In 2008 I found myself navigating through a sea of desperate dreamers, dodging the wannabe actors and the fake smiles of faded starlets on Hollywood Boulevard. I even stumbled on what appeared to be the end of a wedding reception.
It was unusually warm and the sweltering asphalt of oozed a toxic blend of ambition, illusion and desperation.
Out of nowhere I saw him! Like a mirage in an orgy of signage there stood Jesus Christ, Son of God. Here on the boulevard of broken dreams. Dressed in a plain white linen robe, he stood out amidst the sequined outfits and eccentric costumes. Jesus, undeterred by the chaos around him, sought solace in the unlikely corners of Hollywood Boulevard.
A few moments later, from the corner of my eye I spied a flamboyant drag queen in a feathered headdress passing by Jesus. She paused, as if struck by his otherworldly presence. He smiled warmly at her, the kind of smile that could melt even the most jaded hearts. “You are beautiful, my child,” he said, voice carrying a soothing timbre that appeared to resonate within her.
And just as quickly as she passed him, Jesus disappeared into the crowded boulevard. His presence never lingered. Hollywood Boulevard carried on, its lights shining no more brighter, and its dreams any more fulfilled.
A partially fictional tale,
Kent Bausman
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