This feels like something important … though I gotta say, it don’t smell very good,” he says, taking a huge whiff. I’m thankful that on this occasion the size of the carton prevents any such embarrassing display. 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. If they ever start making vampire movies in this town again, this kid could be a star. He stands just under five feet and has almost white-blond hair and skin the same color. Mickey loiters outside the door holding a large cardboard box and wearing a ridiculous expression on his face. 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. My trailer is one of a breed of what are called honeywagons, and a second-rate version at that, especially reserved for syndicated series. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. THE SECOND WORST part of my job is wearing makeup.
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