky.
The door opens, and Bodie steps out with a smile. “Have fun,” he tells me before heading to the elevator.
Is he telling me to have fun playing Death while I can because he just locked down the role? I can’t let this get to my head,
but when the casting assistant calls me in, I’m one hundred percent letting this get to my head, even though I shouldn’t because
I knew I wasn’t the only one auditioning; I just didn’t think I was auditioning against a more experienced actor who looks
more like Orson fan art brought to life than I do.
I should just leave now.
No, I gotta do this. I can’t write in my suicide note that I gave it my all if I don’t even try. Honestly, what’s the worst
that can happen? It’s not like I can get sadder than I already am.
I show my anxiety what’s what and go inside. I hand the casting director, Wren Hruska, my headshot and résumé, which lies
about my name, work experience, and representation. I’m super confused, though. The studio is very familiar to past auditions—table
for the casting team, tape on the floor for my mark, camera set up on tripod, soft box lights—but this isn’t a regular audition,
it’s a chemistry test with the other actor, but I’m the only actor in the room. Did something change? Is the casting director
or her assistant reading the scene with me? Was I supposed to bring in a monologue? Did someone email an update to the fake
account I made up for my fake agent?
Or maybe Bodie really got cast on the spot.
“Are we still doing the chemistry test?” I ask, looking around.
“Yes, Zen is changing. His other shirt was washing him out,” Wren says. “You’ll be on the green mark this morning.”
I go stand on my mark, relieved that I’m still in the running.
A door opens, and the young movie star, Zen Abarca, steps out of the changing closet in a black turtleneck that’s perfectly tight against his pecs and arms. His muscular build comes from years playing Agent Early in the Young Smiths movie franchise about teenage spies. Yeah, he’s gorgeous, but he can genuinely act, and I’ve watched tons of interviews where you can tell he loves the craft. I also believe Zen was born to play Vale. He’s openly gay, has sun-kissed skin, messy hair as black as the oily tar in the park, and even the bags under his blue eyes suggest he’s lived a long life while still being youthful.
Then someone else comes out of the changing closet wearing a baggy white cashmere sweater, blue jeans, and dark books, his
brown curls sneaking out from under his faded Yankees fitted cap. I’m both starstruck and panicking at the sight of Orion
Pagan.
There’s a lot of reasons I’m perfect for the casting of Death, but there’s one huge reason why I might not be welcomed anywhere
near this project.
My dad wasn’t just Valentino’s landlord. He was also his murderer.