2011-08-14: Crack Is Wack
AIR DATE 2011.08.14
Cast: Van_icon.pngClara_icon.png
Location: Downtown Los Angeles
Synopsis: Van Dallas saves the life of a homeless woman. On tonight's Access Hollywood.
CRACK IS WACK

Random Street is Random.

But it also has Van Dallas wandering down it. He's got sunglasses on, regardless of it being somewhere in the middle of day and night. He may or may not be somewhat intoxicated. Considering that he's looking for his next stop on his nightly clubs run… he's probably just left the pre-game place. He's all by himself at this point, except for what may be a couple of TMZers behind him, but he doesn't care. He keeps everything as real as possible.

She comes out of nowhere — or more likely, an alley — with the kind of bowed head and drab clothes that seek to be swept up in a crowd and forgotten. The woman isn't wearing sunglasses like the celebrity she's several steps from meeting on the sidewalk, but she is wearing a grey sweatshirt too heavy for the warm downtown core. The hood is up, shadowing her identity. Her steps are fast; she's in a hurry. She looks over her shoulder, her face bared for a second; maybe she's running from something.

Without a glance to, or inkling of, the possible paparazzi, she gets right in the actor's path. It might be hard to tell if she maneuvers on purpose; she has no care over getting in someone's way; but she seems surprised when her head swings up to see him there, her eyes green and flashing with a manic sort of desperation. Clara — vagrant that she is — reaches for him. If she knew who Van Dallas was, he wouldn't be the person she ran to. But maybe she wouldn't care.

"Oh hell yes. That's what the hell I'm talkin' 'bout. I ain't even in the club yet and they all over me, son!" Van is talking to nobody in particular, which is probably because he's a little nice right now from delicious drinks. Drinks are always a good thing to have before wandering the streets of Downtown Los Angeles. Especially when you're visually famous like the man known as Van Dallas.

The celebrity allows himself to be reached for and grabbed, immediately working his magic to get an arm up and thrown around the girl that has decided she wants to be all up in his attention. "Shhhh. Don't even tell me your name. We can blow this popsicle stand, skip the drinks and get right to the getting to know each other." Dramatic pause as he reaches up with his fingers to push the sunglasses up from his eyes, as he tries to get a better look at this chick's face. "… Biblically."

The woman grabs for whatever she can hold onto, an easy piece for Van to move under his arm. She seems to lack any consciousness toward her uncoordinated grabs, with long, pale fingers and short nails — clean, but lacking the perfect manicures of the well-groomed world Van steps so casually out of. Despite looking right up at him, Clara's eyes, under that hood, shift focus now, and seem to see him for the very first time. Her face — pale and lightly freckled, without a trace of cosmetics, up close — softens out of a nervous furrow and into bewilderment that travels into her accented voice. "Who— who are you?"

"… Uh, okay. We can go with my name only. I'm totally good with that." The glasses are pulled all the way off his face, as if that would assist in making sure that everyone around him and the chick he's suddenly got an arm full of is recognizing the greatness that his winning smile exudes! "Van Dallas. As if you didn't know." He's just going to be blissfully ignorant of the fact that she doesn't know who he is. She, obviously, has to just be trying to pull his leg or something. Or maybe not his leg…

A complete lack of comprehension meets Van, and the only thing Clara is pulling is his shirt— increasingly so, in fact, tugging as if she might fall down if she let go. She sways when she does just that with one hand. "There were— " She presses the back of her hand to her mouth and looks behind her while her one-sided grip continues to weigh on the actor. People are everywhere on this strip of sidewalk, coming and going. None of them familiar. A blur of faces. "… There were … men? And… they wouldn't … they didn't want to pay— ?" Her Australian voice takes on more and more uncertainty in herself. Her attention whips back to Van, focusing incredibly hard on him. She looks quizzically at the fabric in her clutches. "You have— money…"

"Tons. No like… more than tons. Eons? Yeah, eons of money. It never ends. I'm Scrooge McDuck in this bitch." Van finds himself forgetting about the sunglasses to try and make sure that this woman stays upright. He's smirking the whole time though as if he knows all about what she's going through at this exact moment. "Damn, girl. You must pre-game HARD. Cuz I'm nice and I can still walk. But you? You must be done for." Pause. Again. "Hol' up. Wait. Is you a hooker? Cuz I ain't that hard up where I gotta' pay for it yet…"

Clara's eyes flit to and fro after Van's every word, lighting up after every few in bouts of comprehension. The rest goes over her hooded head. On the last words, though, her gaze slips to the side — she doesn't exactly say no to the question — but she's quick to latch harder onto the man, looking up into his eyes with no concept of personal space, desperate. "I can walk," is what she chooses to answer defiantly. "Sometimes I can fly," she adds quietly, as if admitting a secret. An odd little smile upturns her mouth for a split second. "Can I have it," her eyes search Van for some clue. "Can you pay me— I give you what I have— it's in my pocket— nobody's following the instructions," she says disjointedly, but with growing passion, distress. "I remembered— them. I had to— remember but they kept taking and I don't think that was part of the instructions because— I remembered…"

Van is so confused right now at this moment. Could have something to do with this girl that he's talking to being completely out of her mind. Though, he's dealt with some crazier than this stalkers before. At least this one doesn't know who he is and that's good enough for him at this very moment. He just kind of tosses on a somewhat weak smile. "Wait. What? Is this…" Van starts to crack up, reaching upwards to see if he can't push at Clara a little bit. Get her a bit of distance away from him. "Ashton! I know you're behind this! Get your ass out here, man! Hahaha! Crazy chick pranks are not even even anymore!" More laughter.

Clara steps back at the push without resistance despite her desperate cling. She might as well be made of air. But she stands in front of Van, her hood falling a little bit down over her lengthy hair, still staring at him. She tucks both of her hands inside the front pockets of her sweatshirt, and holds her arms tightly against her, protective of what she holds inside. A soft, garbled "u-uhm…" escapes her. Slowly, she looks over her shoulder and unsurely back at the man, an uneasy worry gradually taking over her expressive features. "… My name's Clara," she clarifies.

Van is so confused right now. "Clara. Oh shit! Like that girl off Back to the Future III?! Haha! NICE!" Van has realized that if Ashton hasn't come out yet, then this probably isn't Punk'd. It's probably just some random craziness that he has found himself involved in. It tends to happen to him a lot. With a stroke of his chin. "Aight, so if I'm not on Punk'd, what exactly is it that you're trying to sell me?" He's pulling his shades back onto his face, just in case this is a trick or she's an undercover or something.

Van's merriment brings about an opposite effect in Clara; she looks more and more disturbed. It takes her a long moment to respond, but those last words of his, those last, important words — those she hones in on. The woman's head tips down, and she watches her own hand stiffen inside her sweater. She hesitates, glancing up, around the street — is there something wrong about revealing what she plans to sell here on the street? With people around? However vulnerable she might feel, it doesn't actually prevent her from pulling an item from her pocket. A flash of clear plastic; a small bag of … what she's trying to sell is not something that should be spotted out in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Whoa! Hey! Put that away! Not here in public!" Van is already rushing at her and attempting to sweep her back into his arm, while his eyes are tossed this way and that way, before he works on seeing if he can't lead her off into a different alley that she might've come out of. He's not really sure, cuz his brain is still a little fuddled from the delicious alcohols but… whatever. "Girl, you tryin' to get busted?!"

Swept along, Clara whirls once she's in the alley under the confines of Van's arm. They're welcome confines or, at least, she doesn't care. They alley appears empty enough, and dark enough, as evening gradually approaches, to hide them from casual viewing. Her eyes are down and her hand back in her pocket by the time they've stopped. She shakes her head back and forth in a reluctant no punctuated by a quiet sniff. The green-eyed gaze that meets the actor is guilty, scolded, hopeful— distinctly childlike. She brings the little bit of plastic out again; filled with a dully colored powder. "… I'm trying …" Not trying to get busted. Just trying.

"Look. That ain't my bag. But I may know a couple people. But I just met you, so I can't be hooking them up with you. Sorry. But you probably get rid of that stuff if you don't wanna' end up in jail or something. Jail sucks. There's no me in Jail. And that'd suck." Van is trying to drop some knowledge on this crazy woman it seems like. "So here's what we're gonna' do. You're gonna' dump this somewhere and I'ma' give you like… I dunno… a few hundred bucks for you to go and get yourself whatever it is you need to get yourself. As long as you promise not to buy drugs with it, okay?" Somewhere in the midst of all this, a stack of money is pulled out of his pocket.

So soon after shaking her head, Clara is nodding; a slow-to-start bob of her head that gains locomotion as she notices the money. Her eyes light up — wary, at first, and then shining. "O-kay," she repeats. Her other hand slides out of her pocket as well and her her fingers move and clutch the air in idle, anticipatory movements. "I don't need to buy them," she informs him assuredly with a happy nod that it's the truth.

Van is counting out about five hundred bucks off his stack, before stashing it back into his pocket. The money is almost handed over… but he pauses. "Hey hey! Get rid of the drugs first, crazy woman." He's not about to have himself caught up on television or something looking like he's buying drugs. He knows those Paparazzi fools happen to have nightvision cameras sometimes!

All Clara needs is the reminder. Given orders, she follows them, hauling a few identical little packets out of her pockets. They get hidden and crumpled in her fists as she twirls about in the alley with a whip of escaped blonde hair. She takes a few steps away and stands disorientated looking into the dismal, short alley; it isn't rife with hiding spots, and so she simply holds her arms out to the side and lets the product fall to the ground to get caught up in trash. When she spins back around, it's with a beaming smile and hurried steps toward Van. "Like that?" She did good, right— she can have it? She reaches her hands out.

"… Good enough, I guess." Van is turning to head the other way out of the alley, away ffrom the drugs and he's holding the money out behind him so that Clara will follow. He's not aware that he may be treating her like a puppy or anything, but he just wants her to get away from the drugs long enough so that he can give her money, in public, like there's some sort of charitable donation thing going on. "Now you promise me you'll take care of yourself. Van Dallas loves Los Angeles." Words are said nice and loud. Just in case.

Treating Clara like a puppy works like a charm, as it happens. She follows, reaching for Van's hands — more importantly, their prize — with her own hands. The scattered drugs aren't even an afterthought that registers on her face. As the light of downtown illuminates them again, she wraps her eager fingers over the bills. "Take care of yourself," she says, but it's a light mimicry and new realization. She's amused by it. The amateur drug dealer has taken a fascination with Van's face, it seems: her sights are locked onto that of her random benefactor, studying him, puzzling him out anew. A finger comes up to, presumably, poke his jaw. "'Get Tested'."

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