Dichotomy

            It’s late… sometime after 3am. The streets of Los Angeles have gone quiet, abandoned by the flocks of gregarious and quixotic hipsters as they fled towards homes and apartments. Now only a few individuals remain… shadowy, vague, and seemingly lost in the abysmal night. I see strain and longing in their eyes as I slowly trudge south, heading to pick up my car. There is an inherent loneliness in this city of angels: it lingers and lurks beneath the surface, masked by the excessive glamour and indulgence of its denizens. But now, in the quiet stillness… the voice of isolation whispers from the sidewalks.

            I think back to the night and can’t stop the grin that creases across my face. It was an unusual night to say the least… one full of mayhem and nostalgia. It has been so long since I’ve had a night like this, I almost forget what they’re like…

            I was cooking dinner when my phone rang. I grabbed if off my kitchen table and looked at the screen: I was more than surprised by the caller.

            “Hello,” I said, with the inflection of a question.

            “Yooo, buddy,” the voice on the other end replied. It was Geordie, an old and close friend whom I’d lost touch with over the last few years. “How are you, man?”

            “I’m good, Geordie… same as always. How about you?”

            “Everything’s good, man. Just super busy.”

            “I can relate.”

            “Listen,” Geordie said after a momentary pause, “I’m in LA for an assignment. I got here a couple of days ago but I’ve just been so damn busy. But I definitely wanted to get together and catch up. It’s been way too long.”

            “Absolutely,” I replied. “You’re right about that. When are you in town till?”

            “I’m actually flying out tomorrow afternoon. I’m heading home for a week on Sunday.”

            “On the move as always, I see.”

            “Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “So I know it’s last minute, but what are you up to tonight?”

            “There’s a birthday party I’ve got to swing by later tonight, but I’m free for a while. Maybe we can grab a drink or something?”

            “Sounds good,” Geordie said. “I’m staying with a childhood friend of mine. Let me give you the address…”

            I pass only a handful of people in the whole thirty minutes it takes to reach my car. As I walk down Crescent Heights, I can see my car from a distance: it is, after all, the only car still parked on the street. I start moving a little faster, eager to get home, but I can’t help notice the stillness. It’s a seemingly unnatural tranquility: a city is an organism, a creature that survives through motion and activity. These abandoned streets are like the petrified remains of an animal… once active and alive, now frozen in its transience.

            I slide into my car and close the door, taking comfort in the familiar comfort. With the key I bring her to life: I sit for a few moments, listening to the subtle rumblings of the engine. Finally ready to move, I put the car in gear and start heading north.

            I like driving in Los Angeles at this hour. For reasons I can’t fathom, the population of Los Angeles seems hell-bent on vehicular mayhem and destruction. There are no rules of the road here. No… this is thunderdome.

            I met Geordie an hour after we spoke. His friend Aude, someone he had known since childhood, actually lived fairly close to my apartment. Though I had heard her name for years, it was the first time we’d met. I was also introduced to Sarah, a mutual friend of theirs. And, as if these circumstances were not crazy enough, another mutual friend named Adam was also in from New York. Finally, we were joined by Forrest… a friend of mine from Boston and another childhood friend to Geordie.

            We were at Aude’s apartment, reminiscing and reacquainting over cocktails. Music radiated from the radio and two dogs were scampering around. As the wine flowed and the conversation flowered, I couldn’t help but remember days past. Once we’d had our fill of drink, we headed out. I listened as our party walked north on Crescent Heights, amazed at the levity and nonchalance permeating through the group. This was a reunion of old friends, reunited by chance in a foreign city and reveling in the momentary intermission from the mundane…

            My street is completely quiet, every window of every apartment darkened… the inhabitants long in the embrace of sleep. The abrupt barking of a dog a few blocks away is comparable to a shotgun blast in this silence. I pull my car past the gate and snake my way behind the building, eventually parking. I can’t help but notice the scuff of my sneakers on the pavement as I walk through the building courtyard: it echoes, lingering like a paper cut.

            I step into my apartment and toss my keys on the little end table by the door. After pouring myself a glass of red wine, pull out my notebook and begin leafing through the pages. It’s not long before I find what I’m looking for… freshly inked words, a byproduct of the night. I need to write, to expound on my thoughts, but I don’t feel like working right now. As the night creeps towards its end, I just need to think... to reflect on events that have passed and things that have yet to pass.

            I head to my living room and grab something from the bottom shelf of my bookcase. It’s one of my few prized possessions… a 1933 Smith and Corona typewriter my mom gave to me years ago. After dusting off the keys and checking the ink ribbon, I start typing. The metallic clicking of the keys is hypnotic, like a metronome keeping time.

            After dinner, I followed the group to a bar on Sunset… a subterranean joint called the Den. With faded wood paneling and a music set list of classic rock, it was my type of joint. We managed to weave our way through the rapidly thickening crowd and cordon off our own little territory. Then, as is customary with reunions… whiskey shots.

            A while passed with drinks, dialogue, and a general sense of jubilation. I took advantage of a gap in the conversation to move up to the bar and grab another round. When I got back Forrest, Geordie, and Adam were nowhere to be seen while Sarah and Aude were in the middle of what appeared to be a serious conversation. So I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my little black notebook. Leaning against a narrow counter top I began scribbling away… my thoughts and spontaneous consciousness streaming down on the page. This had always been my way of understanding the world… of analyzing and cataloguing the events that unfolded in my life.

            “You still do that, huh?” I turned my head to see Geordie standing beside me.

            “Old habits,” I replied, flipping the book close and returning it to my jacket. “Plus it makes things a hell of a lot easier to remember down the road.”

            “If it’s about remembering, why not just take a photograph?”

            “That’s your line of work, Geordie. Mine is of the written variety.”

            “I guess you’re right,” Geordie said with a laugh. He leaned against the bar top and looked out over the crowd. It was a sea of decadence: dolled up and pristine women, who poured themselves into cocktail dresses and clogged their skin with makeup, roamed daintily… pursued by hyper-stylized men in designer clothing and fashionable trend. These are the people who strive for possession and fame in a desperate attempt to seize eternity. Los Angeles, I realized then, is the city of the proto-humans. To be anything but perfect in this town is a signal of defeat and failure… the white flag of shame and mortality.

            “This is some place,” Geordie said, causing me to snap back from my introspection.

            “You can say that again.”

            “I’m really surprised by how… formal everyone looks. Look at the women, dude. They’re all dressed in their finest.”

            “In LA, people dress up even to drink at a dive,” I said with a shrug. I’d grown jaded by the commonplace façade present here.

            “That’s weird, man. I could never live in a place like this. It’s just too much.”

            “Trust me, I know what you mean.”

            “Do you like living out here,” Geordie asked after a sip of his beer.

            “Sort of,” I replied, shrugging yet again. “I can’t say I love it, because… well, I don’t. There are a lot of things about living out here that drive me absolutely insane. But on the other hand, it’s nice playing golf and going the beach every weekend of the year. And by beach I mean pristine, scenic beaches… not like Rockaway. “

            “I don’t think anyone could blame you for liking that.”

            “Nah, probably not. But I miss it back east: I miss the lifestyle, I miss all of the people I knew.”

            “Can I ask you a question,” he asked after a moment.

            “Shoot.”

            “What’s the deal with Cali, man? Were you planning on moving out here? Because it all seemed really abrupt when you left.”

            “Nope,” I replied, taking a sip of my cocktail. “I had absolutely no intention of moving out here. I got back from my road trip, spent a week on the Cape with my family, then spent like a week in New York looking for apartments. I was looking for a one bedroom, but I could only afford places out in like Queens. I didn’t find anything I liked and I really didn’t want to live that far out. So I called up my cousin in LA, asked if I could visit, looked for places while there, and found one. And the next month I moved out.”

            “Wow… that’s crazy, dude. You just up and moved without a plan.”

            “Yeah… talk about the ultimate act of spontaneity. But that’s me: impulsive till the end.”

            “Don’t lose that, man,” Geordie said, patting me on the shoulder. “And just so you know, New York hasn’t been quite the same without you.”

            “Appreciated, my friend.” I looked around the crowd for a couple of moments, taking in the bacchanalia of the night. “It has been far too long, hasn’t it?”

            “That is has.”

            “Here’s to not losing touch,” I said as I raised my glass.

            “Amen, rasta,” Geordie cheerfully replied, clinking his bottle off the rocks glass. We then each drank long and generous sips, draining our respective containers. “Alright, let’s refill.”

            “Sounds like a plan.”

            “Hey, how about a shot?”

            “Dear lord…”

            It’s nearly dawn. The sky outside has turned cobalt, rising out of the darkness of black and with each passing minute I can see more and more out on the street. I finish typing, my fingers aching and my brow sore from furrowing while in thought. I’m amazed at the stack of papers beside me, covered from top to bottom with an endless stream of words. This is my catharsis to the crucibles of my life.

            I stand and stretch my back: the wooden dining room chairs from IKEA offer little comfort on the lower back and I’ve been sitting for hours. After grabbing some coffee I put on my Bruins hoodie, slide on my boat shoes, and step outside into the waking dawn. Standing alone on the street, watching as the sun struggles to breach the horizon, I think back past the night to times before. I think back to a life I once had, and a life I still covet and hold as the high water mark. New York, I realize, was more than just a city to me. New York was a state of mind and a testament to struggle. It was my cultural covenant to the art of words… one which contained boons and banes. Strife, conflict, misery… synthesized seamlessly with joy, enthusiasm, creativity, and a powerful determination to push forward.

            I think back to the people along the way… the crazed, licentious, mischievous, unpredictable lunatic saints who gave me more than just inspiration and ideas. They were foundations… the pillars that supported me as I dabbled, honed, and refined my craft. Friends who offered an open invitation to live on their couch, comrades who bought the drinks when things were down, and compatriots who also fought their own personal battles to achieve their intentions.

            I can’t help but smile in a bittersweet manner while thinking about them. But I also have an epiphany: all of the trials and tribulations, the victories and defeats, the pains and pleasures are made inconsequential if this is where the road ends. If I get lost in nostalgia, desperately clinging to the past and never taking the tenuous steps forward… it was all for nothing.

            Feeling a resolve that has been gone from me for some time, I chuckle as I turn and walk back in. I need to get some sleep I realize as I lock the door and kill the lights. After all, there’s always more to write…