Thursday, May 26, 2016

A Night In Hollywood

I was getting a drink because I didn't know anyone and it was literally something to do; I couldn't bare to be the girl standing alone looking at her phone, but I also couldn't stomach wistfully staring at the skyline.

And anyway, Hollywood isn't beautiful, except for Musso and Frank's; its old dark booths and crisp white linens, the cheap ironed trousers on the grey-haired waiters.

Hollywood is barren, littered with names no one remembers and Starbucks cups.

So I was getting a drink, waiting for people I sort of know, when he shouted at the bar tender that he would be paying for it. I thanked him, and found myself in the center of a group of men who were entertaining themselves by lying to me.

Here's how I know they were entertaining themselves by lying to me: they told me they were in the headlining band. What they didn't know (and why would they, they didn't ask me about me) was that it was the people in the band whom I was waiting for.

So these men are all drunk and lying to me as some sort of game and I realize: I'm not calling them out. I'm just standing there, asking polite questions, wondering if I should leave, drinking too much bad whiskey because it's something to do. They make references and jokes that cause them all to dissolve in high pitched giggles, they talk about Music Today, and they say I'm dressed too conservatively, but they like how I'm not wearing much make up.

Later, when I realize someone stole my phone and now I have no way to call for a cab or get an Uber, and I'm probably walking home from Hollywood, one of these guys will tell me he's going to wait for me while I check one more time that my phone isn't behind the bar.

When I returned empty handed, the man is gone.

When I get home, I think about how Hollywood smells like piss and night blossoms of Jasmine and how maybe next time I'll tell them I know exactly who they are.