Split Ends by Kristin Billerbeck Page B

it represents hundreds of dreams coming true. To me, it’s proof that Archibald Leach truly became Cary Grant. At least in the eyes of the world.
    Even at the height of ski season, Wyoming didn’t have this many people. Everything is gray here, except the hills in the background, with their dilapidated fifties-era homes. I’m sure they’re worth a fortune, but wow, are they a blight on the land or what? For this place to be concerned with the environment really is the epitome of irony.
    Although it seems we only just left Beverly Hills, I’m rapidly discovering Hollywood is a different cup of tea. It’s . . . um . . . scary, actually. The pristine streets and well-dressed patrons are long gone. The shops are selling fast food—or things I’ve never seen before that, let’s just say, don’t seem necessary in my life. There’s a lot of cheap lingerie and tools for heaven knows what. Certainly nothing in my future. I’m sure they must be illegal in the state of Wyoming.
    There are more people lying on the sidewalk than actually walking on it. Each one of them holds a sign: “Veteran. Need help . ” “Homeless. Need work.” Some of them wave them at me. Some of them just prop them in front of their sleeping selves. All of them unnerve me.
    I kick off my heels and start to walk a little faster along the filthy concrete, knowing I’m probably subjecting myself to multiple bacterial infections but needing to feel like I’m moving. As evening is closing in (granted, not for a few hours, but it’s a concern since I’m alone here, with only my address on a scrap of paper), I’m suddenly seeing my life story on Lifetime. I can see the trailer now: “She came to give Hollywood body. Instead, it took hers.”
    I shiver. A web of my own imagination traps me until I’m holding my breath and praying there’s a church to run into. But then I remember how in The Sixth Sense the kid went into a church and the dead guy came in there anyway! I shake the thought. It serves me right for getting theology from a ghost movie.
    I speed up, walking as fast as I can without being obvious or breaking into a full run. No one’s chasing me, but I feel those prickles on the back of my neck as though I’m being followed.
    Then, almost before I’m aware of it, a familiar pink-and-brass glow on the sidewalk. I’m here.
    Donna Reed. She’s the first star I see. I stoop and run my hands over the brass letters. “You were one of my very favorite screen kisses, Miss Reed. You and Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life —now that was romance.”
    I run to the next star. Preston Sturges. Okay, sorry, Preston, but I have absolutely no idea who you are. I’m sure you were a great addition to Hollywood.
    Next. Rita Hayworth. Ooh, redhead for the ages. Alan Ladd. Eh. Not so moved. Henry Fonda. Oh, I loved him in The Grapes of Wrath.
    Then I see it: John Wayne! Oh, my gosh, would my town go crazy. The ladies would be squealing with delight.
    Shirley Temple. She was my favorite on a Saturday morning. Michael Landon. Loved Little House on the Prairie ! Alistair Cooke. Loved Masterpiece Theatre .
    When I spy the next one, I know I’m close to the Holy Grail of my Hollywood fetish: Clark Gable. “Frankly, my dear, I loved you!”
    I know what’s coming next. I’ve planned my exodus for too many years not to. The tears well up in my eyes as I look at his name.
    Cary Grant.
    I kneel next to the star and run my fingers over the letters. Does he have any idea what he’s done in my life? Does he know how he kept this woman, younger than his own daughter, company? How he brought hope for a dream? My tears fall onto the star as I look up to the heavens. “Thank you, God. Thank you for seeing me this far I never thought I’d see the day.”
    I don’t know how long I sit here on this filthy sidewalk filled with