OSCAR

Today I wanted to talk to Oscar but Oscar didn’t want to.

The sky is purring. Helicopters are patrolling and their cameras filming the streets. The whole city is a buzz. Today is Oscars’ day.

I walk up the streets of Hollywood. The road signs say Work Zone Ahead or Do Not Enter. I ask a police officer sitting on his motorbike, which is the best way to reach Hollywood Boulevard. He tells me to walk further down on Sunset. Two women overhear our conversation and advise me to drop my expectations and go back home. They were there, saw nothing but a big black screen and couldn’t access the red carpet.

I decide to go on with my quest anyway. My goal is to find out where the magic hides. I join a herd of interested and dreamy fellow human beings. After half an hour of wandering, a few of us reach Hollywood Boulevard. The excitement floats in the air. Tourists, professional photographers, and cops mix with each other. The stars on the pavement are all wet with rain.

Elvis walks up to me and asks: “You want a picture with me, babe?”. He takes me by the waist. “No thanks. Just you alone”, I say. Then I ask him his name. “Romeo”, he answers. “My porn name is Barry Sausage”, he adds in a laugh. “Barry Who?” I ask - I obviously didn’t pick up the joke -. I notice a pack of dollars in his hand and dig into my purse to give him a few. “I’ve been Elvis for seven years, seven days a week, and I make seventy-five kisses a day”, he says. A group of excited girls is waiting for him. Elvis quickly moves to them and strikes the King’s pause.

On my way to the red carpet, I stop by Jesse and Chase, two cops leaning on their car. “Are you enjoying the Oscars?” I ask. “It’s boring as hell. We just stand here all day”, says Chase who looks really pissed off. “And we have to wear these stupid hats”, he mutters. “It’s definitely more fun working in the car”, adds Jesse. A thick rain suddenly starts and they both exclaim: “For Christ’s sake!”

The crowd sticks together behind high guardrails. The entrance to the ceremony seems close but I can’t see a thing. A thirty feet limousine slowly drives by. Then a hand – visibly a woman’s – waves out of the tinted window. The crowd yells and waives back. But the burst of joy fades out as the car drives away. The street is empty again. I realize how disappointing this place is. I feel annoyed by this purportedly popular event that keeps people as far away as possible. Surely, the magic must be somewhere.

On my way back home, a rap flow catches my ear. A man holds an amplifier in one hand and a microphone in the other. His name is Dr. Geek. He is improvising lyrics about May’s beauty. She stands next to him and seems to enjoy the moment. Later, I find out that May is a Brazilian journalist/writer working for a Brazilian TV show. “I’m looking for weird stories. Mr. Geek is my best one so far”, says May.

I leave the hustle and bustle and take a side street. I'm vaguely looking up at a crumbling motel when I hear: “This is the hotel from Pretty Woman”. A smiling middle-aged couple walks by. “They told us that in the tour we took last week”, the woman adds.

Here, the Hollywood stars live in the walls, buildings and pavements. You rarely see them in the flesh. Yet a few blocks from there, I finally get to meet them. On a painted wall James Dean and Liz Taylor are staring at me with vibrant eyes. I wonder. Are they waiting for the movie to begin?