No. 4: ⛑💉 🌋

“Call a medic!” your makeup artist says to the PA. The poor girl scrambles for her walkie and crackly white noise fills the trailer. “Medic to makeup, medic to makeup, please.”

You sit there mortified that all this fuss is about you.
“Don’t worry, hon,” Makeup pats your hand. “We’ll get this taken care of.”
You are not reassured. God, is it that bad? You peel back the foil of your breakfast sandwich—slab of cheddar on fried egg—but Makeup asks if you can wait til she’s done. You tuck the foil around a sourdough corner, stomach growling something fierce.

Medic arrives, letting in the cold fog of morning.
“This puppy right here,” Makeup says to him, pointing at you. He looks blank until his eyes register the puppy in reference: your big, red, throbbing pimple. Puppy the Pimple sits proudly on your chin, volcanic, yet not ready to burst. It might as well be taking up the whole right side of your face.

Medic unpacks tools meant for burn injuries and stunts gone awry. “Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ll suck him right out.” Again, you are not reassured.

A syringe is lifted. Alcohol swabbed. Nausea claws your fingernails into vinyl armrests as you brace for the needl—OUCH! How can they call pain blinding when it pops your eyes wide open? You’re not crying but tears splash onto the foil of your plate so hard that droplets hit your wrist.

“Almost done,” Medic says, still poking into the screaming part of your face that feels like an exposed nerve being pierced with all the patience of Job.

He withdraws at last. If Puppy was throbbing before, now he’s pulsating like a strobe light of pain at an S&M rave. “Wanna see the gunk?” Medic says. Blood and pus squirt onto a paper towel, like a Ken doll cum shot if Barbie was on her period.

The dome on your chin is even bigger than before. Ooze wants to scab but Makeup keeps dabbing more concealer. Powder, concealer, powder. Like a layer cake that won’t set. “Well, we’ll keep an eye on him,” she says, giving up.

“Can I eat now?” you ask. She nods. Your sandwich is cold, soggy with fake butter and limp bacon. You eat it anyway, ignoring the ache that has spread from your chin to your jaw.

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Alice in Hollywoodland is a memoirette series started on Instagram by Alice Greczyn, written with creative liberties such as changed names and timeline forgetfulness, alternately thought of as Los Angeles & Me: Two Decades in the City of Angels. All rights reserved by Alice Greczyn.