“there are people looking at us right now thinking ‘what a horrible date’ these two are having.”
you laugh pretty hard. i laugh too.
“we’re just comfortable not saying anything.”
i lean into my hand. “yes that’s true.”
i look around at the unusually crowded scene. this place we normally come to for a nice quiet beer on a patio in the sun is experiencing the terrible side-effects common with Friday night in West Los Angeles: lots of Very Wealthy men emerging from their Teslas, wearing blazers and graphic tees, sunglasses even though the sun is already down, eyes fixed on groups of Very Pretty women neck-deep in their Instagrams, plotting the next combination of hashtags that will inch them closer to a sponsorship from an emerging yoga brand or energy drink company that will soon be out of business, their thumbs active, eyes empty, the rest of them nearly bursting from outfits that would better fit the toddlers sprinting around the patio, colliding with each other and waitstaff, barreling through the packs of dogs brought in by people who call themselves “dog mom” and “dog dad,” all while the real moms and dads sip their local small-batch IPAs, remarking how great it is to be out somewhere the whole family can enjoy.
i look down and a dog is sniffing my ankles. i look back up at you. “you know,” i say, “i’m hoping there will be much fewer children and dogs in New York.”
you laugh. “oh yeah,” you say, “the average age of parents is like, high 30s low 40s”
“good,” i say. i point to your beer.
“chug. chug. chug. chug.” and i signal for you to speed it up. “let’s get outta here, huh? i’ve had enough.”
we leave and i give you the left airpod. i put the right one in my ear. i thumb through my phone and play “Back in the New York Groove”
we cross the crosswalk, moving our shoulders to the beat. the chorus hits on the other side of the street and i whip my head toward you and say “i’m BACK!” and you laugh, “back in the New York groove!”
“who is this?” you ask me. “ACDC?”
“NO”
“OH OH! KISS!”
“YES,” i say.
and we continue moving our shoulders to the beat, letting the music slowly make its way down our to our torsos which now sway a little bit, and then i notice you craning your neck, trying to see over the dispensary next to us. then you look behind us, and then toward the north…
“what are you doing?” i ask you
“i’m looking for the moon, can you see it?”
i look in every direction, but the only lights around are the streetlights and headlights and the lights of the In N Out across the street.
“nope,” i say, “but look!” i point to a roof in the distance where it looks like people are having a party.
“oh” you say, “that looks like fun”
“yes… oh, watch out,” i say, moving you gently out of the way of a woman walking by us with a bongo drum slung over her shoulder. as we watch her walk away, we have fun imagining where she came from or where she’s going…
“she’s a member of the Blue Blood group – it’s a ripoff Blue Man group that does parties and events for the rich in Santa Monica…”
“no no, she’s going to Venice Beach to play in a drum circle like on that one episode of New Girl.”
“I know! she’s going to a children’s birthday party at the patio we just left…”
“oh dear god i’m so glad we left.”
we start walking again. as we pass In N Out, you have to remind yourself out loud that you’re eating healthy now, and you repeat a mantra like a recovering alcoholic who has to pass a bar on the way home from an AA meeting: “we’re eating healthy now. we’re healthy guys. we don’t need that…we’re eating healthy now… we’re healthy guys………….ughhhh but it smells SO GOOD!”
“i know,” i say, “i know. i haven’t had it in so long and i want it but we have so much food at home.”
“yes, yes that’s true.”
we continue walking and i put on Queen, “Don’t Stop Me Now.” it flips a switch in you. your eyes light up and you hop into a crouch and start kicking your legs and snapping as you step. i laugh.
“you know,” you tell me, “i did a tapdance routine to this when i was a kid…”
“i believe it,” i say, watching as you turn to the side and slide across a crosswalk. the cars waiting at the light get a free show, i trail slightly behind you, watching the alcohol mix with your arms and legs, and the streetlights mix with your eyes when you flip your hair toward me and pause, a faux dramatic look on your face like something out of Zoolander.
“DON’T stop me NOWWWWW!!”
the whole audience claps and laughs but they have their windows up, so i’m the only one you can hear. the beauty of Los Angeles is you can have the whole sidewalk to yourself in a city of 4 million people. 4 million people and maybe 3.5 million cars like faceless automatons rifling through the night, totally oblivious to the magic of being human in a city. here, the streets are just a means to an end, a way to get to where you’re going – foot on the gas as the light turns yellow, windows up, AC on, phone in your hand writing a text that says “i’m gonna be a little late” – all the while never bearing witness to the great improvisations of the city – unless you’re lucky enough to miss the light. me and the people stopped at the crosswalk, we are the lucky ones tonight.