Act Oleg Daugovish   © Copyright 2025 by Oleg Daugovish

Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

The cars in the sluggish Los Angeles traffic clog the lanes around us like blood clots in the arteries of a sick patient.

“I’m bored.” My eight-year-old Sofie whines from the backseat. “Can I have your phone?”

“No. Mom uses it for directions, but I can tell you a story.” I insist.

“When I was a little boy, back in Latvia…,” my wife begins for me.

“We didn’t have phones,” I take over. “We didn’t have Christmas or TV, but, one New Year’s morning, I found a kaleidoscope under our decorated spruce tree. I must have been five.”

“There are precious stones inside.” Mom told me. “Be careful with it.”

I pressed my eye against the view-hole; jewels arranged themselves in perfect patterns at every turn of the magic tube. I marveled at the enchanting wonders until dinner and gently placed the kaleidoscope into a drawer.

My parents went to visit friends the next night, leaving me with great-grandma Claudia. She slept on the couch. I devoured a piece of rye bread with butter and garlic. I painted a boat braving the high seas under bombardment from a menacing airplane. Then, I reached for my new gift.

If I could get a few precious stones from the tube, we’d sell them and have enough money for my mom’s winter coat, dad’s books and a bicycle for me, I thought.

I pulled out a weathered suitcase with tools from behind the stove. My hand gripped the polished wood of an old hammer.

The first knock cracked the glass that protected the jewels.

Claudia’s snoring stopped, but a green blanket covering her continued to rise and fall with her calm breath.

Another gentle touch of the hammer, and a little hole appeared at the intersection of the cracks.

I wiggled my finger into the tiny opening. I could barely touch the stones.

Just then, a jingle of Dad’s keys at the front door startled me. One of them clicked into the lock.

I tried to pull my finger out, but the kaleidoscope wouldn’t let go. I twirled it and pulled as hard as I could.

The steps in the corridor and the clunking of wooden hangers signaled that I had just a few seconds left.

Twisting the tube and my hand in the opposite directions, I freed my finger. A scratch documented that movement. Not enough.

I reached for my watercolors and dipped my finger into a burgundy slurry. The dark red droplets raced down my hand into a sleeve of my shirt.

As the dropped kaleidoscope rolled on the floor, a couple of jewels tumbled out. The dull sound of the dim plastic shapes against the wood left me feeling cheated. Helpless.

My parents walked into the room, and there I was, sitting on the floor feeling sorry for myself, pretend-crying over sham stones and fake blood.

“Did your parents get angry?” Sofie is curious.

“Dad examined my hand, while Mom picked up the broken toy. She asked for an explanation and as I spoke, my sobbing started to feel real. She gave me a hug.”

“You’ll make a career in acting or staging drama one day,” Dad concluded.

“But you never did,” Sofie shrewdly observes.

“There is a continuation to the story.” I pause to gauge her interest. She is quiet and ready for more.

“When I turned seventeen, my dad brought home a booklet. A test, with a hundred questions. It was supposed to help me find the best fitting profession.”

“What kind of questions?” Sofie asks.

“Would you rather be an engineer or a newspaper publisher?”

“Would you like a quiet workplace or prefer to move around a lot?”

“Would you buy a bus ticket, knowing that nobody will ever check it?”

“I wouldn’t,” Sofie answers. “But what does it have to do with finding a job?”

“Nothing, I guess that question was included to check if you have been honest in your answers,” I reply.

“My dad sent the envelope with the completed test to some institute in Belarus and two weeks later we got the reply.”

It said: “You will do best in directing plays or producing movies.”

“But you work with strawberries,” Sofie confirms.

“It is not that different. Strawberries are finicky actors. They only perform when it’s not too hot nor too cold. They demand clean water and fertilizer cocktails. They turn sour if you don’t pay them full attention. But if you do, strawberries can be amazing.”

“This is your exit, 8 B.” My wife interrupts.

The impatient cars are revving in my blind spot. Our van picks up speed.

I click the turn signal and look at the white letters on the green sign.

Sofie reads it out loud, “Hollywood!”