the spies in beachwood canyon.
he was a freak, truly. the only one i’d ever met outside of some make-sensical context: high school, for example.
unfortunately, i have the education of a five-year old when it comes to drugs, so if that was sincerely the inspiration of his dysfunction, i wouldn’t know. his pacing back & forth, the lack of eye contact and glitchy behavior on our preliminary facetime should’ve been grand enough an indicator for me to stay the fuck away, but what the hell, i’m a thrill-seeker!
his shit was everywhere - but to my satisfaction, chet baker was reverbing against these fogged stained glass windows somewhere in beachwood canyon. that we listened to jazz and both recently terminated relationships with untruthful partners were probably the only two things we had in common.
he claimed to be a flood-recoverist, which was supposed to compensate for my tiptoe-ing around his Paper Pile Town.
his celebrity session sneak-ins, because really what the fuck was he doing in the studio, covered my iced chai, his i don’t remember and some varsity jacket he neglected for months at the next door tailor’s.
i panted after him: swirling around this dangerous chassé of a stupidly typical windy LA drive-up to some ridiculously stunning lookout. he looked like russell brand but was skinny and short, not that i know how tall russell brand is, and not that he’s not skinny either. his hair was like his too, but he had more of a jared leto twang in that he was less direct sex appeal and more awkward, like a flight seat partner whose bag spilled over onto your designated under seat real estate. fuck it jared leto has sex appeal. this guy had the sex appeal of a straw.
we bonded over romantic toxicities and emotional masochism, or maybe i was projecting. he cut me off.
i’m sure he thought i was suicidal, in fact he asked in so many words. of course i’d thought about what it’d be like to die, disappear, not deal. i didn’t want to actually die, at least not on the account of a car wreck or cancer or jumping off a cliff and surviving, which i suppose is not death but probably worse.
for hours i watched him pace, almost exactly like our video call, this time in person. up and down up and down up and down up and down up and down. dizzy staircase blur. shouting down. WHAT! shouting up. re-establishing the shit show of hard drives and old college essays. relatable.
uncomfortably i sat on this unstained but seemed it should be couch. i’m surprised a rat didn’t come out of it, or at least dance out a cockroach.
he composed these lies or nots about his neighbors being conspiracy theorists, and whined on about lawyers he hired, their incompetence perhaps, their inability to negotiate or eavesdrop or who knows who cares. his parents are lawyers, at least his dad is. to his credit, to his parents’ credit, there must’ve been some inevitable blood transfusion of intellect because he was incredibly intelligent. men like that are smart out of their pants yet wouldn’t know you were sad if you cried mops full of tears. it’d be unfair of me to discriminate against him, so i shall stereotype him, for context of course, into the fetish-practicing, misogynistic know-it-alls. the Pitifuls who believe their university time card equates to some sort of social/political/racial redemption with the bonus of dare i say empathy! the irony! an accomplished man, an advocate of equality. more so #cancelled avoidant. vigorous training studying integrating capturing regurgitating the invaluable experiences of peoples and places. what a stale concept. all that culture digestion only to be translated into the enhancement of their ignorance and entitlement.
he failed to retire the subject of his ex, how she lied, made instagram accounts behind his back, cheated blah blah blah.
the epitome of paranoia.
she was a witch, allegedly, but then again he accused me of stealing his wallet. which i didn’t. i should’ve.
his pockets were bottomless and they ordered delivery breakfast burritos for us at midnight. he also ordered cabernet, probably in hopes i’d initiate some sort of sexual nonsense. to be honest i’d been in a drunk horny mess for months so it wasn’t off the table, but the fact that he was so sus, i had no point of reference for dictating which parts of the situation could lead to fun or murder. he was hardly a reliable source. plus it seemed likely for him to be into kinky shit. he was scared shitless, an intimidated mouse. and i know because he classified me as model, not human. which is dumb and i hate. he didnt even try to kiss me. pussy. i would’ve kissed him out of some sort of sense of charity or obligation, but only if we had 86’d the last 7 out of 8 hours we spent together. i might’ve felt more inclined, he might’ve been more deserving. the lord jesus was looking out for me that night.
i swear i got strep from drinking out of a dirty ass mug he offered to pour my wine in, if that’s even possible.
his sink had what looked like shit in it but was hopefully just poured out coffee grounds.
we were walking in a book, or like that stop motion painting movie of van gogh. the night dark and twisted, moody. the street lit by lamps and scattered apartments of insomniacs.
we left the apartment several times for a regroup, for a smoke stroll actually. i only smoke for photos, sometimes in effort to cultivate this retro vibe that every fucking twenty something year old in los feliz captures. tries to capture, in an off-center, pretentious, tacky, wrong way. the cigarettes usually get passed around before they overtake my ladylike fingers.
i chugged down my breakfast burrito.
he walked me to my car & sent a few rude texts over the course of days. i chucked up the date to experience and his racism to miscommunication. classic. he attempted text conversation pick up but i left him on read.
