Stories of Kerry & Ross
I love nate silver
Two confessions. 1. I am drunk. Obviously. 2. I am eating a celebratory donut. Which, actually, I don't think is a donut at all, but some kind of cruller thing. And is not very good, I am noticing. So strike #2. One. One confession.
I just walked strode across downtown from Kerry and Ross's, with whom I had dinner (risotto! brussel sprouts!) and three bottles of wine, and watched the election results. We got shitty, ate cheesy carbs, and talked about the craziness of their bosses, the craziness of wingnut Republicans, and the craziness of the fact that while visiting Italy, Ross and Kerry obtained Italian citizenship by tracking down the birth records of Ross’s paternal grandmother. HOW COOL. Now Ross has an Italian passport and Kerry will get one in a couple of years, by virtue of their marriage.
Anyway.
I was so elated, so relieved, so inspired when I left, that I couldn't even walk at a normal pace, like a normal person. I stuck my hands deep in my hoodie (it got surprisingly cold while I was in their cozy loft, getting drunk and playing with their cats), put my headphones in, queued up I.D.G.A.F.O.S., and practically danced home to Famima to get a donut cruller.
How about that acceptance speech? Christ I love that man. I love today. I love Nate Silver. I love getting choked up, handing in an election ballot. I love watching people Instagram their "I voted" stickers. I love watching conservatives melt down and eat crow.
Heaping helpings of crow.
And I love, love, love that Elizabeth Warren won.
And now, some cats!
It’s All Okay
I wake to music. Bass guitar and muffled lyrics: sound checks on the street below. The nostalgia wastes no time settling on me as I lay in bed, a fine dust I know will be difficult to shake off. Last year's St. Patrick's Day was one of the best days in I've had in LA. I spent the day with the two people I felt closest to, men who I knew understood and loved me, in spite of everything awful about me. We stood together, alone amongst thousands of other people, threw our arms around one another, and belted out the words to songs that dialed me back years, to other joyful times in my life. Music and love, romantic and Platonic, memories created and called upon, just steps from my front door. I was enraptured by life that day.
Drugs will do that to you.
And it's drugs that are on my mind when I wake up, because I'm scared. I'm scared that this nostalgia will choke me if I don't find something sweet to wash it down with. So much has changed in the past year. I've grown enormously, yes. I've tried to roll with the knocks, both brutal and easy, and I think I've landed in a pretty good place. But a part of me can't help but long for the life I had 365 days ago. A few weeks after St. Patrick's Day, 2012, I was on a plane to Florida to help my father die. A few months after that, the relationship that I'd clung to like a life raft, terrified of even more loss, ended, sending me into a spiral of desperation and suicidal ideation. And a few months after that, Wally moved away, taking with him something I hadn't even known existed until I met him.
Constants downgraded to variables. Touchstones crumbled to ashes. Remember, Ellie, this is why you don't hang your happiness on things that can change.
Yeah, well.
But though my mind occasionally flashes to the contents of the tiny plastic bag inside the vase that's pushed far to the back of my highest kitchen cabinet shelf, I'm determined to give it a go without. I can do this. I'll just get hammered and have a great time with my friends. I won't look back.
I take Chaucer for a long, brisk walk, and he even gets some rare, off-leash play with another dog. This feels like a good sign, and as we round the corner of my block, the barricades and trucks, the tents and lights and balloons, the early revelers that are already trickling into the street festival, charge me up with positive vibes. It's going to be a good day.
I don't even have a plan, really. I've invited Kerry and Ross to join me, but it's iffy that they're going to come. Some acquaintances from the neighborhood, and another one from my building, have said they'll be there, but we haven't set a time or a meetup point, and it will be hard to find them in the crowd. I consider texting some other downtown friends, but decide against it. If I'm going to spend time with anyone today, it needs to be with people I love. The only people I feel close to that are actually nearby, and that can come, are Kerry and Ross, but as they're not fans of crowds, there's a very good chance that I'll be going alone.
And I'm mostly ok with that, since a) not going is not an option, because the sound of the massive party pouring in my windows would just be too depressing to hide from, b) I know after a few drinks I'll be happy to mingle with strangers, anyway, and c) A. is going, and I know if I run into him, we'll probably stick together for the day.
I feed Chaucer, slam water to rehydrate from a party the night before, and get dressed while listening to Flogging Molly, loud. It's the one day a year I can blast music with impunity, since my neighbors can't hear it above what is already rocking our building from the street below. I put on a button down, a kelly green sweater, a plaid miniskirt, over-the-knee socks, a skinny scarf, and a pair of combat boots. An outfit that's ridiculous and way too young, but which I can get away with on a day like today, when silliness, spirit, and inappropriate wardrobe choices abound.
I put in a final request urging Kerry and Ross to come over, and head downstairs. Residents of my building have been given free VIP access to the festival, so I get to bypass the block-long line and walk in with almost no wait. I'm trying to psych myself up for the day, but I'm not feeling it. And as I drift into the crowd, populated by clusters of laughing friends, I lose emotional steam. I don't want to be alone here. But the U2 cover band that I loved so much last year and the year before is playing, so I put on my game face and push up towards the stage. The sun is beating down on me, and I realize that a cashmere sweater, wool thigh highs, and no sunglasses was a bad call.
I'm debating whether to get a drink, run back home to change, or leave downtown for the day altogether when I realize someone is talking to me. A guy decked out in festive accessories is asking me something. Who are you looking for? Are you alone?
No, I'm not alone, I reply. Are you alone? It's only sort of a lie. Kerry and Ross may come, and if not, I know I'll run into people I know soon enough. The guy says he's looking for a girl, a friend he's lost in the crowd. He tells me I look like I just walked out of Hogwarts. I laugh, but have no witty comeback. I can't wrap my head around this conversation, I say honestly. I'm way too sober. Sensing I'm not in party mode yet, the guy wishes me a happy holiday and disappears back into the throng.
I realize I'm sweating in my layers, and that if I don't go home and change, my low mood has a zero percent chance of improving. As I head out the exit, I see that at this point, even the VIP line has gotten ridiculous, and I'll be in for a wait when I come back. But my apartment is just around the corner, so I decide it's still worth being more comfortable.
At home, I tear off my sweater and shirt, my skirt and my socks. Chaucer dances around me excitedly, nervous at all the energy and sound filling our tiny space. I change into a tank top layered under a green and black striped crop top, jeans, and Converse. I drink another glass of water, and lean against the counter, trying to relax. I want to have a good day. I need to have a good day. I can't have last year back, but I can have something equally good, if I choose it. I have to choose it.
But the day has taken on a life and a meaning of its own, and I feel helpless to stop it. It suddenly feels like a litmus test of my happiness. I'm petrified of the comparison between this St. Patrick's Day and the last one, and what it will do to me if today is a bummer. And that's when I decide to write myself a money-back guarantee.
I have to stand on the tips of my toes to reach the vase. I pull it down carefully, and take a small, compressed tablet out of the bag inside. It's purplish-white, with the shape of a cat stamped on one side and M80 on the other. Other than the thickness and the stamps, it looks exactly like my synthroid pills. I force down two more full glasses of water before I swallow the tab, and promise myself I'll get more water at the bar downstairs, first thing.
Back at the festival, I have a twenty minute wait just to get in again. I try not to feel frustrated as I hear the band play songs I love, reminding myself that it'll be at least forty minutes before I start to roll, anyway. Kerry and Ross text to say they're on their way; that they're just drinking some whiskey first. A knot in my shoulders loosens. Yes. I won't be alone today. In just a little while I'll be laughing and singing and cavorting with friends, just like everyone else. Gratitude washes over me, and logistics settled, I focus on guiding the warmth and light that's slowly building in my bloodstream, on channeling it up through my neural pathways, out my fingertips, and into the world around me. I imagine myself a conduit and a receptacle. I can take energy and I can give it. Today will be what I make of it. This high will run the course that I take it on. Make the conscious decision, Ellie. Choose light and love and laughter, and those are the things you will get.
Serotonin is a biological miracle in and of itself, and I'm awed by the fact that humans have figured out a way to hijack and amplify it, purely for recreational purposes. This is one of the last sober thoughts I remember having, before the light and love and laughter float me up to another plane, where I spend the next several hours.
---
To write the rest of yesterday in chronological, sensical, and dryly factual prose would feel like a lie, because my thoughts, feelings, and experiences were deeply colored by the drug I took. I just don't know that I'd be able to accurately recreate what actually happened. What was said, and thought, and felt. Or if not a lie, maybe something even worse - some kind of gross imprisonment of things pure and organic and defying of classification. Things that shouldn't be bottled up or tied down, because they aren't mine alone for the tying down.
If you haven't been there, I know that doesn't make any sense. But if you have, you understand what I'm trying to say, even if my words are overly florid and melodramatic. There's nothing you can say to make someone who's never taken MDMA understand what it's like, because the experience is so individual for everyone. Every time I try to explain it, or write about it, I come up against a wall that divides the words I know from the feelings I want to describe. Everything I'd want to make understood is on the far side of that wall, beyond the reach of description. The closest I could come would be to just write the word euphoria, over and over and over a hundred times.
But since that would be boring, I'll put some more words down, anyway.
---
Back at the stage. Sunlight feels good now. Yes. Really good. The crowd thickens around me. Not pushy, not drunken. Just happy. Or maybe it's me. Maybe that's it.
Tap on my shoulder. Tall young man, bowler hat. Grass green vest, green plaid tie. Green eyes, devastating eyelashes, straight black hair past his shoulders. His exaggerated bow. M'lady. My delighted laughter. A hug. An acquaintance who works in the neighborhood. From New Zealand. His accent and dialect are charming. Much younger. Works at my favorite casual lunch spot. I sit at the counter, we chat while he cooks.
Do you want a drink?
Not drinking today. My meaningful look. But I will need water soon.
He understands. Stay put, be right back. Couldn't move if I wanted to.
A few minutes later, a cold bottle is pressed into my hands. Lots of birds here.
Birds?
Birds. Women.
Yes. Birds. I love it. The music and sunshine, the connectivity. Strangers smiling. Singing to themselves, one another. Sunday Bloody Sunday. A massive Irish flag, waved across a stage. I can feel it now. It's definitely here. It's good. It's going to be really good. The chatty phase.
I sent the lead singer some photos I got of him a couple years ago, and he loved them.
Yeah? Did he ever try to holler at you?
Holler?
Holler at. You know, like, ask you out.
I love this, too. Oh no, nothing like that. I never met him or anything.
Well, he would if he met you. You know that right?
Turning to face him. What...?
You have no idea. You're the most radiant woman. When you walk down the street... He trails off.
I smile. Looking straight at him. Leaning close to his ear. That is such an amazing thing to say to a girl. Really. That's the most beautiful compliment, and I'm so flattered. But we're friends, right? And we're going to stay friends? You know how old I am, right?
Oh, I know. I know. I wasn't... His face is sincere. He's just being sweet. And drunk. Confessing a crush. No hurt feelings. It's good. Everything is good. He drifts away soon, though. Later, I'll bump into him. Bombshell redhead, green halter dress. Seems genuinely happy to be talking to him. Yes. Good for him. An introduction. I tell her with honesty how stunning she is, how much she stands out in the crowd. His smile is even bigger than hers. No trace of resentment or weirdness. Everything is ok. I've lost nothing. Maybe even gained something.
I float a little bit higher, and memories form with a bit more disjointedness.
---
Kerry and Ross arrive. Kerry’s tipsy, but rattled by a dog attack they witnessed on the way over. Me joking and laughing. Cajoling her out of a bad mood. She's ok. She's happy. A friend of hers is here. We meet up. VIP section. Our group grows: friends of friends, coworkers, partners. Laughter, random connection, coincidence in a not-small town. Wait, you know Stacy too?
Cameron texts me. He's not having a fabulous day. I tell him how much he's missed. Do you remember a year ago right now?
- I do. That was quite a day. How are you doing? Celebratory? Wistful?
- High. Little bit wistful too, yeah. ...Ok, a lot. :(
- Sorry doll. Maybe it's just down payment on future joy. Plus wistful at least means you had good stuff. Nobody's wistful for crap times.
It's cold. I'm cold now. I run home again for a coat. This time I'm not made to wait, and I rejoin my friends quickly. The wind. We huddle together. Drinks, more drinks. Water, more water. I'm in conversation. I'm miles away. I'm face to face. I'm above myself, looking down. This is my life. These are my friends. I live here. I've made this my home. I have work to do, to improve myself, to be a better person, but I've achieved this at least. These good people care about me. There's nothing more beautiful than that. My mind is quick. I'm wittier. I'm making strangers and new friends laugh. The hum and buzz of energy builds around our small cluster in the chilly afternoon. We are happy people, in this moment, on this day.
My heart full. I did it. I made today ok. I feel fantastic. The smiles on the faces of my friends mean everything to me. It's enough. I need nothing more. I deserve nothing more. But I'll get more anyway.
---
We leave the festival, but the group falls apart. Confusion, disagreement; scattered, drunken minds. Some tension. Too much to drink. They want to eat, to slow down and stop soon. I don't. None of that. No way. Not yet. I'm still high, not ready for the weight of reality, of arguments and frustration.
I text Greg again. We've been texting all day, on and off. He's high too. He was at the festival, felt like painting, went home to do work. At a bar now. Come join me, he says. I look at my friends.
Guys, I'm leaving. You're arguing, and I love you, but I'm really high, and I need to keep moving. Ok?
Kerry is hurt, angry. What? No! We'll come with you.
No. I need a Kerry and Ross break, ok? I love you guys to death, but I'm gonna go.
Anger. You're full of shit. You're going to meet someone.
Yes, I am. I'm going to meet Greg. He's high too. And I want to see him. Please don't be mad. Are you mad?
Are you leaving because we're fighting or because you want to see Greg?
Both. I want to see him, so it's convenient that you're arguing.
Honesty: a side effect of the drug. Her face softens.
Ok, go.
Are you mad?
No, get out of here.
---
A bar a few blocks away. Crowded, dark. He's not alone. I don't want to be here. I want to be back at the music, under the lights and in the crowd. He agrees. Let's go. Should we take more? Do you have more? I do. Let's split one. I reach deep into my pocket for another tablet, which he carefully bites in half, grimacing at the bitter taste. I drop the other half in my water bottle, shaking it vigorously before taking a sip. His friend leaves.
Just us. Again. Walking down the street. Laughing, talking, reminiscing. Harmless. Happy. High. It starts slow. Can I hug you? I just want to hug you.
Yes. You can. That would be ok. That would be fantastic.
His arms wrap around me from behind. Strong and tight and warm. Back at the festival. Music. Cold. We dance, we play. We hug and hold. I slip my arms into his sweatshirt. What happened? How did this...? Time machine. It's the exact same fucking moment. Almost, anyway. And better, in some ways. No hurt on the horizon. We know the score. This is a safe place we visit. A well we drink from when we're dying of thirst. He gazes down at me. I gaze back up. The grinning. Our grins, always. We must look ridiculous.
Stop.
You stop.
No, you.
The words start.
There's no one like you.
There's no one like you, either.
And so it goes. We walk hand in hand to the bookshelf, and we take it down together. Be careful, it's heavy. We flip through the pages. I point to a picture. He tells the story. Remember? Remember? Sighs that are more happy than sad. That song. Remember? That day. Remember? Bonnaroo. Remember?
We cling to one another, sway to the music. I rest my head against his chest, low because of my flat shoes. His eyes are bright. He is so happy. So, so happy.
I lower the bucket, bring it back up for him to drink from. You know you're the reason I started writing again, right? I mean, serious writing? You unlocked it. You were the muse. You probably saved my life.
His turn. Lower the bucket. Bring it up. I'm thirsty, too. I've never felt better than when I was with you. You made me feel like I'm ok. Like it's ok to be who I really am.
This is what we do. This is the gift we give one another. We've done it over and over, in the months since we ended. And we'll probably do it again.
You have no idea. You're such a happy person. I wish I could be that way.
Do I really seem happy?
El, I've seen you at your absolute worst. The lowest you could possibly be. And it was bad, right? It was really bad. But I see you, and I know who you are, and you are truly so happy. You make yourself happy. You're amazing.
I swallow this, bury it deep down in the safest part of me, and then I give it right back. I praise his talent, his ambition and drive, which are unlike any I've ever seen in a self-employed creative. I don't know how you do it. Every day, you work so hard, and you make it happen. Other things he deserves to know, too. You were the best boyfriend I ever had. You showed so much care and consideration for my well being and my happiness. ...You are the most authentic person I've ever known. Even at your worst, you are always just...you. No artifice. No hiding who you are.
---
It's inevitable, and it starts with the kiss. Minutes long, lingering, in plain sight of everyone milling around us. Drawing the attention - and occasionally the comments - of strangers walking by. Unlike any kiss given back on earth. We're not on earth. We're way, way above it. The things in the kiss are timeless and beautiful: friendship and understanding and compassion and comfort. We are on the exact same plane, physically and emotionally. It's ok. It's so, so ok.
---
Soft blankets. Candlelight. Silly Chauc, go lie down. Laughter. This is so great. How do you feel?
Amazing.
Me too.
He asks whether I've been writing. He doesn't read my blog - only the occasional post that I want to share with him, and that I send to him. Not much, I say. The GOMI thing really fucked me up. I don't want to be judged. Sometimes I wonder why I do it. What am I putting myself out there for? To what end? Even Instagram. It gets exhausting. I think I need a break.
He tells me a story about an artist, some woman who wrote on her website about the lowest, ugliest moments of her heroine addiction and depression. And how it was so relieving to her, to have it all out there. Like, go ahead, judge me if you want, it's just who I am.
Yes, I say excitedly. That's exactly it. It's like a confessional where I can just lay myself out, and people can either accept who I am or not.
Music. Explosions in the Sky, is that ok?
That's perfect.
Postcard From 1952. A more perfect song has never been written. It rips through my heart and my soul, leveling me where I lay, pressed against him. Sheets, smooth and soft. It's cold, though. Put the heat on. Yes. Come back. Come close. You are so beautiful. Your body. Oh El, your body.
Your shoulders. They've been molded. I trace their lines with my fingertips. They're like those things football players wear, what are they called?
Shoulder pads? He laughs. Be quiet.
We talk and talk and kiss and talk and kiss. We talk about our romantic lives, about the people we've met, dated, and connected with - or failed to. We talk about my father, about how experiencing his death together was one of the most powerful and bonding experiences of not just our relationship, but of our lives. I struggle to find the words to tell him how amazing he was for me at that time. Husband-like. That's all I can say. You were just...husband-like. You took charge and did what I couldn't, and you got me through it. Emotionally, logistically, everything.
I'm still so high. I close my eyes and describe the visions in my mind. The faces and shapes and colors and movement. I change the music. Of Monsters and Men. I sing softly in his ear.
A wave of clarity washes over me, and I realize what it is I love most about this man, what is so unique about him to me. He's the only man I've ever known who has willingly, openly, and happily laid his whole heart on the table for me. He's the only one who's been truly emotionally available and vulnerable, ready to take on the happy and the hurt, come what may. His attention and love were undivided, and mine for the taking. I try to explain this to him, but fail. Dating in LA is hard, he says. Everyone is looking for something better. But you'll be ok. I want so much for you to be happy, El.
Another music change. Youth Lagoon. I'm sleepy. I'm drifting. He tries to pull me back in. I know what he wants. My mind wants it, too, but my body is maxed out. I can't, I say. I'm sorry. I'm so tired. Holding me close. But the music expands, reaches out to me. The songs I love most pull me back to the moment: Posters, Daydream. I shift positions, I feel his need.
I whisper in the flickering light. What do you need?
No, it's ok. We shouldn't...
What do you need...? I reach out, touch him, answer my own question. His sighs. I've always loved his sighs. Rewards for piecing the puzzle together correctly. This. You need this. And this...
---
Something to hold. Something to know. Something to believe. Something that is sure and true and won't change. You are a beautiful person who changed my life forever, and for the better. We aren't right for one another, and we know it, but you are an oasis in the desert that is sometimes my life, and I'm one in yours.
No one was hurt. No betrayals, no infidelities, no lies. I have no one special in my life, and neither does he.
Friends. Bodies. Comfort. Love, of a kind. Serotonin. St. Patrick's Day, 2013.
It's all ok.
Half hearted
The first thing I want to say is that I am drunk. That is the first thing.
The list of categories in my sidebar tells me that this is the not the first time I have done something like this. I do not know what to make of that. Whether that adds legitimacy (?) to this post, or whether it just makes it more pathetic, I am not sure.
In any case, that is the first thing I want to disclaim: I am drunk.
The second thing I want to say is that I love my friends. I mean, fuck do I love them. I can say that it is not exaggeration or hyperbole when I declare that I am alive because of them, because I am. They do not like when I tell them this (I do not blame them), but it is true. I am alive because of my friends. When I am at the absolute end of my rope, the thought of good times and laughs with my friends is the only thing that keeps me tethered. It is the only thing that keeps me from letting go.
All my life I dreamt of having friends like I have now. I don't know what I did wrong, in high school and college and the years afterward. I don't know if I was just a complete asshole, or if the people I was choosing as friends were complete assholes. But I have never ever had friends like I do now. People who save my life without knowing it, with their humor and grace and kindness.
Tonight I went out with mah girl Kerrbear. She is a lovely, wonderful, huge and beautifully hearted person. She has a job she hates, but she works very hard at it. She commutes every day, driving for hours each way. She deserves better, and I have every faith in her that she'll get it, soon, because she is spectacularly dedicated and has a thing which I lack, which is an eye on her long game.
Kerry's long game is amazing. It involves living in Italy. I hope I am allowed to visit.
Anyway.
Tonight, Kerrbear and I went out. We had drinks at one bar, and then another. Lots of drinks. (Also, lots of fried food.)
And I told her. I said, "Kerry, I think I'm going to end it with the dude I have been seeing."
And she made the appropriate face, which was something between sadness and surprise, with understanding thrown in. Because she knows I have liked this dude, and am disappointed that it is not working out.
But I explained to her the thing that I will now explain to you, which is that it could not be clearer how not into me this dude is.
Alas. It sucks, but it is true.
What do you mean, Ellie? you say. How could he not be into you? You are so cool and funny and smart, albeit slightly ridiculous and rather self involved and oh yeah, you're thirty-eight years old and sort of mostly jobless and divorced, and that doesn't exactly recommend you to members of the opposite sex BUT OTHER THAN THAT how could he not be into you?
To which I say, I don't know. It is a thing I have puzzled over for the better part of six weeks, as I have rode the roller coaster which is His Interest Level, which waxes and wanes depending on how close it is to the weekend (i.e., how close it is to the day in which he will be sleeping with me).
I do not know, I tell you verily, but it makes me sad. It makes me sad that at first he seemed very interested in me. Texts and wine and making me dinner and stolen kisses and you know. That sort of thing, which made parts of me (which I will not name lest I embarrass myself further) swell up and feel full of promise.
It makes me sad that despite my doing everything I could in my power to communicate my interest in him, it was not enough to win his interest back.
What do you do? he asked me, understandably, and I tried to explain. I write, I said weakly. I told him I'm writing a novel (which I am! I really am!) and do you know how many times he asked to read something I've written? Any old thing at all?
Zero. He asked zero times.
One day not so very long ago he told me the name of his favorite book, and said I should read it. So do you know what I did? You know, yes. I bought it and downloaded it the very next night and read it. And do you know what he said when I told him I'd done so?
Nothing, basically.
He didn't ask me what I'd thought of it, or express any surprise or appreciation that I'd spent three hours of my life trying to better understand him.
There are, apparently, dudes who will sleep with you, spend an afternoon with you, and then not talk to you for three, four, five days at a time. You can reach out to them and send silly texts to say hello, or just to lob the ball over to their side of the net to say Hey! It's me! Just letting you know you're on my mind, and I'm interested in getting to know you further! - but they will not do the same.
And if you let them, these dudes will continue to do that for weeks on end, under the guise of being OMGbusy.
But it does not take very long to send a thirty second text. In fact, I timed how long it takes to send a thirty second text. It takes thirty seconds.
Also? The only times he ever picked up the phone to call me were to ask for my help with his fundraiser. So that sort of sucked, as well.
Christ I am drunk. Probably screenshot this if you hate me, because it will not stay up long. Or maybe it will. Fuck, I do not know.
This is the saddest thing I have ever written, but also maybe one of the funniest, because I am totally okay with it. I am okay with the fact that some dude is not as into me as I would like, and here I am on the internet being sad about it, like a teenager. It is okay because it is a thing that happens to all of us in our lives. Boy meets girl. One of them likes the other more. Sadness ensues. It doesn't mean I'm not worthy or awesome, or that I won't find someone who CANNOT BELIEVE I haven't been taken already.
Still, I think it's kind of dickish to never even ask to read anything I've written.
I mean, it's what I do.
Anyway.
Now everyone is up to speed. Ellie was seeing a dude who was only half-heartedly interested in her. She realized on Thursday how much that sucks, and decided that she's done with being the object of half-hearted interest.
But she still has fucking awesome friends, and that is something.
Goodnight.
On the record
I spend Saturday afternoon organizing my closet, pulling winter clothes for donation and boxing up summer stuff. Kerry texts to confirm dinner plans for that night: am I down for Mexican? I am always down for Mexican. She invites me to meet them at her place but for once I flip the invitation. You guys are welcome here for a change. I have liquor.
My place it is.
There's much to catch up on over drinks; they've been house hunting in San Francisco since I saw them last. Though her transfer date hasn't been determined, it's definite: Kerrbear and Ross - Kross, as I’ve dubbed them for texting shorthand purposes - are leaving LA. I have all the sads in the world about it, every last motherfucking one, and have since she told me the news about a month ago - but I am very, very happy for her. A promotion less than a year after joining the company, and a move to SF, where she and Ross ultimately wanted to end up anyway. They pass their phone across the kitchen island to me: pics of the Nob Hill stunner they've got their eye on. I ooh and ahh appreciatively and feel weirdly proud to count such a successful, ambitious couple as my friends.
It's just me until Terence joins us later, but there's no sense of being a third wheel with Kross. There never has been. We talk about real estate, about work, about music and movies, about mutual friends. They gamely play with Chaucer when he shoves toys in their laps, and as we get cozily tipsy, I take a mental snapshot of the moment. Grateful for my friends, grateful for their laughter and easy conversation, grateful to realize I've enjoyed 3+ years of it. Knowing I'll see them again, even after they move, knowing the jokes about their second bedroom being our guest room aren't bullshit.
I remember the boots, and dash off to my closet to get them. Maison Martin Margiela, acrylic faux wood grain high heels, mahogany leather so sumptuous my neighborhood shoe repair guy marveled at them admiringly before asking where they were from.
(I got them online, I admit. Crazy discount, but final sale. I couldn't return them. They're my size, but too tight. My broken left foot can't deal. Please say you can stretch them? He tried his best.)
Kerry's a half size smaller than me and I'm hoping they'll fit her. I'm also hoping she'll be blown away. Not for gratitude's sake, but because she would never in a million years splurge on something like these for herself. I could sell them, but the thought of her wearing them makes me way happier than the relatively little I could recoup on eBay. Kerry is a hard-working, career-focused, badass professional woman in her early forties who just landed a promotion and a transfer to one of the coolest cities in the world. She deserves a pair of luxe designer boots. She's fucking earned them.
They're snug, but she's game to break them in on the hills of San Francisco. Yes! The smile on my face watching her model them in the full length mirror has very little to do with my Pimm's Cup. I don't say out loud that they're my goodbye gift. I don't want to talk about her leaving at all. But privately I feel pleased as punch to be able to do something special, to commemorate this milestone in my friend's life.
We take an Über to Silver Lake for dinner. Margaritas straight up, ice on the side. Terence arrives halfway through dinner and walks up to applause from Kross (he's just finished a show) and a burrito steaming on his plate. We catch him up quickly, eat slowly, and linger over second margaritas. When I return from a trip to the bathroom I am met with wagging fingers and tsk tsk's from Kross. "I'm going to kick your ass right now," Kerry declares. I frown. What'd I do? "You didn't vote??" she asks, exasperated but smiling. Ross shakes his head at me, also smiling. I am so busted.
I shoot Terence (who voted) a look. "Of all people, you told them??" Kross doesn't fuck around when it comes to politics. Which is what we discuss next, Kerry admitting to not having known much about some of the initiatives on the ballet - "But at least I made it!" (She barely had time to get to the polls after a day of work and a stressful doctor's appointment.) I pledge to my friends to never again lapse on my civic duty and change the subject, tangentially, to John Oliver.
Later, more drinks back at our place. We are officially drunk. I want to play darts, so after I let Chaucer out for a quick potty we head downstairs to Casey's. But the patio is too smoky, so we get a table inside instead. I'm still clutching the high ball full of arrows I've traded my ID for when we decide to duck around the corner and check out the live music. Female duo, Fleetwood Mac cover. Perfect: Kerry's an 80's music freak. The four of us stand and watch and sing, and I take another mental snapshot. Then an actual one, of Terence and Ross. I plead with Kerry to take one with me, but no dice. (There is rarely dice on that table. Kerry loathes having her photo taken.)
Terence leans in and cups my ear so I'll hear him over the music. "Baby, do you want to go play darts? That's why we came, I know you wanted to." Nope. I'm good right here, happy that Kerry's happy, cheerfully wasted and enjoying music she likes. There'll be plenty of time for darts when she's gone.
Terence hears the subtext of my response, the not-so-deeply buried heartbreak and disappointment I have been suppressing since I got the news that my best girlfriend in Los Angeles is moving away. That I'm saying goodbye to another friend. That I'm losing another friend to San Francisco. (Fucking San Francisco loves to steal my friends.) My boyfriend reads my expression and understands that I'm hurting even while I'm happy, and he cups my ear again.
"You should have heard what she said about you, when you were walking Chauc." I shake my head, but don't pull away completely. I let him tell me. And it's hard to fight back the tears when he does - but I do. I'm a little shocked by what he tells me, because even though I know Kerry cares about me, she's not an overly demonstrative or sentimental person, and I've learned to feel her affection through actions, not words. So the words I hear repeated to me, about me, blow me away in the best possible way. I feel relieved and validated to learn that she thinks of me as I think of her. That she doesn't find me to be the frivolous, foolish person I'd always sort of assumed she did.
Where's Ellie? Is she gone? she'd said.
Yeah, she took Chaucer down.
Okay well I just want to officially say, on the record, that she is the most amazing woman I know. Like, seriously.
That sounds like some Ellie and Kerry type stuff that you should probably tell her yourself.
But it's okay that she didn't tell me herself. It's so totally okay. I shrug off the compliment when Terence relays the exchange, but secretly it hits me right in the stomach, like a swallow of something warm and wonderful. It was the liquor talking, I know that. It was hyperbole and exaggeration, but even if all that's true is a tiny seed of it, now I know I am genuinely loved and respected by someone I love and respect. And knowing that makes it a little easier to say goodbye.
Later we walk them home with Chaucer, whom I pass off to Ross so I can lag behind with Kerr. Four friends, sobering up, semi-stumbling across downtown Los Angeles. Two men, two women, a Mastiff, and a box of boots. Snapshots mental and real. Grateful, happy, sad.
Later still, Terence and I are sitting on the steps of the Aon building, eating Haagen Dasz bars from Famima. Closing time, the sidewalk filling up with stragglers much drunker than the two of us. A group of dudes is taking selfies against the tower behind us. Terence cracks jokes about the scene and I throw my head back, laughing loudly. As the group descends the stairs to head off into the night, one of them pauses. He's clearly been drinking but he looks squarely at us, pointing a finger, and says in a respectful, friendly tone: "You two look extremely happy."
Had I been more sober, I know I would have responded more enthusiastically, thanking him sincerely for saying something so sweet. But as it was, his pronouncement felt like the cherry on top of a night so simply awesome that I couldn't do anything other than nod matter-of-factly as I licked my ice cream.
"We are," I assured him. And I hoped it didn't sound smug, because it was all I felt capable of saying, on a Saturday night worth writing about, the first chance I got - a Saturday night I don't want to forget.
Buzzy
The only way to top Drinksgiving with friends is to come home and drunkwalk yr. favorite dog (mine is Chaucer) through quiet city streets, softly singing songs he doesn't understand though seems to like anyway.
The neighborhood is empty but strangely cheerful. Christmas lights strung on trees. A tiny, temporary ice skating rink. Everything peaceful and still. No security guard at the library tonight because of the holiday, so Chauc gets unclipped and can roam free, sniffing to his heart's content. Two slinky black shapes scatter but not before he sees them. He gives half-hearted chase for a few steps before remembering that it's pointless. Dogs can't catch cats.
Meanwhile I hang back, wrapped up in the warmth of the evening, buzzy with wine and reflecting on the mysterious cement that is friendship. I'm stuffed with food and laughter and a bit melancholy at the thought that all good things must come to an end.
But nothing good ended tonight.
Epic
The champagne is Kerry's idea. We're waiting for the guys, on our first round of cocktails in the lounge area of the Gallery Bar at the Biltmore. It's a refreshing change of ambiance from downtown's other three nightlife options (grungy, kiddie, or bougie). Here it's wingback chairs, piano, chandeliers and cast plaster columns. Bartender in a brocade vest who doesn't ask to hold a credit card. Patrons are scarce other than a cluster of puffy fifty-ish banker types in tuxedos. We're catching up.
"Oh, I've got something good," I say. I've already filled her in on Bonnaroo (she's only impressed by the 80s-era names on the lineup) and Terence's news (the cause for the champagne). "My ex-husband got remarried."
"Shut up. Really?"
I tell her what I know, which isn't much. Just what's on the wedding website, which is still up two months later. The only noteworthy part is the About Us timeline, which has some interesting dates. Keyword: overlap. But the liquor in my bloodstream makes me feel forgiving. And anyway, any sting I felt at the discovery a few days ago dissipated with the remembrance of how disastrously mismatched and unhappy he and I were.
"It's funny, but the thing that bugged me most was the photo gallery, all these snapshots of them together. He's wearing clothes I bought him. And I can tell from his hair that if those pictures weren't taken, like, simultaneously, then they were pretty damn soon after we split."
"So wait, you knew her?"
"Yeah. Well, no, I never met her. I knew of her. He worked with her. They were friends. She had a boyfriend at the time. He said."
She is suitably scandalized but I can't generate much more feeling about it. Any emotion I had to spend on him was cashed in half a decade ago. We move on.
Another round of cocktails because the guys are both still at work. Pimm's Cup for me; I know to keep my drinks light as long as possible, because there will be many. She's having dirty martinis, juice on the side, not her usual. She's sick of the sweet stuff, she says. A waitress dressed identical to the bartender brings a silver dish of mixed nuts.
Terence arrives first, smiling sheepishly and raising his arms in playful victory as he reaches us. He knows I will have told Kerry his big news. As he's settling in, leaning over to kiss me hello, I see Kerry give the signal to our waitress. She has the champagne ready behind the bar, and Ross walks in just as she's presenting it. Terence is surprised and grateful, but I just point at Kerry. "All her." There's half a strawberry for each of us, which we plunk into our flutes before toasting Terence. Clinking glass and cheering. Aaand we're off, I think.
We drink and talk. We gossip and joke. We debate dinner options, though it's still early. We drink and talk more. I excuse myself to go cough in the soundproof plushness of the ladies' powder room, cursing my choice of light leather bomber and ripped jeans. I'd kill for a puffer, knee boots, thick socks. At least my insides are alight with liquid warmth.
Back at the table, I nearly topple the flutes in my tipsy haste to show them something. "Oooh, you guys. I almost forgot. Check this out." On my phone's browser I search for an actor who I've recently realized is the spitting image of a mutual acquaintance. When I find the image I'm looking for, I pass my phone to Kerry. "Doesn't he look exactly like him?" Her astonished agreement pleases me.
"Oh my god, he totally does. Ross, look at this." She texts the photo to our friend.
We're ready for dinner; Italian wins out. But not our usual mom-and-pop spot. The bigger, fancier place with the menu and prices to match. We're celebrating, after all. On the walk over I split off alone and run back to the apartment for a warmer coat. Stupid not to have dressed better, getting over a cold. "Get a table, I'll be five minutes behind you." As I'm hurriedly trading summery flares for heavy denim and a sweater, Terence texts a photo. Two greyhounds he's just passed, on a walk with their owner, Kerry just ahead in the frame and looking, from the tilt of her shoulders, a bit wobbly. Puppehs, baby.
Dinner is delicious but a bit of a shitshow. We agree to share three entrees among us but somehow no one pays attention to the fact that all three choices contain red sauce. Kerry dislikes red sauce. When the food comes and she declines any of it, the rest of us stop cold, in the middle of serving ourselves, and stare at her incredulously. "Wait, you're not going to have anything??"
"I don't like red sauce. I told you guys! That's why I wanted the white pizza." I glare at Ross, who changed the pizza order.
"You are her husband," I accuse, pointing at him. His job to know her dietary preferences. But she isn't really mad, and squelches my insistence that we order something else. She's fine. She'll just have bread. She's pretty toasted.
I'm tasked with picking the wine, though I only ever order pinot noir or shiraz. We go through the pinot in a flash, as well as the sausage and black truffle pasta special, gnocchi, and a pizza the ingredients of which I can't identify. (Other than red sauce.) Halfway through the meal the mood of the table plummets and all of us are bickering with our partners. Kerry is morose, hungrier than she's letting on, and Ross is annoyed at her for stubbornly refusing to eat more than a bite of gnocchi, sauce scraped off. Terence is sloppy wasted and his table manners are driving me crazy. I snipe at him bossily. "Stop pointing at everyone's food like that." "Leave those for Ross, you finished the pizza." "I'm going to bathroom. Don't touch my wine."
After the plates are cleared, though, we're laughing again and back to our happy buzzy place. What's next? I want Kerry to see a nearby rooftop bar she's never been to but I know there'll probably be a line to get in. Kerry does not do lines. ("I'm forty-four," she likes to announce proudly. "I don't wait in lines.") But they're game to at least walk over, which we do, linking arms as couples and marching stiffly in the cold. Kerry doesn't have a jacket but swears she's fine.
There's a line, and though we give it a couple minutes, it'll be at least a quarter of an hour before we can get in, so we bail. Where to? Someone suggests the huge but cozy hipsterhaven craft cocktail bar/restaurant a few blocks over, where Kross met Terence for the first time, in September of 2013. As we troop in, Terence points to where the four of us sat that night. "It was right there, remember? You had your scooter." I remember.
We find four chairs by a carved-out section of wall where a fireplace would make sense, though there isn't one. Instead there's a grouping of tall glass oil candles. Little bit of heat, anyway. The chairs are low and wide, dark metal wire with thin ivory cushions. A low square cement table at our knees holds our drinks. Dirty martini, Terence's old-fashioned, my cider, and some cocktail with Mezcal that the bartender at first refused to make for Ross when he admitted he'd never had it. ("I'd rather make you something else," she says flatly. "Most people send it back, they don't like the smoky taste. It's really, really smoky," she repeats insistently. Ross listens to her argument, placidly nodding, yes, okay, that's alright. It's just us two at the bar getting drinks for the others and I feel defensive on behalf of my painfully polite friend. "It's fine," I tell her firmly. "He never sends anything back. And he's adventurous." Both are true, and he does indeed enjoy the drink.)
Back at the table I realize I've left a ring behind at the restaurant, that I took off when Kerry and I were trying on one another's jewelry. There's little chance of finding it, a delicate chain-style ring that, when taken off, collapses to nearly nothing. "It's no big deal," I insist. "Seriously like ten dollars at Unique LA. Totally replaceable." Terence runs back to the restaurant to look anyway, but returns empty-handed five minutes later.
We stay a while. The conversation turns to family. Kerry, sister to three brothers, tells us about the one she doesn't see much. Accomplished athlete, father to two boys she suspects will follow suit. At some point I pull my legs up into my chair, detaching from the talk and just blissfully enjoying the company of my friends. Kerry is Googling her athlete brother for pics to show me and Terence and Ross are animated, laughing about something else. Holy fuck I'm going to miss these people. I take a picture of them. Kerry's nose is in her phone but I can't risk asking her to look up; she'll hide her face. She hates having her photo taken.
When I drift back in, they're talking about Vladimir Putin. I don't have anything to contribute. My cider is the most delicious I've ever had. I examine the label. "Wandering Aengus". Must find. Whole Foods maybe?
Something's happened. Kerry's upset. What is it? What happened? Apparently she's annoyed that she's the only one with a full drink; ours are nearly empty. I thought we were drinking? she asks peevishly. I thought you guys wanted to get drinks? Isn't that why we're here? I try to soothe her. She's pretty far gone, and she's a lovably grumpy drunk. It's okay! Finish your drink. We're just chilling. I think we were talking about going someplace else, after, instead of getting another round.
But we're losing her. We need to change locations quickly or she'll be done for the night. So we head back out into the cold towards the main drag of bars. Long strides to match the men, and to keep warm. Terence scampers up to the elevated shopfronts that run the length of the sidewalk besides us. He weaves in and out of columns, singing, cavorting. I catch his eye and gesture with my hands. Your jacket, I mouth silently, jerking my head towards a shivering Kerry. Without interrupting the song or the weaving, Terence dutifully peels off his jacket and hands it to Kerry. She refuses ("I'm fine! Have I complained once?") but I forcefully drape it over she shoulders and after a moment she gives in and slips her arms through the sleeves.
Next bar. Loud, crowded, familiar faces. The bouncer, blue-eyed and thick-necked, greets me with a one-armed hug. "Hey stranger, long time no see." We used to chat when I'd come here to meet Kerry for drinks, back when I'd just gotten divorced. He doesn't card any of our group, and we find a snug corner in the back.
We stay too long. Kerry's starving, but refuses the chips I sneak off to buy her. We're all tired. Saturated. Maybe just old. The bar is playing 80s music though, which eventually gets the best of Kerry. She slides off her bar stool to dance. The chips, like the cider, seem like the most delicious I've ever had. Why does everything taste so good tonight? I squint in the dark at the bag. "Zapp's Voodoo Potato Chips." My shopping list grows.
Selfie time. Even Kerry's into it, cheerfully leaning into me for a shot of us. She likes it! Amazing! "Post that somewhere," she commands vaguely. Social media is a big mystery to her, as is my blog. But she knows I post stuff, somewhere. "Seriously. That's a great picture." It's a great picture of her. I, on the other hand, am a scraggly-haired disaster. Still, I know I'll post it, because of how she truly lit up when she saw it. That's rare.
Time collapses. We're on the move again. Next stop: more food. Second dinner for three of us, first for one. We take a Lyft to the famous Pacific Dining Car. I'm the only one who's never been, and the others enjoy my impressed reaction. It's as cloistered and rich and old-world and fun as they'd promised on the ride over. All green velvet and brass. Tartan carpet, soft-spoken waiters in penguin suits, cardboard framed menus heavy in the hand. Holy shit the prices. Seventy dollar steaks? You guys...
No, it's okay, there's a cheaper late night menu. Here.
I leave the decision making to them. I'm not really hungry, though I'll pick at what we get. I zone out, editing photos while they discuss. I only want to make sure Kerry gets exactly what she wants this time. Sure enough, when the server comes there's a moment of indecision and she offers to sacrifice her first choice, but the rest of us shout her down.
Food comes fast on the heels of final cocktails. Eggs benedict, hash browns, some kind of bacon and spinach scramble? I have a bite or two and then let the others finish it off. When they're done I smear chunks of fresh, hot white bread across the plate. The yolk. So fucking good.
It's fantastic - the meal, the laughter, the sleepy happy tipsy feel of our foursome. Our mood is solid. Everyone is firmly on board. Team players, all. Kerry even submits to more photos, cuddling on her husband like a cat. I thrust the phone in her face. "Look at you. Look at your skin!" She shrugs it off, smiling, not even asking for copies of such flattering photos of herself. She couldn't care less. I love this woman.
Afterwards we head back out through the narrow doorway single file, each grabbing a foil-wrapped Swiss chocolate ball, except for Terence, who takes four. We summon a Lyft, huddling together to wait in the chilly asphalt parking lot. The lot is virtually empty, but the others assure me that post-bar diners are about to descend en masse. The Lyft driver who responds to Terence's request looks like Aileen Wuornos. He holds up his phone to show us her profile picture. "Monster's coming to get us," he quips.
"Great," I say. "She's going to blow you guys and then kill us all."
Terence is quick tonight. To Ross, without missing a beat: "So just a typical Friday night, eh?!" All four of us lose it, staggering like drunks as we try to catch our breath from laughter.
I know I'll pay for this night tomorrow, and probably a few days afterward. I'm already nauseous from mixing drinks and when I laugh, a nasty cough seizes me for a good minute. So much for recovery. But fuck it. Epic night, that I know I'll want to remember.
Derby
Kentucky Derby banquet and viewing party thing, at the LA Athletic Club. We're not members, but Kross is. Figured what the hell. We'll wear goofy hats, suck down a few mint juleps, root for the horse with the best name. An excellent excuse to day drink with friends, anyway.
I get there first, see Kerry waiting at the bar. No hat. Plain black shift dress. Looking annoyed. The club is terribly understaffed. Always takes ages to get a drink. The woman working the entrance accepts my cash and cuffs me in a flimsy wristband I'll lose within five minutes; I stuff Terence's, along with his free drink coupon, into my clutch. A clutch seemed in order, to go with the pleated woven dress someone must have secretly clipped a good four inches off over the winter. I feel naked. Adjusting my headband, where a hot pink silk dahlia blooms on an inch of netting, I decide not to give Kerry hell for her lack of costume. But it was her idea.
"Ross is grumpy," she informs me by way of greeting.
"The dress looks great!" I respond. It's an Anthro score she texted me about a couple nights ago. I didn't realize she was going to wear it today. But no amount of tugging on my hem is going to change how short and silly my own is. Time to cash in that free drink coupon.
Back at their table, which sits adjacent to the massive projection screen showing pre-race festivities, Ross picks at a plate of traditional derby fare, as interpreted by the LAAC. Finger sandwiches, pigs in a blanket, fried chicken. Kerry has waited for me to eat, and after setting our drinks down, we hit the buffet. Everything I put on my plate looks brown and dry and wilted.
Remembering the KP Health Action Notice I received via email a few days back, I add a couple spoonfuls of cut strawberries. Slightly elevated, I'd read, my jaw nearly hitting the keyboard as I scanned the results of my blood work. Cut back on fried foods, cheese, and butter. Immediately I'd sent a screenshot of the message to Mason, my partner in thyroid disease, dadlessness, and now, apparently, high cholesterol. He'd only just found out about his a few weeks before.
OMG we're fucking twins, he replied.
Ridiculous, I texted back. Caught me completely off guard.
Meet you at Furr's at 4:15 for dinner.
(Cracks about getting older figure heavily into our conversations these days. We even have a hashtag for it: #goodforty, coined by the twenty-something girl who, while flirting with him, assured Mason he was "the good forty".)
The strawberries turn out to be the best thing on the plate anyway.
We catch up, the only real news since we've seen one another last being our respective vet visits. I tell them about Chaucer's mysterious panting episode; they brief me on their cat's medical issues. We are all of us mortal: canine, feline, human. I don't mention my elevated cholesterol, which depresses me. Makes me feel old. Kerry is turning forty-five just days before I turn forty. Big year for both of us. When I'd offered to plan something for her birthday she'd answered, with typical frankness, "Well you can try, but I don't know if I'll want to do it." I've missed her.
Terence arrives and settles in. He feels out of the loop, coming late. Scooches his riveted leather chair close to the table. "What'd I miss?" I've prepared a plate for him since, absurdly, the food is already being pulled. The race hasn't even started and they're shutting down the party. Breaking a sugar cookie in half, I assure him he hasn't missed much. We've barely started drinking and haven't picked our horses yet. I finish the cookie and have another.
Ross hands me a printout of the race stats. I ignore the odds and read the names aloud. "Upstart" is my favorite. He points out how much Terence, ever the good sport and clad in a salmon-colored bow tie with matching suspenders we picked up for $20 in the Fashion District, resembles Bill Nye. Kerry nearly spit-takes her julep. But I'm not satisfied until Terence poses for a pic, perfectly imitating a photo of Nye I pull up on Google images. It's spot on. Also terribly unflattering. I text a side-by-side to him and everyone we know. The four of us giggle like idiots, barely aware of what's happening in Kentucky. The day has officially begun.
There's a costume contest, organized by an upsettingly perky woman whose dirty blonde hair matches the wide brimmed, beribboned hat she's cocked just so. Her entire getup is as beige as the brunch on my plate but much prettier. And she knows it. Flashing a flirtatious smile, she saunters around the room, drawing the suspense out. "Whoooo will it be? Who will be our best. Dressed. Womannnn?" Kerry and I roll our eyes. By now we've all decided this was an overpriced dud of an event at best and at worst an alarming display of privilege. Several women are wearing the kind of expensive Gainsborough hats I saw the day before in the Fashion District, selling for over $100. I feel guilty enough about my headband, which I talked the shopkeeper down to $20.
The race is over in the blink of an eye. Excited shouts, laughter from the more raucous tables near the bar, then it's done. The crowd clears out quickly, leaving the dining hall zapped of energy. But we've got coupons for the "Specialty Punch" being served at whiskey bar next door, so after Terence and I make an ill-advised stop by the photo booth, that's where we head.
Seven Grand is making a good show of it, for a Saturday afternoon. Most everyone there is dressed up, too, which makes Terence feel a little better about his ridiculous ensemble. Such a good sport. Me, I've about forgotten my headband and miniscule frock. Or I'm just too liquored up to care.
We stay long enough to collect our free punch, which isn't half bad, and for me to say hello to a bartender I know. Old roommate of an ex-boyfriend. It's an embarrassing conversation.
Hey! (For the life of me I can't remember his name.)
Hey! (I'm pretty sure he doesn't remember mine, either. Thank god.)
How's it going? You guys out for the derby?
Yeah, yeah! Day drinking, you know.
The awkwardest of nods and silences ensues.
So, how's living with ___? (Holy fuck, did I just say that? Am I that drunk?)
Oh, we don't live together anymore. He moved out. Still my best friend, though. (This last feels like a warning.)
Let me start over. (I shake my head as if to clear the slate.) How are YOU? What's new with YOU? (He laughs.) So obnoxious. That was so obnoxious of me! (He laughs more, shrugging it off. He's a good guy.)
Good, good. Doing the ___ and the ___ and working for ____. Which is cool because I get to ____. (I nod emphatically, feeling mortified, and make some inane comment to show I'm paying attention.)
Well, great to see you! (His name comes to me, and I use it, hoping it doesn't sound like an afterthought.)
Yeah, you too! You look great! (He gestures to my dress, headband.) Really, looking awesome. (I think I hear a trace of begrudging surprise in his voice, and I wonder, drunkenly, what that's about. No matter. Ancient history. I'm a different person now, with different LDL levels and everything.)
We take an Uber to Villain's Tavern, and the rest blurs a bit. Sitting outside in the sun, at our regular table. We have a regular table, I inwardly marvel, with these friends of ours. That is a thing to be grateful for.
We talk for almost two hours, slowly losing sunshine and heat. Bacon cheddar fries to share; today is not a day for minding Health Action Notices. Several trips to the bar for cocktails the bartender takes a stupidly long time to prepare, packing them with extra shaved ice to disguise how underfilled they are. In the bathroom, Kerry and I argue over whether or not the mirror is "skinny" and which of us has the worse throat wattle. Back outside she deletes the group photos we take (No, no, terrible, ugh, no...) but shoots a selfie before handing my phone back to me.There.
Later when we're waiting for another Uber, the four of us stand close together, pairing up tightly for warmth. Where did this cold come from?? A young family is having a photo shoot feet from where we wait. They must have wanted the Arts District backdrop - brick walls, wide alleys, industrial cool. Two impossibly blonde little girls mug and twirl for the camera, the younger one clearly more comfortable in front of the lens. Kerry, semi-wasted, is fascinated by them. "Look at their hair. Look at it! Ellie! What happens to blond hair? It doesn't stay that shiny and perfect!"
"You have the exact same color hair," I point out. And she does.
"Yeah but I pay hundreds of dollars for it."
Next up is dinner: Mexican food in Silver Lake. Margaritas we drink on the rocks, but with glasses of ice served on the side. Someone figured out you get more alcohol this way, and we've stuck with it ever since. Enchiladas: cheese for Ross and Terence, chicken for Kerry and I. An argument breaks out. Familiar territory for us - woo woo, superstition, psychic powers and whether there's life after death. Sides form, as usual. Two against two. I complain, begging them to knock it off. They know I hate getting into this shit. I storm off to the bathroom. "You guys can talk about this all you want, but you know where I stand, and you know I hate arguing with you. I love you guys too much. I don't want to do this again." When I come back it's still going. Gets more heated. Too much alcohol today, too sensitive a topic. Do you guys not think that I'd love to talk to my mom and my dad? That I'd pay anything for just an hour's worth of conversation?? It's not. Fucking. Possible. So what's all theoretical for you? Not so much for me. Tears. First me, then Kerry, in sympathy.
"Ellie, none of us knows what that's like. None of us has lost a parent." She's conciliatory, dabbing her eyes. I try to explain it's not a competition, that's not what I meant. Holy fuck are we drunk. Somebody hands me a napkin. Terence tries to wrap his arm around my waist, but he's on the wrong side of this whole thing, and I'm furious. We catch our breaths, pay the check, and stumble back outside into the cold, shocked and quiet at the turn the night has taken.
In the Uber home I'm sandwiched between Ross and Kerry, who plays with my hair and squeezes my arm every few minutes. We're all of us rattled but I'm the most far gone. Before leaving the restaurant I'd made them promise we'd leave this topic alone once and for all but we can't take back the nastiness that's already been aired.
Next day, I fire off an apologetic text to them both. Sorry, Jesus. Terence and I are so different that sometimes I just latch on to those differences. Both answer, making jokes. It's all good. We've been friends for four years now and it's all good. We know it was drunken bullshit, and it's already funny in retrospect.
The nice thing about getting older: our friends get older right along with us. And the nice thing about going through shit is that some of it we go through with them. Our pets get sick. We get sick. We face down milestone birthdays and high cholesterol. We confront fading hair color, ghosts from the past, and fears from the present. And we do it together, because it's so much better that way. Drinks in hand, dumb hats on head, we race towards the end together.
of paparazzi and pool parties
If I were interesting enough to merit a paparazzi following, those bushes behind Terence would be the best ones through which to stick a telephoto lens and take unflattering pictures of me (tossing back frozen peach margaritas, sniping at Terence for hogging the guac, debating the merits of Bernie Sanders with Kerry and Ross...). This is as far as we fearsome foursome tend to go out of downtown. But the company and conversation are top-notch, the enchiladas adequately smothered, and as I don't need much more on the weekend than some laughs and some melted cheese, I don't much care what zip code I get them from.
At a certain point one cares less about one's appearance in photos than the fact that one has good friends to take them with. Note I didn't say "one doesn't care at all". Only that one cares less. Oof.
After dinner last Saturday we checked out Echo Park Rising, which is a free weekend festival comprised of local (rock) bands staggered around Echo Park's bars, parks, and restaurants. The music we heard wasn't really our jam, but Kerry (who has a zero tolerance policy for crowds) was a sport and let us drag her around to no less than four different venues before we left - and I count that a smashing success.
Kind of a magical moment: right about the time when we'd all given up on finding a show we'd be into, Terence grabbed my hand and pulled me hopefully into one last bar. Kerry and Ross at my heels, we ducked through a narrow front room that branched into two smaller rooms at the back. One of these had a dance floor, and suddenly, without stopping, without even conferring about whether we wanted to stay, we all started dancing. Pools of colored light moving across the floor, kitschy swing music, and four totally unselfconscious drunk friends. That's the stuff for me, baby.
The place was The Short Stop. I'd never been, but I quite like the vibe and will definitely be back.
Good god, but those flippers of mine are terrifying. When I die they should use my hands for one of those claw machine arcade games. You can all come play and I'll ghost-cheat and make sure you get a toy every time. And no, I have no idea what's going on with my forehead bleeding over the top of the image borders. But if it means I'm actually dead already then someone call Netflix because Ghost Blogger would be a cool-ass show.
Is that not the prettiest alley you've seen so far today? I like to think some romantically-minded rats put those lights up, and that all the other rats downtown come here for their date nights.
This guy, with the dimple and sleepy face. Took me for breakfast to Egg Slut at Grand Central Market (yep, it's worth the wait). Hoping if I play my cards right he'll take me back for lunch soon, too.
My friends Atouzo and Yvonne had a pool party! Like, with sangria and teriyaki meatballs and cabanas and everything! And after I finished taking a selfie in Terence's face mirrors I even socialized with other guests! I wore a "statement necklace" for the first time, which was a stupid thing to do on a 100+ degree day. But as I am not well-versed in the ways of statement necklaces, I did not anticipate how badly my neck would sweat under the weight of a spiky metal collar. So I guess the statement my necklace made that day was: I am a dumbass.
cat sitting live blog
So here's a fun thing that's happening today. I'm cat sitting for Ross and Kerry, not because they're out of town, but because there's a shoot happening in the apartment next door to theirs. When that happens, the film crew needs an overflow space - another apartment, typically, where they can store furniture, props, etc. during the shoot. Production companies pay a lot of money to residents willing to be temporarily displaced for this. And normally, my friends would stash their cats in boarding for the day, collect a check for their trouble, and head to work. Today, however, they were unable to board the cats (long story). And rather than decline the opportunity and miss out on a very nice compensation check, they called me to duty.
I'm pretty sure I'm one of the highest earning cat sitters in the country today. And I know I'm the only one being paid to live blog it.
My job is to make sure the cats stay safe and out of the way and none of my friends' property is damaged in the chaos. And oh wow is it chaotic. And loud. So chaotic and loud I'm not exactly sure what I could get done other than just watch. I brought a book but concentrating on Faulkner would be impossible. So I'm gonna live blog this shit. I've never done a live blog and I'm not really sure how it works other than hitting refresh when I add to the post, but we'll wing it. Yes yes?
8:00 am - The crew is moving, hauling, taping, putting down mats, setting up tables. Ross is getting ready for work and I'm settling into the sofa for the day. Angled to see all the action and keep an eye on the staircase. The cats, Jumper and Gutch, have been shooed upstairs. Gutch is cowering terrified in the closet but Jumper is basically like a dog and will want to mingle with the crew and wander onto the set next door. I meet the location manager, Stacy, who briefs me and invites me to eat lunch with the crew later today. Fun!
8:45 am - Ross leaves for work. I take over.
9:00 am - "Ready to go," I hear someone say into a walkie talkie. A woman grabs a silver tumbler filled with plastic holly berries from a pile of props and heads back next door. It's a Christmas-themed shoot. A promo for The Walking Dead. Apparently there will be zombies on set. Fuck yeah.
9:04 am - Jumper tries to make a break for it down the stairs. Here we go.
9:08 am - There are a lot of men in flannels and puffy vests stomping around this loft. Like, more stomping men in flannels and puffy vests than exist anywhere outside of Alaska, I'd wager.
9:10 am - Oh yeah, Jumper is going to make me earn every cent today. I have to sit on the stairs to block her descent.
9:18 am - Everyone is talking about burritos downstairs. "Did you get a burrito downstairs?" "I had a burrito downstairs. I'm good." No burritos up here, though. I am intrigued by the Myth of the Downstairs Burrito.
9:42 am - A man with an Australian accent is separating threads of tinsel from Christmas ornaments with great frustration. Oi, I feel your pain, mate. Gaffers are wheeling in load after load of equipment. The loft is crammed full of crap. I'd be having an anxiety attack if it was my place. No wonder they pay so much. I'm back to the couch, since even Jumper seems overwhelmed.
9:57 am - I just met Dan, the director. He's like a younger, hipper Bob Balaban. Craft services is setting up a table right in front of where I'm sitting. Location manager Stacy jokes that this is good news. "All kinds of snacks right within reach! Or maybe it's bad news, if you're like me and will eat all day." I don't know what to say to this. The apartment is filled with the smell of pastries. Maybe I should retreat upstairs with my Faulkner. I'm probably creeping the crew out, lol.
10:12 am - I've moved upstairs and am chillin' with Jumps on the bed. A reader just emailed, slightly alarmed by the content of my previous post. Worried I'm going to get myself arrested. It's all good, I wrote back. I'm not going to jail, I promise. And if I do I'll demand wifi so I can keep everyone entertained. A couple of guys downstairs are having a very enthusiastic discussion about tape. "It's the most incredible double stick tape you've ever seen. It's called Killer Red." Ten more hours to go. I wonder if I can take a nap.
10:34 am - I peer over the railing and this is what I see on the tables below. Creepy masks, cupcakes, and enough munchies to feed a zombie army. Lurching around and groaning is apparently hungry work.
10:51 am - People everywhere. I hear snippets of a dozen conversations.
"Someone’s running to Target for it.”
"We should really use the polka dots instead.”
"I understand your point.”
“My mom used to make dinner for us. It was a can of tomato soup, white toast, and Welsh rarebit.”
“Don’t turn it on! Don’t turn it on!”
“Wardrobe might wanna look at his socks."
Every free square inch of space in this home is being used. I can barely get to the bathroom without climbing over stuff. A stocky, mustached security guard ambles in, his thumbs hooked on his waistband. He looks around approvingly. I can’t look around without cringing. Back upstairs I can hear a glass being filled from a water cooler. They brought a water cooler in here??
11:35 am - Okay yeah the novelty of this experience has about run out. They've propped the doors open so it's freezing in here, I'm too shy to take any food even though I'm starving, and everyone's whispering is making me sleepy.
12:01 pm - The propmaster is doctoring zombie masks according to direction getting relayed from next door. Aussie guy is explaining to her in detail what they want. "Yeah, and if you could just make it hanging askew, with the blood, right? So the skin folds back like this? Gonna take a while though so you'd better get crackin'."
12:19 pm - Director to propmaster: "I wanted to show you that. That is the trajectory we're going for. So my question is, how far can we go with this? Can we have more blood splatter? Again, as far as the blood matching up, my only concern was that I didn't want to be gratuitous about it. But I sort of feel like there should be some blood on the cake. So just a little bit more hair, and we can go further with the airbrushing, okay?"
12:33 pm - "WILL SOMEONE PLEASE PUT SOME SHOES ON THE ACTOR?!? THANK YOUUU!" Sounds like somebody needs a cupcake.
1:09 pm - Everyone went to have lunch in the lot downstairs. Doors are still propped open and people are in and out though, so I can't leave the cats. But that's okay because I brought pine nut couscous, which someone just caught me shoveling into my face just now when they crept up the stairs to check out the bedroom and patio above. "Cmmm ahp," I garbled. Gutch was emboldened enough by the relative quiet to go sun herself on the top stair where the light comes in. Jumper is snoozing beside me. I think I'm gonna swipe a cinnamon roll and then start The Reivers.
3:58 pm - Text to Terence: I just realized that whenever I want you to stop talking and shut up immediately all I have to do is yell "Rolling!" Him: LOLOL
6:45 pm - Oh hai. Preceding hours were just more of the same. I got tired of eavesdropping and listened to music, sneezing every thirty-five seconds or so. Cats: my only allergy. Anyway. Gutch is over it. Jumper is over it. Ellie is over it. Zombieland live blog is over and outttt.
