Hugs & Kisses from LA: Part II

(Friday, March 28, 2008: from the Starbucks series)

my little house

in the Hollywood hills

On Friday I woke up a woman consumed. I could barely get out of bed. I needed a man.

But, there wasn’t one. So I did yoga. I ate. I had a shower. And three hours later I still hadn’t had a single non-sexual thought. I had so much work to do, a whole presentation to write, and the day was slipping through my fidgety hands. I needed to get out of the house, go be out in the world of people, feel less isolated, stop being a horny divorcee.

So, I went to the one place I knew I liked, Café Vienna on Melrose Avenue, to get some bloody work done.

Melrose

When the sweaty Mexican busboy told me they were about to close I felt my eyes burn. Crying? Are those fucking tears? Okay, this is no average frustrated Friday. I am actually on the verge of breakdown. I need my friends.

Okay, no friends? Alcohol.

Ten shaky but militant minutes later, I was sitting alone on a banquette for seven in a corner bar called The Village Idiot. Whatever. I don’t know why I bothered to look at the juice menu, because when the waitress came back I asked her what went down easier, the Pinot Grigio or the Chardonnay. I was hoping she’d say Chardonnay. She did. And that was how I started drinking again like old times.

the ghost of me in the window booth

Between my first and third glass of wine, I edited four versions of a story called “I Remember,” which recounts the day of my grandfather’s death in 1988. I think I also ate a goat cheese and leek tart, because I remember it arriving, and then it was gone.

“I Remember” was earmarked for submission to the Australian Cancer Association’s short story competition, and the deadline was five days away. Should I be doing this drunk? Probably not. But driving drunk was apparently totally a good idea. So I wobbled across the street and into my bright red rent-a-junk, and drove off at the slowest over-the-speed-limit pace I could manage to…

vroom

... let’s see, it’s Hollywood, it’s Friday night, and in addition to getting laid what I need most is an electricity outlet, wifi, and possibly some coffee. Shit... starbucks.

On my way out of the Village Idiot I had passed a newspaper stand with a host of free publications. The Onion (had read it), Metro (how to have fun if you swing both ways), and LA Weekly with the lead article: “How to Get Divorced by 30: A Beginner’s Guide to Ending Your Starter Marriage,” which was tucked firmly under my arm when I arrived at the vile beige-hued establishment I was meant to be boycotting.

“How do you say a very weak, middle sized, sweet flavoured latte in Starbucksese?”

“A grande, half-caff vanilla latte,” replied the out-of-work actor behind the counter.

“Half-caff? I’ve never heard of…”

“Yeah, that’s what you want right?”

“Okay, yep. That."

I sat down opposite a small effeminate man drawing surrealistic interpretations of whatever in an oversized sketchbook with a mixture of glitter and crayons.

I booted up my computer, opened “I Remember”, and closed it. My work documents got similar treatment, only faster. The LA Weekly article, both hilarious and accurate, was clearly my destiny on this night, so I sipped on my tasty half-caff and sat there rocking in my chair and feeling unjustifiably okay with my life for a tipsy and gleeful little while.

I hadn’t quite finished the article when I felt my mood lift immeasurably. I was now more happy than I’d ever been in my life, or at least in the past week, or at least since my vitamin B-everything cocktail of the previous morning. Anyway, it felt good.

At around this time I noticed the music that was playing, and for a moment had no idea what was going on or where I was at all. It was American cowboy on the plateau, meets 50s broken hearted crooner, meets did my father play this when he proposed to mum?

The little effeminate man opposite me obviously had perked up at the same time… “It is like we are in a Little House On The Prairie, and I don’t know where is Laura…”


He was French. Very French. I laughed with shoulders and everything, but really only at his accent and the weirdness of it all, because honestly, I have never seen A Little House On The Prairie...

I sighed deeply and wondered what was next. Should I try to convert little Mr. Glitter and Crayons tonight?

Jesus, I should never have gotten out of bed.

I went back to the counter.

“Can I have the other half of my caff now?

“Sure…”