Standing Alone in the Night

I looked at the clock in the upper right corner of my laptop screen: it read 7:47pm on a Saturday. I sighed, lowering my head into my hands... my arms propped up on the corner of my economic Ikea desk. Just my luck, I thought as the melancholic melodies of Warren Zevon continued to play on. Just as I get into a rhythm, I have to leave. For a moment I remained sitting, unsure of my next step. I quickly pulled up Internet Explorer and did a search: thanks to the godless machine that is the internet, I learned I have just short of an hour.

"Goddamn it," I said to the silhouettes and shadows around my desk. I cracked my knuckles and stood, pushing back my wicker chair. I grabbed the necessities for a night out in Hollywood, subconsciously cursing the inventor of the cell phone, before moving into the living room. The sun was lingering above the horizon, stubbornly refusing to quit it’s staring contest with the City of Angeles, and time as they say was flying. “Nothing left to do.”

Driving east on Sunset, my car’s mirrors ablaze, I hung my arm out the window and listened to the erratic notes of a stellar Miles Davis solo on a live recording. I can’t help but notice the scores of people ambling about the sidewalks: as the sun began to fade, the hordes of foreign tourists would recede to the safety of their hotels… only to be replaced by the nefarious creatures native to the LA nightlife. These polymorphic monsters, masked in their designer clothing and ironic apparel, stalk the streets like jackals in pursuit of their prey; these predators pursue the licentious pleasures of the decadent and inexplicably apoplectic.

I crossed La Brea, passing by the local In’N’Out, and kept a steady pace… weaving through the madding Los Angeles traffic. I never can seem to get my head around the drivers of this city: now where else is there a collection of more expensive cars with drivers who constantly endanger their vehicles with negligence, arrogance, and a general lack of common sense. This was highlighted when a white 911 Twin Turbo Porsche tried to pass me on the right, only to be boxed in by a parked Honda. But instead of waiting for me to pass, the Porsche cut in front of me, not even giving the superfluous blinker, nearly clipping my front tire. I swerved to avoid collision, then sped up and pulled alongside the high-performance piece of automotive art.

“What the hell are you thinking,” I screamed out my passenger window. A dishy brunette in designer sunglasses looked back, scowled, and gave me the finger before flooring the accelerator and blowing through a red light. “Man,” I spat to no one in particular. “Idiots.”

I arrived at the Little Santa Monica Theater with a few minutes to spare. Had I still been in New York, I would have ducked into a coffee shop for a quick espresso. But no… Los Angeles is a city devoid of the café culture. Here people get their coffee in plastic and cardboard cups, only meant to drink on the go: sitting with a ceramic mug is antiquated to the west coast kids.

I made my way into the narrow theater, looking for familiar faces. It didn’t take long to notice Brandon and Nicole in the middle rows, holding down the fort. Behind them, Jen and Amanda were engaged in a seemingly hilarious conversation, because the two of them could barely catch their breath between fits of laughter. Nodding my hello to the collective, I took a seat and leaned back. Just as the show was about to start, Steve ambled up and sat next to me.

“Hey man,” he said in his ever laid-back diction. Steve dropped down into the chair. “Good to see you. How ya been?”

“Same as usual,” I replied, “hangin’ in there. What about you?”

“Oh, just busy raising a kid.”
            Before I had a chance to talk, the house lights dimmed. Music began blasting from unseen speakers and the audience took the hint and unleashed a controlled frenzy. Soon enough, the stage was a moving screen to stand-up sketch comedy… my cousin Mike featuring in the most absurd and hilarious ones. Ever since I can remember, Mike was been a character to be around: quick with a joke and laid back in demeanor, he never seems to find difficulty in the simple things.

An hour later, the collective party had assembled outside. Tedy had shown up after the show had begun, so it was then that I got to say hi to him. Finally, after a few moments, Mike exited the Little Santa Monica Theater and joined the rest of us. And so it was, our usual group was assembled once again. While I tried to engage in the conversation, I found myself to the side… leaning against a lamppost watching the social interaction before me. Steve and Tedy talked about raising children, the pratfalls and perils occurred throughout the process. Jen, Amanda, and Nicole verbally roamed through the myriad jungle of their respective careers. And Mike and Brandon analyzed and critiqued the various sketches from the show we just exited.

I stood there, a part of the gang but intrinsically apart from them. While they laugh and talk and bond and share experiences unfettered, I cannot seem to keep myself engaged. I don’t know… I can’t seem to determine why I constantly find myself on the outside of the present. And then I started to analyze this state of perpetual detachment, realizing that I wasn’t disconnected from these friends before me. No, I realized that I was busy narrating the scene as it was happening: I was recreating every sentence with mirrored synonyms, capturing every motion with minute detail, and subtly studying the unspoken expressions of my compatriots.

“Hey man!” I was briefly startled by Mike’s hand cuffing me on the shoulder. “Are you coming, man?”

“Huh?”

“Drinks at the White Horse,” Mike replied.

“Wait, what?”

“We’re all going out for drinks at the White Horse.”

“Oh, uh,” I murmured, “yeah… yeah sure. Why not?”

“Awesome, dude. See you there.”

I wandered back to my car, circumnavigating migrating groups of hipsters out searching for their next source of entertainment. I stopped at a nearby street corner and took a moment to watch a makeshift metropolitan carnival. I listened to the screams and cries of the local children, a strong Latino influence in the crowd, and the innocent amusement cast an inexplicable melancholy within me.

I got back to my car and started it… letting the 2.5 liter engine growl in neutral. I then hooked my phone to my stereo, queuing up early Tom Waits before making my way towards east Hollywood. After an uneventful trip, I was standing outside of the White Horse Tavern.

Reminiscent of a flophouse bar in a New Hampshire bowling alley, it is the epitome of whiskey blues and gin-soaked sorrows. Red neon track lights provide the only illumination in the genuine dive, while the eastern European women bartenders occasionally repurpose the pool table to serve platters of hot dogs and popcorn. Geriatric burnouts camped out the bar drown their sorrows with fast-acting hooch while plaid-clad trendy youths linger around the perimeter… talking about demo reels, headshots, auditions, and agents with the nonchalance of the LA clichéd.

I stood in the doorway, just passed the velvet curtain blocking view from the outsight, looking for the others. It didn’t take me long to realize I was alone, so I began to kill time with whiskey. The bourbon burn sent fire throughout my head as I lost myself to the scene.

In lonely nights,

the only solace I find is in the bottom of a…

“Goddamn it,” I barked to myself, but still managed to draw plenty of attention. “There I go again.”

I checked my watch, trying to figure out how long I’ve been waiting. Realizing I’ve killed more time than I had expected, I reached into my phone. There, blinking on the screen, was a message from Mike:

                        Hey buddy. Gonna get some food before drinks. Come meet us

I looked up the address of the restaurant, paid my tab, and got back in the car. The night was just in its adolescence, and yet I couldn’t help but feel like Moses in his final year of exile. I stood before the front window of the restaurant and looked in at my friends and family. They laughed and smiled, joked and jested with such ease. And as I watched them, I was overcome with sadness and anxiety. I jumped back into my car and began driving west on Sunset, listening only to the gentle moaning of my car. As the city of angels begins to awaken from its day time slumber, giving way to the nocturnal empire… I silently moved west, willing myself into silence and losing myself to the potential. 
I just don't get it, I thought as the engine bellowed and the chassis sped west. I always find myself trapped half on the page, half in reality...