The plot thickens

I want to live in the movies of Hollywood’s golden age. I’d get to dress in the finest clothing, never sweat pants or shorts; smoke and drink all I want and live forever; get away with murder, or foil murder plots; get the dame to fall for me, but pretend I’m not interested; be silhouetted in black and white, hide in the shadows and appear sinisterly mysterious behind window shades and smoke screens; I’d talk tough, rough guys up, yet never break a sweat or lose my slacks’s crease. Imagine me a silver screen big shot. No matter their actual fate, movies immortalized figures like Edward G. Robinson, Cary Grant, and Humphrey Bogart so, that I can’t imagine them sick, dying, or dead; they just keep chasing skirts, bad guys, and money, syndicated on small screens. Never tired, never dead, never out of bullets or smokes, always with a cool head. The primary film stars were larger than life and realer than old black and white photographs, there’s nothing haunting about their images; they’re dynamic in daring rooftop escapes, ducking deadly planes, and sneaking to validate alibis. So I’ll take a vacation to tinsel town, make it a double feature, I’m tired of being turned down or ignored by employers. I won’t be returning phone calls either. Put me on the case, on a train with my dame, or in the middle of a chase. Hot pursuit! Hot pursuit! Follow that car! I’ll escape, even if it’s just for the afternoon.