Película

The light pink, cotton candy-shaded sky reminds Isamar of Sofia Coppola movies. She imagines she’s a round-faced white woman with wispy, blonde hair that grazes her face gently in a dream-like wind. Her alarm, the daydream traitor, blares an obnoxious ring, and she’s weighted down by the reality of her circumstance. Although standing half a mile away from the marina, her place is inside, where a restaurant for west coasters who can afford to stay outside and fantasize is awaiting her attention. At least at this point in the day, it is quiet- peaceful… the opening scene of a romcom, before the hilarity ensues.

Quiet also means more time for intrusive thoughts, though. While it’s better than the chaos that awaits its drop overhead, like the New Years ball in Times Square, the stillness brings with it a stunning awareness. Reflection. Sadness. The waitresses in movies are always hopeful, with big dreams that they dizzily let slip to their best friends who seem to only exist to be an ear to them. Isamar is only 28, but all of her dreaming is over. She already tried at her happy ending, and she failed. She could’ve been somebody. She could’ve been a contender. What more is there?

What more but the absentminded musings of… his eyes? She’s never noticed the beautiful brown eyes of the lead cook before… nor has she noticed the way he uses them to heat her face as he fixes them there, all while smirking mischievously. He’s flirting. It’s just like whimsical Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo and Juliet scene by the fish tanks. The lovers make playful eye contact that morphs into a powerful force of attraction. After all, how different was this? Clear glass also separated her from Javier’s embrace and lips and intense eyes.

“Jesus, Izzy!” A sharp jolt to Isamar’s shin jerks her away from her star-crossed romance and into searing pain. Her coworker, Angela, is on the floor looking like she just tried to slide into a home plate that was replaced by Izzy’s own leg. Then she realizes why Angela’s frustration is aimed at her via blasphemy. The display deli side salad that she’d been prepping is spread on the floor and slathered on the underside of the downed server. The dish happens to be as slippery as one might imagine a combination of shredded beets, orange slices, and cranberries mixed with some kind of citrusy dressing to be. Izzy begins her profuse apologizing with a standard, “Oh shit,” as she helps Angela to her feet. Before Angela is fully upright, another loud ring sounds off. It’s time. The chaos of the day is now sure to keep Izzy’s head out of the Paramount clouds.

Hustle. Grab the phone. Take the order. Make the sale. Inform the kitchen. Rush. Delivery, they insist. Call delivery drivers. Book them. Send the invoice. Add to lists. Don’t drop the ball for the other orders. "Never. Let it. Drop." Move. Another call. Book. It's a pick up. Fewer steps. Still hustle. Another call. We’re booked for that time. Apologize profusely. Try to compromise. They won’t have it. Work around it. Make it work. Drive it yourself. Keep the tip. Make rent. Move faster. Nothing can be late.

This is surprisingly a relatively calm morning for the catering service. Izzy is able to keep her focus, for now. She hates this job, but she is good at it. Can’t get too cocky. That steady but quick flow could be disrupted at any minute for any number of reasons. Late bread delivery. Absent driver. Too many last minute orders. A disastrous spill. An injury on the kitchen line. Not enough produ- Keiko? Admittedly, her landlord showing up at her job is nowhere on Izzy’s list of expected unexpecteds.

Izzy hears from other tenants that Keiko will do whatever it takes to round up the rent at the start of the month, but this is her first late payment. She didn’t anticipate a visit, but is sure that the matter can be resolved quickly. Keiko can be very understanding. She reminds Isamar of a wise Japanese villager from an Ichikawa film. About six months ago, when Mike- her then boyfriend- left Izzy and their too-small-for-two studio apartment in Venice Beach, she ran to Keiko to ask about their lease. This, however, morphed into a melt down that would give Nick Cage a run for his money. During this episode she confessed to the patient and kind woman her stresses of having left her Texas home, of failing at her dreams to work in the film industry, and of flailing finances. Keiko attentively made room on her small couch, brewed and poured tea, and expressed little more than the occasional sympathetic “Oh…” Izzy knows she’ll understand this.

“Now. Today. Or out.” The woman awaits a response, but her tenant is stunned silent. Then, as if the word jump-starts her legs, she huffs, “Okay.” She watches as Keiko- a small and elderly warrior on a mission- shuffles hurriedly out of the restaurant and into the beautiful Coppola-esque day that they both must be missing out on. Angela’s fall, the spill of the deli display, and Keiko’s abrupt presence have all contributed to a delay in the awaiting tasks.

Izzy feels like an overwhelmed Cinderella as the chore bells ring, only the bells are the phones and the step family are her needy coworkers, delivery drivers, and clients. She doesn’t have time to properly tend to it all, but she can put her mark on each task if she lets go of perfection. The work is at least a distraction from Keiko’s stress-inducing visit.

Time has slipped from Izzy’s grasp. The restaurant will be open to customers soon, and she hasn’t sent out all of her morning catering orders. Angela is on the phone with an angry client whose order is late due to a late delivery driver. Izzy will have to take it herself, along with another. Thankfully, the orders are the same and relatively small. Each fit in one bag. The identical bags of food are heavy, but in one swift move, like a superhero in a Marvel movie, Izzy swoops them up and promises to be back before the store opens. She imagines the orders are two children she’s saved from oncoming traffic.

She runs to her car, which is parked so close to the Pacific Ocean that the smell is intoxicating. She’s always loved the smell of the beach. There’s no time to take it in. She puts the bags in the backseat and jumps behind the wheel.

She feels the need- the need for speed.

Off she goes, screeching her way out of the parking lot in her heavy car… let’s call it vintage. It’s a classic- the Dodge Charger driven by Dom in The Fast & Furious. Izzy is weaving and speeding through the streets, thanking her luck that the morning L.A. rush has died down. Once she reaches the building of the late order, she punches her hazard light button and barely stops the car before jumping out. Shit! The seatbelt chokes her and has become yet another obstacle to her timing. There’s no time to acknowledge the pain she feels in her neck or to adjust her ridiculously parked car, which is wedged between two smaller, properly parked vehicles. It sits at a 45-degree angle to the curb, but her hazards are on and anyway she’ll be right back because the other order can’t also be late.

The receptionist greets Izzy with an “Oh my god, finally!” and grabs the order from her hands. It is 15 minutes late, and she will receive no tip. There are still 10 minutes to get the second order to where it goes, and the drive will take 8, according to her GPS.

On her race out of the building and towards the finish line that is her car door handle, Izzy spots the dreaded… the expected… envelope underneath her windshield wiper. Her heart feels heavy, her throat closes, and her eyes well with tears... but frankly, my dear, there’s no time to give a damn. She has to move.

She snatches the envelope and lets it fall where it will inside of her car. She won’t make the mistake of a time consuming seatbelt this time. And she’s off. The streetlight is not on her side. She doesn’t need it. She doesn’t need anyone on her side. She is agent 007, outrunning black cars when she- BRAKES! The light is red, and she can’t afford another ticket. She looks back to check on the precious bag- the redemption bag- when she sees the order slip taped on the outside. “NUT ALLERGY” it reads. The realization that the orders were not identical after all sends Izzy into a panic. She checks the company name. Sure enough. Someone who works for the company Izzy has already left has a nut allergy, and they have the wrong order.

Isamar is Agent Salt, on a time crunch to save the Russian president. She is Toretto, challenging the train. No. She is Speed Racer, sitting at the wheel of his Mach 5. She turns the wheel as far left as it will go, and punches the gas pedal to the floor of the car with her foot. The Mach 5 peels off, and the colorful track around her lights up, as anxious spectators look on at the edge of their seats. An inner monologue sounds, “I don’t know why I’m doing it anymore.”

Fade to black.

Cut to:

Isamar strains to pull her eye lids apart. The harsh bright lighting and slight movement about mean… an alien abduction? No. She hears the beeping of hospital monitors. Then the muffled sound of someone’s voice, “Is… I… contacted your…” It must be a nurse, trying to communicate that someone has been contacted. Is this her Million Dollar Baby ending? No, this is much more Bird Man than anything. She’s okay with this. After all, the show must go on.

Isamar pulls the sheets off of her swollen and bruised legs. She won’t need them. Her large, black wings flutter from their timid state and emerge through her hospital gown opening. They are awake. She is awake. A whole new world awaits her. A world with wings cannot bring crushed dreams and disappointment. It cannot present romance that isn’t romance or upset clients or clunker cars or parking tickets. None of that exists when you have wings. She spreads them wide, and finally… she is ready for her close up.

Fade to black.