ONE
PANDORA’S BOX
THE SECOND WORST part of my job is wearing makeup. The worst is taking it off. The only thing that will cut through my thick mask at the end of a sixteen-hour day is a kerosene-based product called Eliminate. In case you missed it, I said kerosene. I’ve doubtless swallowed at least a gallon of the stuff in an attempt to rid myself of every fleck of gold powder that has worked its way into the pores and orifices of my head. If anything is being “eliminated,” it’s several layers of skin and the well-being of a couple of internal organs, brain cells, and potentially essential fifteen-years-down-the-road sperm. But hey, the show must go on.
While I am going through my end-of-the-day ritual in the two-by-two bathroom of my trailer, which is the exact size of an airplane bathroom and just as comfortable, a knock comes at the open door, followed by the familiar voice of Mickey, the mailroom boy. “Package for you, Mr. S.”
Wiping the excess lighter fluid from my face with a never-again-to-be-used towel, my eyes burning thanks to the flesh-melting Eliminate, I stumble to the door. My trailer is one of a breed of what are called honeywagons, and a second-rate version at that, especially reserved for syndicated series. Originally designed in the early twentieth century for animal stars, they’re strictly utilitarian structures to say the least, though admittedly, they’re considerably nicer than my old apartment in New York. Mickey loiters outside the door holding a large cardboard box and wearing a ridiculous expression on his face. He stands just under five feet and has almost white-blond hair and skin the same color. If they ever start making vampire movies in this town again, this kid could be a star. Though he delivers the mail to nicer trailers than mine, he’s still a bit of a fan and usually genuflects when not carrying such a large package. I’m thankful that on this occasion the size of the carton prevents any such embarrassing display.
“Gotta love those fans, Mr. S. This feels like something important … though I gotta say, it don’t smell very good,” he says, taking a huge whiff.
I don’t care for the sound of that.
“In the future, Mickey,” I admonish him, “if a package comes for me, and it doesn’t smell very good…”
“I know,” he butts in, “spray it with Right Guard before I bring it to you. That shit’ll take the stink outta anything. I ought to know.”
Not wishing to pursue the matter, I swallow the rest of my sentence. Mickey takes the two steps up into my trailer, and as he crosses the threshold, the aroma hits me. It is so heinous, so revolting, it can be described only as a solid. It’s like getting a left hook to the olfactory nerve. There is something unmistakable about it. It is the smell of … evil. He plunks it down on the foldout table that doubles as office and dining room in my home away from home. I can’t actually get close enough to open it. The smell is like an invisible shield between me and the box.
“Yeah, it’s kind of stinky,” says Mickey.
I’m not sure what disturbs me more, the smell or the fact that he finds it “kind of stinky.” Getting woozy, I stagger outside, followed by Mickey.
“Well, if you need anything I’ll be here till midnight,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand.
“Uh … Thanks, Mick,” I say, and slip him a ten-dollar bill very carefully, so as not to touch the hand that held that vile box. “Enjoy your evening. Full moon, you know.”
It’s one of those Los Angeles nights when a marine layer covers the moon like Vaseline over a camera lens.
“Oooh, yeah,” he says, flashing a couple of pearly whites that could cut through an oil drum, “my kinda night!”
And he wolf-howls like Lon Chaney Jr.—I swear he does—before disappearing into the mist. Paramount Pictures in 1991 is lousy with nutty characters.
Deciding to take another shot at opening the box, I inhale a few deep breaths and start in. But my good sense coupled with the atrocious odor stops me cold.
“What if there’s something alive in there?” I say to myself.
Copyright © 2021 by Brent Spiner