“Time for bed,” I announced.
My grandchildren groaned. “Come on, Gramma! Can’t you tell us a story first?” asked one of my granddaughters, Sonya, her large eyes pleading with me. “Ple-e-ease?”
“Yeah, Gramma, we want a bedtime story,” said my other granddaughter, Helene.
“A bedtime story, eh?” I asked. “One about dragons and unicorns and fairy princesses?”
“Not that kind of story,” said Sonya. “Tell us a real story. Something that really happened.”
“Okay then,” I nodded then settled back onto the couch. “I suppose that I will tell you the story of a real man. His name was Antares.”
Sonya giggled. “That’s a funny name.”
Ignoring her comment, I began the story, letting my mind drift back to everything I’d once been told.
The story of Antares began in a large, glamorous city, Del Sol Valley. Since the early golden days of cinema, Del Sol Valley was a haven for movie stars, recording artists, and every wannabe celebrity from every walk of life. High in the hills, A-list stars lived in exclusive enclaves of wealth and luxury.
Antares was not an A-list star. In fact, he wasn’t a star at all. At least, not at first. In his early days, Antares was an underwear model.
(“Underwear!” Both granddaughters screamed with laughter. I winked).
Yes, underwear. Back then, he had a bod that could set off smoke detectors. Advertisers knew this, so they hired him to show off their newest designs of men’s briefs and boxers.
He worked many long, hard days on the set, standing around studios and posing under hot lights as the photographer snapped photo after photo. Exhausted, he would at last drag himself home.
He didn’t live in one of the ritzy, multimillion dollar mansions up in the hills. No, Antares lived in…well, kind of a dump.
His neighborhood was in the cheapest part of the city, near a park where homeless bums slept out in the open, next to shopping carts filled with their belongings. The houses here were a hodgepodge of tiny, Spanish-style bungalows and rundown midcentury modern houses. Faded dreams. Remnants of long ago. Antares’ house was once an square, concrete dwelling plopped in the middle of a field of sun-scorched grass. At one point, some bozo decided it would be a good idea to expand the size of the house by adding an upstairs apartment made of metal shipping containers and leftover construction scraps. What resulted was an absolute mess.
Still, this was Del Sol Valley. And the rent for that mess of a house was nearly twice as high as the average salary of an underwear model. Antares split the high rent cost with his roommate and best friend, Maulik. Maulik was an aspiring painter who worked at a car wash to make ends meet.
“Only until I sell a lot of paintings and get rich and famous, though,” Maulik told Antares. Because no matter where they came from, no matter whether they were aspiring artists, or actors, or models, or singers, or what have you, everyone who came to Del Sol Valley had the same starry-eyed dream in their suitcase. Get famous! Strike it rich! Become the next big thing!
Including Antares.
Lair of the SSStoryteller 