“You’ve got a light?” To her credit, her tone is neither condescending nor forced in its ordinariness. It is what it is; just how the woman, a stunning starlet, can only be what she is: Hollywood royalty. The lady sovereign is asking him for a light. He can do that.

“Sure-er.”

The way she gently, almost not at all, takes the hand holding the lighter, while never breaking her gaze, is obviously practiced; but it works perfectly, as always. The driver, as free from illusion as one would ever want to be, cannot help but feel the calculated tingle filling his stomach and groin. They course with an electric current, conducted through the infinitesimal tap of a screen goddess upon the lowly ranch-hand of Fresno.

The starlet recognizes her effect all too well. She enjoys the driver’s reaction, try as he might to hide it, with knowing eyes. They flash with corneas of smooth, brown marble. A smile comes to her lips. They part imperceptibly, and a rush of misty blue smoke comes dancing out. The cigarette smells of heaven, or closer yet, honey mixed with vanilla. A man would kiss those lips just to get a taste of that divine scent. The driver’s heart leaps. It whispers “Paula”, as a reflex, but his mouth has never watered, as it does now, at the smell of laundry powder wafting from his fiancée’s stringy hair.

The driver knows to walk away. There’s nowhere else this encounter can lead and he may as well save himself from any foolish hopes; or fantasies, more like it.

He thinks of how he had excused the exemplary woman for her initial comment, reminding himself that she is only human. “Well, arent’ah human too?” Not just human, but a flesh and blood man. “An’ wat’she?”; beneath the perfectly kept-up exterior, of course.

Against the driver’s best intentions, a picture of the woman’s genitals comes into his head. They are not vulgar and sticky like most. He sees the partial split of a nascent bud. It has the burning, plastic flamingo type of pink that he has never actually seen in nature, let alone in such a complex flower. Its petals, though sure to be delicate, have a fleshy appearance as if one could bite into them and juice would flow out: a fruiting flower, this rare and softly curved specimen. The driver would part the lips slowly, to release the same honey-and-vanilla fragrance, only this time it would gush out in a sweet musk, not smoke, and envelop him so that he would never want to leave.

All of this invades the driver’s mind while the woman replies, “thank you.” It’s the clearest he’s ever heard those words pronounced. They leave a ring in the night like an old church bell over a cemetery, when no one is around to hear.

Las Vegas twinkles out there, in the not-so-great distance. It tells the driver there is something he is supposed to discover -somebody or something wants him to discover it- as he stands here at this balustrade, on a perfectly clear night. Perhaps there’s a hidden code being transmitted through the wobble of the city’s lights, as they get caught in the waves of heat escaping the Earth. Searching the horizon, reading the blinking lights, the driver has to ask, “What? What is it?” That’s when he feels the presence at his side.

“Beautiful, no?”

She is. Flowing silk locks spill out in perfect ringlets from beneath a tipped-back hat. Her glossed lips sparkle just like the city in the distance. She has the untouched look of someone who does not go out, but spends her time inside at the continual care of experts. The driver believes a gust of the dry wind may blow the whole façade away.

He does not turn his gaze from the view over the city. The intonations of her scent, however, cannot help but draw his attention. Unmistakable and almost imperceptible, it’s like three or four petals left out in the rain. It tells the driver that this woman, whichever one of the well-known names, never steps down into his world; for anything, let alone to ask his opinion on the view. If someone like him were assigned to fix her car, or any other mechanical accessory invented to ease her life as much as possible, he would never enter into her consideration. She would merely mention it to an assistant -not even her husband, though the absence of a ring says she doesn’t have one- and the order would be passed down through the established network until if was finally barked as command, complete with deadline and the bosses growl “do it now! It’s for so-and-so”: a Name he’s heard everywhere, but might as well be the Viceroy of Hindustan for all he cares.

That’s why he takes the supposed question as a slip in this Somebody’s veneer. She is human, after all, and that’s what humans do: they reach out to others. It’s just that sometimes they misjudge who is and who isn’t fair game. He should just ignore it and save them both the embarrassment of having to negotiate, and inevitably fail, the untranslatable divide between a Name and a mere stand-in for somebody, or nobody, else. It’s too late.

The driver catches a whiff of chilled seafood mixed with steaming meats and greens. A mound of snow-crab legs is dumped out over a bed of shaved ice before him. It looks like the tangle of a multi-limbed space creature. The driver wastes no time in lunging for the pink tubes poking out at every angle. The teenager spots his posse in the corner. The two, unnoticeably to each other, go their separate ways.

Having had his fill of exotic seafood, prime cuts of steak, and more sickly sweet cocktails, the driver steps out onto a wide-open veranda, crowned at its edge by towering palms. It descends onto different levels of pools, each connected by waterfall. The water is aglow with a warm turquoise, and the surface froths with delicious bubbles where one pool spills into the next. At the very bottom, the water collects into a dimly lit grotto, shrouded by ferns as large as a car. From there, it’s anybody’s guess as to where the rocky lagoon leads.

The driver takes a large gulp of the humid, chemical smell. In his lungs, it forms an odd combination with the dry desert air. It tickles until he coughs. He climbs the veranda to its crest, where it peaks forty feet over a ridge. Ahead are the twinkling lights of Las Vegas, like a miniature and newly formed star system. They are so clear, they look like as if they can be grabbed, if only he could reach out just a little further over the railing.

The driver leans on the balustrade and reflects: it’s the tranquil times like this that makes the driver want to celebrate with a cigarette. He reaches into his front pocket. The box is there, just as he thought it would be, but he decides to overcome the urge. Sure, nothing adds to those rare, calm moments in life –where all the storm clouds happen to part, if only for a second, to tease with a glimpse of something greater, something worth slogging on for- like a cigarette; but he realizes that this moment is different. The way everything has come together -the discovery of Paula’s body early this morning; the split decision to take off on the road right away; the hitchhiker; the sloppy heist and subsequent chase back in Las Vegas; and now this glimmering party- it won’t let him shake the suspicion that it has all led up to this moment for a reason. The driver also suspects that this is the most tranquil and lucid things are going to be for quite some time. Dare he enjoy it?

The hitchhiker still owes Smokey his cut of the loot. Technically, they are out of Las Vegas proper; but he’s not sure to what extent standing out amidst a celebrity’s party counts as cover.

Looking around, there seems to be a good amount of Grade A tail, as well. The hitchhiker decides that the Hollywood life is one he can enjoy, if only for a night. Picking up on the scent of possible mischief-to-be-had, the hitchhiker strays from the other two, who don’t notice anyway. They, too, are equally absorbed in observing the goings-on around them. The luxury -and the way these people can’t even see it, because it is their norm- is utterly alien. It tells them that neither one should be there.

Neither of them rank anywhere near the social or economic heights that would enable them to imagine, let alone understand, soirees such as this. The driver’s skin color entitles him to certain luxuries that the black teenager –all black teenagers and by extension, all blacks- would never dream of; but class renders them both outsiders here. The two have known exclusion as a way of life, but the similarity ends there.

The driver exiled himself from the factory-bound routine of working-class security because its family life is dysfunctional, often unbearable, and he refused to have the same for his children. The teenager, on the other hand, could be the story of black America itself; in that the only sentiment lavished on him is scorn, and all he is ever given are the scraps no one else is willing to eat. Unlike the driver, the teenager’s problems can hardly be remedied by simply picking up and moving to another state. First: his livelihood has already been established here in Las Vegas, and for a person facing such little life opportunities, a shot at some dough, no matter how it’s earned, can not be passed up for anything else. Second, and more damningly: his mortal failure is etched into his skin, on his body, and is therefore certain to replicate itself wherever he goes.

The gulf between two –the driver and the teenager- is as impassable as that between the Negro’s shack and the blue-collar cottage. When the driver stands next to the teenager, that’s as close as their worlds get. The virtue of being outsiders does not make them allies, and their convergence of paths has just about spent its purpose.

The food is piled high on platters. The driver thinks of the last bit of food he ate, a pitiful apple, on the ranch late last night. The hitchhiker thinks of the disgusting “nigger food” he was offered at the illicit club, and hatred burns in his belly. The teenager hasn’t eaten since this morning. He wouldn’t dare to even think of touching the food in this rich, white person’s party. Although no one has eyed him, which in itself is disconcerting, he is too ingrained with the severe restrictions on the behavior of a black person, when found in the company of anybody other than other black people. His momma would laugh, and then yell, if he ever told her where he was this evening. Even the servants are white (and not necessarily poor).

The hitchhiker decides to wait until he has separated from the driver and the teenager before he digs in to the leg of lamb, just set down on a table and steaming in its own juices. The smell makes his stomach grumble as his tongue wells up against the roof of his mouth. The driver unabashedly grabs at a pile of lobster tails and sucks the meat. He continues his stroll and passes casual glances around the room, as if he didn’t have the sizable hunk of pink-red armor sticking out of his mouth: the strange pacifier of the black-tie set. The teenager looks at a ransacked and discarded tray of crackers and hunks of cheese. His hand unwittingly reaches toward it, but the pangs of guilt -actually a complex grab-bag of emotions based upon the blacks’ hatred of their own stereotype, combined with the constant fear of fulfilling it- keep it from going any further.

The hitchhiker spies the black band, about six or seven “smokeys”, including Smokey himself, in the corner. They look more impressive in their eggplant and taupe suits here -under lights so brilliant, they seemingly come from nowhere, and everywhere- than they did in the darkened club. They stand huddled in the same semi-circle formation that they always fall back into as a default. No one says anything in particular, but they are content to merely look around and take in the scene that couldn’t be more opposite to what they are used to. Smokey has on display his usual look of a proud owner: even though he may not know a single soul in this room, he can still gaze out upon it as if everyone here is working under his auspice, even if they do not yet know it.

Inside the main room, if that’s what it can be called, there are too many levels and walkways and mezzanines to count. Each one is filled with people, dressed in what the couture-oblivious trio can only assume is the height of fashion, or what passes for it on the western coast of America in the late 1940s.

Colors would appear to be out. In that sense, the clothes match the manor’s minimalist décor. The women wear many varieties of black and white patterns. In very tight and sheer dresses, enormously brimmed hats –one sprouting a two-foot long black feather- and modestly long skirts for the few older women dispersed throughout the crowd. The females of the party have somehow managed to combine haute couture with understatement, a feat remarkable in itself.

The men are more predictably attired in boring but very expensive suits. All the imaginable shades of navy are represented, along with a few colorful candy-stripes and an army of white sports coats. Those are the servants, carrying dazzling silver trays with every delicacy of hors d'oeuvres. Neckties and pocket handkerchiefs offer a little more in the way of character, while a good number of flamboyantly puffed ascots –usually tucked into a deep maroon or cherry smoking jacket- are meant to signify the dandies among the crowd.

Cigars, strong and aromatic, are the accessory of choice for men. Some women –and a few of the more questionable men- flaunt long cigarette holders while barely ever seeming to take a puff. The air inside is remarkably clear and dry, though there aren’t any signs of fans or vents. One of the oldest men handles a cane with an ornately jeweled knob. It sparkles from across the room, and from anywhere else one may venture within the house.

The hitchhiker is quick to grab a heavy bottle of Champagne from an ice bucket. Anywhere else it may have been deemed a ballsy act, but here, every surface is adorned with colorful bottles, sleek glasses, and enormous lopsided decanters filled with vintage wine. The alcohol is all carelessly poured into glasses from which two sips may be taken before being discarded in favor of a different drink, and so on. The driver allows himself to be poured a colorful fruit juice cocktail, while refusing the elaborate peeled-fruit garnish, from a server who has the same practiced air of contempt as the drivers outside. The teenager doesn’t want to make a fuss -or attract attention, as hard as that is proving to be- so he is happy to grab a half-empty beer bottle and suck from that.

They all turn towards the two and a half men, however, as they finally work up the motivation to trek up the hill. The chauffeurs remain quiet, but share an identical expression of an almost angry perplexity; as if the driver, the hitchhiker, and the black teenager pose a threat to their citadel of comradely disregard for one another. The three stand out even more due to their lack of the requisite navy uniform, medallion cap, and black leather gloves pulled tight and crinkly around the palms.

The driver attempts an ironic smile, but it won’t stick. The hitchhiker tries to stare each driver down, but it’s hard when none will meet his eyes. The teenager merely watches his feet, his expensive leather loafers sticking in the mud. Their squelch squelch squelch are the only noise besides the distant party clatter to accompany them up the remainder of the walk uphill. He’s not wearing socks and the dark mud is crusting around his dark ankles. He consoles himself with a shake of the head and a reminder that if he works hard and does as he’s told, then he will someday become another Chantilly Laforge, or even bigger. The thought should make him smile, but it fills his stomach with a quavering chill. “Chantilly Laforge”: the words don’t dare ring through his head, but plunge deep into his marrow, where he can feel them at once giving his bones strength and filling them with ice.

The man-sized boy assumes this is what it must feel like to have a father: the perfect and horrifying combination of fear and respect. The result manifests itself in pure aspiration. Yet he is humble enough to recognize that he has a long way to go before he can fill those shoes. A few more steps up the main path, then a staircase into the entryway, and the soles of his feet are already slippery with muck.

The driver is getting over the chill lavished on them by the chauffeurs. He expects the reactions from the party guests to be even worse. That’s why he is surprised when not a single coiffed head turns to inspect them –not even a split second stutter in conversation- as the dingy trio makes their entrance into a blindingly white marble foyer. There are no markings, decoration, or furniture to distinguish ceiling from wall, nor wall from floor, except for a metal contraption hanging down in many different semi-cylindrical pieces. It hangs down three stories, or half the height of the entire house. It must be a lamp of some sort, though it’s hard to tell where the light is supposed to come out from, if there is any at all.

The walls are bottom lit in a diffused glow, though there appears to be no source for those lights either. The hitchhiker is dumbfounded, even if he were inclined to comment on the interior layout. He has never been in a room so white before. He wonders if it is supposed to simulate the entrance to heaven. There are two doors ahead of them; one to the left and one to the right.

There is no sound in the pickup except for the constant whistle of wind flitting by the window. Looking at the warm lights emanating from the Meriwether chateau, the hitchhiker can imagine the good-humored conversation lilting evenly, above and below, the gentle clinking of glassware. Above it all rises the hearty, assured laugh of a man confident in his business –the movie business, undoubtedly. Joining him might be the laughter of a woman: lighter and more self-aware, lest it seem too ardent. Together they form the natural call of Hollywood. (Hollywood, of course, does not merely denote the string of studios and production offices that line a particular Los Angeles valley, but is inclusive of the sixty-person yachts, Park Avenue mansions, and even here: perched atop a desolate hill nineteen miles from Las Vegas’s hallowed strip, a habitable sculpture of scrap metal and jagged glass).

Someone had to shell out serious studio money for a house that looks like a giant replica of a car crash; but it, or its inhabitant, is deemed worthy enough by the right crowd to draw out the Big Names from similar abodes jutting out from the hilltops over Los Angeles. This particular modernist marvel, however, is about to be descended upon by an unlikely trio in a battered pickup. In actuality, they are ascending, since the pickup has turned off onto a muddy driveway –though it hadn’t been raining- and is laboring to navigate the winding path uphill.

They come to a point where there are a number of cars blocking the way. They are all luxury sedans. There isn’t a single spec of dirt on any of them, despite the virtual mudslide that serves as a driveway.

The three are out of the car, but each stalls in his own way. No one wants to be the first to come upon…whatever it is that awaits them within this seemingly inside-out house. The hitchhiker stretches, with a labored “grrrrrrraaaaaahhhhh”, and the teenager simply stares.

“They otta pave the sonnofabitch. Or at least put some gravel down,” the driver thinks as he inspects the sides of his pickup. He can’t even see the paint. It is an even shade of shit-brown mud.

Some of the cars have drivers leaning against them, or else they are busy polishing the chrome with a rag. They don’t acknowledge each other except for the requisite nod and ‘mmmmhhhhh’. The hitchhiker isn’t all-too-familiar with the protocols of hired help etiquette, but he assumes that these chauffeurs to the rich and renowned are forbidden from talking to one another.