"Mornin'!" I waved at the emaciated woman who smiled her toothless grin at me and winked. I almost said "Mornin', Lady Macmeth!" since that's what I've named her, but stopped myself just in time. Every weekday before work, I walk Toupee and Boo twelve blocks to K & C Donut to get the cheapest cup of coffee I could find nearby, and I pass three or four regulars who call our streets their home. And how can you not make up names for them? There's Asian Johnny Cash (dressed head to toe in the same black outfit daily), and Ticky Minaj (with some hard-core facial twitches). But my fave is Lady Macmeth, and I always bring her a cup of coffee.
Silver Lake is the neighb most like my hood in New York (go East Village!), which is exactly why I found an apartment here. In one block alone, there are so many distinct scents, if you were blindfolded (like, for instance, say for some acting class exercise OR someone was taking you hostage), you'd know exactly where you were. Fresh ginger, cucumbers, sprouts, and kale waft from Naturewell, the raw juice place; lavender, vanilla, and honeysuckle-you're at Le Pink & Co. doors down from the aroma of leather like it was just cut off the hide at Dean Leather Accessories. There's Ragg Mopp, the vintage clothing store that smells like Grandma's musty attic, and the scent of deep espresso from Intelligentsia permeates the whole block.
(see silverlake pic)
As I passed Intelligentsia, I saw two totally hot guys, just my style. Sitting outside with their totally hot girlfriends, just their style. It's sorta like, say you want a certain kind of car. Like a Fiat. Then on every single corner you see a billboard for the Fiat. There are the commercials you see like a hundred times on TV and the web, and you see the car everywhere. It's the same when you really want to find your mate. That's all you see. Him, or him. Or him. Unfortch he's usually with Her, and her. And her.
Taken or not, I couldn't stop staring at the two handsome guys. I made myself continue walking and got out my phone to check my email. In the prehistoric days before there were cell phones, how did anyone EVER look nonchalant?
I saw I had missed a few texts. All from Jason.
Hey Mags gotta see you please? Else I'm gonna stalk you. Kidding. Maybe a little.
Really? Not even texting me back?
Mags?
Please just a drink tonight. Like 15 mins. Much to say. Please let me say it.
Acch. How could I say no? When we broke up, I took one of Jason's T-shirts and for weeks I cried myself to sleep, cuddling up to his scent mixed with the grassy-herby cologne he wore. Like methadone to an addict, I used the shirt to try and wean myself away from his touch, his crooked smile, his soft-for-a-man skin. It felt like it worked for a bit. But his smell started wearing off the shirt a few days ago, and now I felt him slipping away even more. I wanted him to sweep me up in his arms and whisper in my ear how stupid he was for risking the best thing that's ever happened to him. I had to see him again.
Coco will kill me. I know I have to move on. But the least I can do is go and hear Jason out and see what he has to say. Fuck, am I making the right decision?
Click here to take my poll and LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!
www.findmeimyours.com/polls/jason
(If you didn't go to my poll, here's what I asked.)
SHOULD I MEET UP WITH JASON?
-- YES, MAGS, YOU SHOULD HEAR HIM OUT
-- NO, YOU SHOULD TELL HIM TO FUCK OFF AND LEAVE YOU ALONE
-- YOU SHOULD MOVE ON ALREADY -- FOCUS ON FINDING THE REAL MR. HIM
-- FORGET IT ALL AND GO BACK TO BEING GAY
All right 10 mins. 9 tonight. Good luck bar.
I chose the Good Luck Bar because I figured I needed all the luck I could get if I was really going to see Jason. To distract myself from my impulsive, probs horbs decisjh, I checked my email.
And there it was. The subject might as well have said: YOU'RE ONE STEP CLOSER TO MR. HIM AND YOUR HAPPILY-EVER-AFTER DESTINY SINCE YOU JUST SCORED MY VIDEO CAMERA EVEN THOUGH YOU DON'T REALLY HAVE ANY MONEY TO BUY IT! Instead it just said SOLD! in the subject area, then, "Bring $42.47 in cash today to the Starbucks on Ventura, one block west of Laurel Canyon. Ask for barista Shane."
I was a little disappointed to find that the creative mind behind the kick-ass ad was a barista in Studio City. But maybe he was a genius artist who was working undercover for research, then he'd incorporate his findings into a stellar performance art piece involving the daily habits of caffeine consumers. I had to keep an open mind.
I should probs just blow off Jason and go to Starbucks tonight, I thought. Tell him I have a hot date with a guy named Shane, and say it involves a video camera, and then leave the rest to his imagination. Or I could just go get it after work when my three cups of coffee have worn off and I'm ready for more. But I know me... there are a million and one things that could, and would, come up in the day preventing me from going-most predictably my inclination for not seeing things through. Isn't that the first step in Alcoholics Anonymous? Admitting you have a problem? There's AA, CA, NA, GA, SA, and so many other A's. Shouldn't there be PA? Procrastinators Anonymous? Except I guess everyone would mean to join and just... never get around to it.
So I took the bull by the horns, or the goat by the teats, or the whatevs by the whatevs, and texted Coco:
Got camera! Going to pick up now. Tell malc I'm getting a root canal. Or gall bladder removed.
I dropped the kids back at home and kissed them goodbye. Then I walked a block to where my powder-blue Vespa, Lola (named after a cool tattoo I saw once), was parked, put on my helmet, and set off, a girl on a mission-not even realizing I had unwittingly stepped into a series of events that would turn everything I had ever known inside out and upside down, and would alter the lives of many people forever.
Go to www.findmeimyours.com to buy and download the whole book!