July 31, 2014. Hollywierd.
“ When are you making your next special latte?” I say to the barista at Romancing the Bean.
“October.” He says. There’s a crumb in his afro. I try to flick it out for him.
“October!” I say.
“Oh. Wait. I mean August.” He says.
Big difference, I think. And then I remember we’re in LA.
There’s really not much of a difference between August…and October.
The days meld into each other like play dough.
The road was maniacal. I drove down Beverly Blvd and actually thought people wanted to get into accidents. There you sit, at the green light, waiting for a free moment to turn left, the car behind you, an old woman, honking, out of control, when clearly, you can’t go---there is a steady fast stream of cars coming straight towards you. Yet, she wants you to turn. Because at 85, there’s somewhere she really, really has to be. Or she’s bored.
And your temptation is to roll down the window and give her the bird, but then, she’s 85. So you control yourself, and vroom left as soon as there’s a free spot.
He said to park in the Beverly Center, across the street, implying that, though you’re working for him for free, he is not going to pay for your parking.
I drive up to the ticket machine, grab the ticket, and roll up to the third floor.
It’s hot and clammy and I lock the doors and look around as I pull the black gown up over my feet, and pull the sundress beneath it over my head and toss it in the passenger seat.
I delete pictures from my phone so as to have space to take new ones---of the parking garage. 3c. Snap. The Ross’s across the street snap. And another random shot of the cars in front of me. Because tonight, I will not forget where I parked---and spend an hour wandering around a parking garage searching for the beat up kia. No way. Not this time. This is called growth.
I step out of the car and into the stale, warm evening.
It’s not quite as seedy as Hollywood, but as I walk down the escalator and pass the P.F. Changs, I see the Mobil gas station and realize this is near a recording studio I spent some time at.
There’s a sort of dirt and grit to the air---from gas fumes. I look around for the Sofitel Hotel.
No luck. I walk around the building for ten minutes in the heat, in my gown, looking for the hotel, only to realize it had been just on the other side of my original position.
Turn left and right, I tell myself, rehearsing for later that night, just in case I would be a little tipsy.
I walk into the Sofitel and see the red carpet and models that aren’t really models in hair and make-up, looking tragic and important.
“HI,” says the large Hispanic woman from the meeting at the library, where we had all first organized. I had looked around the room thinking, “No one is getting paid. Why are all these people here?” I thought to myself, why am I here?
“ HI,” says the spunky brunette, who seems to be on cocaine. Her eyes flit back and forth, and never hold contact for long.
“ You look nice,” I say.
“Oh, thanks. No make-up. I’ve been waiting for make-up you know?” she seems so amped.
The Hispanic woman leads me back to a lushly decorated room, with red walls and a black floor. It reminds me of those Hollywood parties I got duped into going to when I first moved to Los Angeles. Thinking maybe I would actually meet someone who would be a friend or key player in my life. I never saw any of them again.
They were the kind of parties where large men would sit at shadowy back tables sipping on vodka red bulls, with a sign saying “ Def Jam Records” or “Models here”, and would look girls up and down, telling them “maybe”.
I would leave those parties feeling empty and lost.
Longing for love or a warm kiss on the mouth.
There are a few men sitting at the bar, nursing cocktails.
There is a piano that I immediately sit at. A beautiful piano, that, when pressed, is horribly out of tune---sharp and tangy like old cheddar.
I start to play “ Just the Way You Look tonight” and nervous-girl sits besides me.
“OH my gosh, you play the piano!” She says.
“Yes. I used to play in a hotel lobby for a living.” I say.
“ Oh wow. I worked at a hotel too. I’ve worked everywhere and lived everywhere.”
“Oh ya? Where?”
“London.”
“Oh how was that?” I ask.
Her eyes get dreamy.
“Oh it was so beautiful. It was such a rich experience. Looking back now, I was so lucky. I was working for a magazine….”
Three guys come in. One is named JoJo with a small face and body and large eyes and a puffy afro. He smiles wide.
Another is Quincy. He has corn rolls and looks like R Kelly. Another is James, He has dreads.
They have all cleaned up and are wearing white shirts and ties, like we’re all at church.
They sit near the piano and smile as I play “These Foolish Things” and incorporate their names.
I am hoping, since there are no free drinks or hors d’ouervres in sight, that one of the sad guys at the bar will offer to buy me a drink in exchange for a song.
No such luck.
It feels good however to sink into the melancholy feeling of playing piano in a lounge again. It feels tragic and very noir.
The Dj, Dj Pickle, yes, that’s his name, begins to “Unnce Unce unce Unce” on his turntable drowning out the piano.
I try to play “Fly Me to The Moon” in rhythm with his club beat, but he keeps switching the song, seeming to want to throw me off. This is his party. He is the entertainment, he seems to say.
I turn around and sit with Jojo, Quincy, and James. The girl has gone.
I see some people have white wine.
“Where do we get the free drinks?”
“I think we’ll have some bottles in VIP.” James says, in a mellow voice.
“ Hi, time to go to your positions,” says the Latin woman.
Quincy and I walk back to the red roped off “VIP” area that consists of two black leather couches with zebra print pillows. The main attraction is a large black tray in the middle of the red centerpiece cushion that has a carries cranberry juice, orange juice, water, and ice. No alcohol.
“Guess we have to wait till later.” Quincy says.
He seems anxious to talk, and I try to be a good listener.
“Maybe you’ll meet your soul mate tonight,” I say.
“I got a girlfriend. I mean, we’re going through a rough time right now…I dunno. She seems like she wants to have babies and get married. She’s 31. But I---I already got two kids. I ain’t ready for that. You know? I’m trying to get my sports medicine degree….I don’t want to miss out on another one of my kid’s childhoods…so I dunno. I wish she would chill.”
DJ Pickle starts playing Coldplay’s new song Sky Full of Stars.
‘You like Coldplay?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“Coldplay.”
“Oh ya.”
“This is their new song. I’d give it…an 8. Or maybe less. It’s very…weak and watery for Coldplay.”I say.
Justin Timberlake’s song “Don’t Act Like it’s a Bad Thing to Fall In Love With Me” comes on.
Quincy is quiet now, looking like a bouncer in front of the red rope.
But I can’t shut up yet.
“ This one’s not great either. I feel like this is Timberlake’s attempt to get right back on the radio after he didn’t win a Grammy. Kind of a desperate attempt.”
“I’m sure he didn’t care.”
“No he did. I met a girl who won that Master card contest and she got to meet him and apparently he was really bummed after the Grammy’s.”
Quincy laughs. A slow parade of odd- looking characters begin to wander into the room.
There is an old man with long white hair and about a thousand beads around his neck.
“What do you think his story is?” I ask Quincy.
“The musician.” He says.
“Really?” I ask.
“Ya there was supposed to be a musician here doing tricks.”
“You mean magician?” I say.
“Ya musician.” He has an Atlanta accent.
Soon the models are placed and arranged on a sort of weird looking altar in the middle of the room with a gaudy chandelier and lots of flowers.
They are supposed to be characters from the book the party is themed around.
Some mystical story about young girls and mirrors and finding yourself in ancient Egypt.
Soon the place is full of strangers. Women with fake tits, and sparkly shoes.
“Man, that lady’s got all kinds of injections. And I don’t just mean her boobs.” Quincy says.
At that moment, by chance, she walks over to our still empty VIP area.
“ Hi!” she thrusts her breasts into Jojo’s face who has come to chat with us, bored.
“What’s this?” She says.
“VIP,” Quincy says.
She walks away.
“Man I’m starving,” I say. “Isn’t there any food at this party?” I ask JoJo.
“I think there’s another party going on,” Jojo says.
“ Should we sneak into it?” I say.
He grins.
“Ya! Let’s go.”
He leads the way through the crowd, and we walk through the restaurant and out onto a patio full of people dressed in Brooks Brother’s suits and classy sheath dresses.
Premier Travel.
“Now this is my kind of party,” I say.
We see trays being passed around and follow the scent to a back buffet covered in slider burgers and mountains of French fries.
“Look!” I say, as if we’ve found gold.
We go over giggling, piling our plate with fries and little burgers.
“We gotta bring one back for Quincy,” I say.
A man from the Netherland turns and starts chatting with me.
“Let’s go!” Jojo says.
“Wait!” I say, “ we gotta get champagne.”
We walk to the back bar.
“I don’t have my Id though,” Jojo frowns.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“21,” he says.
“Ya right, “ I say, but wink at him and ask for two champagnes.
We both are grinning and giggling as we walk towards the door.
“Lets go through the outside door,” I say.
But JoJo continues back through the front doors and we hurry back to our party smiling and excited.
Quincy sees us and laughs.
Suddenly a woman in a blazer with glasses and a security guard grab JoJo’s arm and stop us.
“Excuse me, that food is from another party. We need that back.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Absolutely.” They say.
“But…aren’t you just going to throw it away?” I ask.
“You can pay for it with a credit card if you want.” The security guard says.
“NO, it’s fine, here.” I hand them the burgers and champagne, and they look almost annoyed we hadn’t put up more of a fight.
Jojo and I walk back to VIP smiling and a bit scared that we’re in trouble. But I’m so hungry I feel like I might faint.
The night blurs on.
Women come back and chat with me and ask for Cranberry Vodkas now that the bottle has arrived.
I look around and Quincy and Jojo have gone, chatting with the models.
Around 11 I decide it’s time to go.
I’ve helped out.
I hug the guys goodbye, and walk out into the LA night.
I pass homeless people at the bus station, passing a needle back and forth.
I’m shocked to see this moment live.
I hurry, realizing I’m a girl alone at night. I pass a biker.
The night is warm and dull and I think back to other nights…nights I was wearing the same gown,…just in another scenario. Nights full of promise and romance and music.
I tell myself I’m here because I’m an experience junkie…and experience is good. Being with humans and in new enviroments is good.
But another part of me wonders, what am I doing here?
Every moment of my life had somehow led me up to this bizarre moment in time, walking to the escalator, back to 3c, alone. To my beat up kia. Into LA traffic.
And I try to tell myself, this moment will lead to a better one, soon.
I hope. I desperately pray.
#hollywood #hollywierd #flashback — feeling curious, writing.
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