Paullina Simons - The Tiger Catcher

“Who plays guitar?”

“Zakiyyah. I have a favor to ask you.” Josephine tilted her head.

Julian would’ve done it without the head tilt.

“So the good news is,” she said, “I got a callback for Dante. Shocking, I know, given yesterday’s Shakespearean debacle.” But the bad news was, the callback was for the part of the narrator, an old man in a historical wig and glasses.

“You’re an expert at the old man part,” Julian said. “Just channel your inner Housman.”

“It’s the wig that’s the problem. Callback’s at eleven. How do I become a gray-haired old dude in an hour?”

Looking over her pink scrubbed face, Julian agreed it was not the easiest of tasks.

She held out a can of aerosol. “Can you spray paint my hair?”

Shaking his head, he stepped back. He didn’t like to do things he’d never done.

“Come on, I need your help. You can do things other than sit in front of a computer, can’t you?”

“I do plenty of those.” He wished that hadn’t sounded as suggestive as it did.

“Is one of them color a girl’s hair?” She flung around her damp dark mane for him to see. It smelled of foamy coconut. “Do it, do it,” she said. “And afterward, I’ll take you to the top of the mountain to amaze the crap out of you.” Her body smelled freshly washed of foamy coconut, her arms and throat glistening with lotion. The muscles in Julian’s legs felt liquid.

He had another idea. “Why don’t we just get you a wig? Seems a lot simpler.”

“Audition’s in an hour.”

“I know a place.”

“I’m broke.”

“It’s free. Can you get dressed in five minutes?”

“What do you mean? I am dressed.”

No makeup, tiny shorts, ripped gray crop top, no bra (do not think about that) bare feet, hair all over the place. She looked dressed for after-sex waffles, not a callback. He said nothing.

“Okay, fine.” Two minutes later she emerged from door number two in denim shorts, boots, and a see-through white shirt over her crop top. Her bare stomach showed. “Better?”

He said nothing.

In the car as she did her makeup she told Julian Dante’s play paid real money! Rehearsals began in a few days. It ran a month. “Though I’ll have to memorize ninety-nine cantos. Doesn’t seem possible.”

“You can do it,” he said. “They’re such romantic cantos.”

She grunted. “Realms of the dead are romantic?”

“Sure,” Julian said. “Clad in weights, Dante searches for Beatrice in heaven and hell because he cannot find her here on earth. That’s not romantic?” He smiled.

“I dunno,” she said. “Does he find her? See, even Mr. Know-it-All is not sure. And the endlessly mutilated sowers of discord are definitely not dreamy. There’s a lot of damnation before Dante gets to Beatrice, is what I’m saying. Inferno, purgatorio. Why is it even called a comedy? How far’s the wig?”

“Almost there.” Magnolia Boulevard was just on the other side of Hollywood Hills.

“Magnolia … isn’t that where the vintage shops are?”

Julian pulled into a spot at the curb. “Yep. And here we are.”

They were parked in front of a large storefront whose cinnamon-colored awning read “THE TREASURE BOX.”

“The Treasure Box?” she said. “What kind of store is that?”

“The kind where you might find what you’re looking for. It’s Ashton’s. Well, mine and Ashton’s. But he does most of the work. I just count the money.”

“He’s got a wig?”

“He’s got a lot of things.” Julian switched off the engine.

“Really? Like what?”

“Anything. Everything.” He watched her apply red gloss to her lips. “About Ashton …”

“I need to be prepped before meeting him? Why, is he super cute?” She grinned.

“That’s not it.” How to explain Ashton to this innocent? “He likes to tease. A bit like you. Remember that and ignore him.”

“Like you ignore me?”

“Just like that.”

Ashton was on the phone behind the register. He had showered and shaved and was wearing pressed black jeans and a white shirt open at the collar. His leather shoes were buffed. The doorbell trilled as they walked in, and Ashton raised his head. He couldn’t drop his call when he saw Julian with Josephine but, by the expression on his face, really wanted to.

Josephine’s mouth dropped open, too. Even a grizzled cynic would have a hard time not fawning over the cornucopia of baubles and beads that was housed under Ashton’s expansive roof.

Real and fake furs, old lamps, figurines, designer bags, red carpet dresses, tuxedoes, movie memorabilia of all kinds were on sale and display. From Casablanca (the bar glasses) to Back to the Future (Marty’s Hoverboard), incredible real artifacts from imaginary places abounded. Ashtrays from Chinatown, a replica (not actual-size) of the Starship Enterprise, an actual-size Han Solo frozen in carbonite, Halloween costumes, shoes and hats, and all the bling in between, including signed framed photographs of the stars, including Ashton’s treasured possession, a poster of a joyous Bob Marley from 1981, signed by the man himself a few months before he died. There were albums, playbills, scarves, a wall of arcade games from PacMan to Donkey Kong, a wall of original art by local artists, and next to it a table with brushes, paints, and blank canvases for sale. There was a display of vital herbs and vitamins, a nod to the health-obsessed Riley. There was a red door bathed in black light and a neon sign above it that read, “ Haunted House this way .” Yes, there was even a Haunted House, which ran year-round, and all the zombies and ghouls inside it were for sale. Ashton replaced them with new ghouls and zombies as needed. The Treasure Box was a store that no one but the treasure-hunting, adventure-seeking Ashton could’ve devised or imagined. Everything he was and everything he loved was in that store.

“This is the most amazing place I’ve ever seen!” Josephine said in a thrilled whisper. “Can we come back?”

“Maybe. Follow me.” Julian popped into one of the narrow side rooms and was relieved when he quickly found what he was looking for: a long-haired 18th-century wig made with real gray hair.

“Perfect,” she said. “This is fantastic, oh!—but expensive.”

Julian put a finger to his lips and sighed, hoping he could sneak her out before Ashton got off the phone. Alas.

Ashton barricaded the door to the small room, blocking the daylight with his tall frame. “Hey, Jules. Whatcha up to?”

“Not much,” Julian said. “We’re in a hurry.”

“Hurry? But you just got here. And who’s we?”

“Oh, sorry. Ashton, Josephine; Josephine, Ashton.”

“Nice to meet you, Ashton,” Josephine said, smiling over Julian’s shoulder.

“Yeah, you, too.”

“You have an incredible place here.”

“Thanks.” He stared at her and then blinklessly at Julian, who rolled his eyes, mouthing stop it . The three of them stepped out into the main area, where there was sunlight and windows and space to put between one another.

“Where do you get this stuff from?” Josephine asked, walking around, touching the dresses and the silk scarves.

“Here, there,” Ashton said. “Hot sets mostly. Before they shut production on a show, Julian and I walk the soundstages, mark what we want, and after they wrap, we return with my truck.”

“You take the furniture, too?”

“Why, do you need some furniture? A couch? A bed ?”