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(Originally written Dec. 2009 – before I moved to downtown L.A.)

I’m psychic. You know why? Early evening I send this text: I figured it out. I’m the only person in LA. This is some I Am Legend shit. Seriously over 20 of my friends here are out of town this weekend.

Later the same night I end up walking alone through the dark cavernous streets of downtown LA with nothing but a ham sandwich to defend myself. (I hate being right.)

Like this, but at night. And no dog.

A TYPICAL NIGHT…

I meet up with a friend of a friend who I don’t know very well but seems cool enough. To save gas and parking fees I suggest we carpool and he drives us out there.

We arrive at a club downtown and he ends up talking to a girl. I go do my thing and he does his. A little while later I send him a text asking “where are you”. No response. Cool, he’s probably with a girl. An hour later I text again. No response. Before the club closes I call him twice. No response.

2 A.M.

I rush out to the parking lot. His car is gone. I ask the attendant if he saw his car leave and he just shrugs. At this point I am blowing up this guy’s phone.

People stream out of the club and as I call and text everyone I know in town, the street gets more and more empty. I picked the worst night to get stranded – I’ve got plenty of friends here who totally have my back, but everyone’s out of town for the holidays. (A $200 cab ride is out of the question.)

I reach one girl who I’ve befriended recently. She doesn’t have a car but she lives downtown. “Hey! I got a place downtown you can totally crash at, but…”
“Cool!”
“I’m actually house-sitting for someone right now and I’m really far away.”
FUCK!

I go into a nearby shop and ask the guy if there are any late-night restaurants nearby. He says I can take a cab to a diner.
On the way over I chat with the cabbie. “I am never carpooling with anyone ever again, unless I really know them.”
“It’s not your fault. How could you know that would happen?”
“That’s the thing. In a weird fucked-up way, maybe I did.”

STALLING

I arrive, and on this corner there are two 24-hour restaurants within walking distance. I gotta stall until I get a hold of somebody. I go to the 24-hour sandwich place and commence the slowest sandwich eating in the history of sandwich eating. I look up from my sandwich and my vision is filled with two piercing eyes staring back inches from my face. A homeless guy is watching me through the giant picture window I’m facing.

Then I go to the diner and eat the slowest breakfast I can eat. I talk to everyone in sight and no one knows anything about buses or transportation. I get a call with one lead – the house-sitting girl knows a guy who lives downtown, and she’ll call when she hears back from him.

I get a pen from the waiter so I can record emergency numbers in case my phone dies. Just then my phone beeps. Shit. I text her: Will check my phone once every half hour to conserve remaining battery. Can’t take any calls, send me texts to keep in touch.

5 A.M.

I ask the hostess if anything else is open, and she says there is another diner down the street.

I step outside into the downtown of one of the largest cities on the continent. Not a living soul is here and the darkness makes the buildings even taller and colder. I’m still wearing the dress shoes I needed to enter the club, not my trusty running shoes. If I have to run for any reason, I’ll be slow. For a block and a half I walk in complete silence.

I get to the diner and order a ham sandwich. By this point I can barely eat any more, and when my food arrives I just nibble on the hashbrowns. I explain my predicament to my waiter, who responds “That sucks man. But try this, you can call 1-800-COMMUTE and they’ll get you where you need to go.”
“That would be perfect, but my battery is almost dead.”
“There’s a station down that way, I ride it all the time. Ask the transit people when you get there.”
“Thanks man.” I map out his directions on an old receipt.

Before I leave I make a crucial decision that probably saves my ass. “Can I get a box for this?”

6 A.M.

During the whole meal I never once see a cab outside, so I decide to walk. Downtown is still dark as night and utterly silent. I get outside and there’s a security guy walking the same way. I catch up to him at a crosswalk and say, “Hey is it safe walking around this time of day?”
He bristles and exclaims “NO” before quickening his pace. WTF? Even a security guy is scared of me right now. This is not good.
“Is the transit station nearby?”
He says curtly “Yes it’s up ahead” before veering off into a parking lot.

I keep walking. It’s still dark outside and the only sound is my footsteps echoing off buildings. I’ve got no phone (it’s off to conserve the battery) and no weapon. Up ahead I see someone leaning against a column. It might be a bum but it could be anybody. When I get closer he stands up. I get a shot of adrenaline. If I have to run back I hope the security guard is still there.

He says “Hey! Are we in Atlanta Georgia?”
I say “No” and keep walking. I veer sideways, away from him as much as possible.
Instantly he is pacing towards me and sputtering “This is Atlanta. Do you know where we are?” while closing the distance.
I say “Really? Have a sandwich!” and thrust the take-out box at his chest. He takes it, confused, as I briskly walk down the street.
I watch him out of the corner of my eye the entire distance to the subway station. The whole time he stands there, mesmerized by the sandwich.

I take the train all the way home.

POSTSCRIPT

Since I wrote this back in December 2009, my perspective of downtown has changed big time. Nowadays I’ve walked home a few times through those same streets late at night without a second thought. Guess a place feels different when you call it home.

I’m gonna take a cue from Christopher Nolan’s (the director of Inception) time-bending thriller Memento and replay this disaster backwards. Why? Because, like the main character in the film, the girl at this club was so DRUNK she was suffering complete short term memory loss.

***
Her: “Why are we robbing this bank? Is it for a music video?”
Me: “Sure. You’re the getaway driver.”
Her: “Haha!! Wait who are you? Why do I have this?” She’s holding her phone.
Me: “Again, my name is Wrabbit. We’re gonna hang out before you go to San Diego. I’m putting my number in your phone this time.”
Her: “Ok!”

She smiles, then pulls away her phone.

Her: “Wait, how did you know I was going to San…”
Me: “You told me.”
Her: “But you don’t know anything about me.”
Me: “Your dream is to travel to Greece one day and paint on the sidewalk.”
Her: “Oh my god. How did you know that.”
Me: “Um, you told me.”
Her: “You don’t even know my name!”
Me: “Your name is Jenny. We’re from the same small town.”
Her: “Wow! That’s so nice.”  *hug*
Me: “It is.”
Her: “But, um, did we meet before? How do you know-”
Me: “YOU TOLD ME!”

I walk away.

*** Earlier…
Her: “…why am I holding this?”
Me: “That’s my phone genius, you’re putting your number in it…”
Her: “Oh my god. I’m so drunk. This is a new number. I totally forgot it.”
Me: “OK, give me your phone and I’ll put my number in it.”
Her: “Ok!” She opens up her purse and looks for her phone. “What’s your name?”
Me: “My name is Wrabbit, Jenny. This is perfect that I’m meeting you now, my crew will be robbing a bank and we’ll need a getaway driver.”
Her: “Haha!”

She gets her phone out of her purse…

*** Earlier…
Me: “You want to…”
Her: “What?”
Me: “When you go to Greece you want to do … what?”
Her: “Oh. When I go there I want to paint people on the sidewalk.”
Me: “Wow cool. Hey. Are you gonna remember this?”
Her: “Why?”
Me: “Because you seem totally cute and interesting, but I’m having to repeat myself a lot.”
Her: “I’m sorry, I’m just really drunk… um… what’s your name again?”
Me: “My name. Is. Wrabbit.”
Her: “Hi! My name is …”
Me: “Jenny.”
Her: “Oh. Did you know my friend? How did we meet?”
Me: “I came through the ceiling like Batman and landed on you. It was awkward.”
Her: “Haha!”
Me: “We should get together this week. When are you free?”
Her: “Oh, I’m going to San Diego on Thursday. But before that is ok.”
Me: “Cool, here’s my phone, put your number in it.”

She dials the area code…

*** Earlier…
Me: “What’s the number one thing you want to do there?”
Her: “…Where?”
Me: “In… Greece.”
Her: “Why are we talking about Greece?”
Me: *incredulous* “Like five seconds ago. Because that’s where you want to travel…”
Her: “Ohhh! Yeah. I love Greece! When I go there I…”

She trails off…

*** Earlier…
I meet her, and find out we’re from the same small town. We talk about that for a while. We repeat parts of our conversation. I’ve repeated my name once already.

Her: “What’s your name?”
Me: “My name is Wrabbit.” I smirk.
Her: “Oh yeah? What’s MY name?”
Me: “Jenny.”
Her: “Ooo. You’re good.”
Me: “You’ve probably never been outside of LA after you left home…”
Her: “Yeah I have! A few times.”
Me: “So you do go places. If you had a plane ticket anywhere, where would you go?”
Her: “Greece!”

These are not your ordinary geeks.

I’m at a casual business meeting at a diner and all these geeky guys are sitting around quiet. So I socialize with them and everyone starts to open up. Don’t get me wrong, they’re not lacking in social skills – one of them shows up with his girlfriend. She’s not a supermodel or anything, but she’s a total party girl. And the most shy, withdrawn, zombie-looking geek of them all drives a Vette with “80 grand of modifications in the engine alone” according to his friend. Not just any geeks… but executive geeks! Geeks with hot cars and fat wallets!

Geeks + money = this.

The last one to arrive has a big pair of shades on his head, and he struts up with a sexy blonde. Did I show up to the wrong meeting? I whisper to party girl, who by now is my instant BFF – “Wow she’s beautiful!” and she agrees.

So Shades guy has one problem, he’s braggy. It starts out tolerable but after a while balloons into obnoxiousness (we got a Foghorn Leghorn here). During any conversation he makes it a point to name-drop every chance he gets.

“Halloween was great. I was VIP at this party where they rented out an entire hotel. So-and-so TV star was there along with so-and-so rock star.” – Shades guy

Call me simple, but that kind of stuff just grates on me. (As they teach in Magic Bullets over at Love Systems, if you’re gonna brag, be subtle about it.) Braggy guy goes to the head of the table and leaves me sitting across from the blonde. Big mistake Pops. If he was less of a dick I wouldn’t have said anything, but now she’s fair game. I talk to her and pretty much just be my naturally charming self :-) which ends up making her giggle and start showing interest.

I gotta get the scoop. “How do you guys know each other?”
“It’s kind of a first date… We met on the internet.”
Huh? “And he brought you here?”
“Yeah it’s kinda weird.” OK, Protip guys: don’t bring a first date to a business meeting.

Also a bad first date.

I get everybody’s number and I just happen to get her number in the process :-) Right away she sends me some flirty texts so we go back and forth a bit, unbeknownst to Shades guy. Now we got a conspiracy going! (One of Tenmagnet‘s insights)

I order a beer and start goofing around, throwing paper airplanes, starting conversations with other tables. Pretty soon everyone else is drinking and raising a ruckus. Just before the rowdiness peaks, the blonde drops a bomb out of nowhere. “I want to know, I’ve got to see this. What’s 2 girls 1 cup?” she asks innocently.

We insist she doesn’t want to know, that NO ONE ever wants to know the horror she’s describing.

5 minutes later we’re huddled around a laptop watching the #1 reason Brain Bleach should exist. Seriously? These geeks went from quiet analytical discussion to binge drinking and horrifying-porn-watching in 30 minutes flat. Conclusion: I’m the devil.

P.S. Oh yeah, Shades guy “bragged” that he worked with the guy who produced 2 girls 1 cup. Double-you-tee-fuck.  I wish I was making that up.

(Originally written November 2009)

“Ok, where are we REALLY going?”
“House, no joke! My friends are there. Big party.”

I just picked up this girl I met at the loudest club ever from her apartment. Despite her living here for 3 years, her English is incoherent. After 20 minutes of driving all I can figure out is that we’re going to somebody’s house party. We enter some industrial area. “I don’t think there are any houses here.”
She says “no no no, house is here!”
After I sent this girl only one text, she’s invited me out to pick her up, told me her life story in pidgin English, and now I’m sure I’ll wake up later with a kidney missing. The things I do for a story…

I get a whiff of something ripe and shrug it off. Little do I know that this moment is like the first fleeting glimpse of the monster in a horror movie.

She squeals “House is close!”

We drive further and further and I finally see where we’re heading – a building with a neon sign saying “HOUSE.” I smack my forehead. My life has become an Abbott and Costello routine. We flip a U-turn and park. Cool, we’re finally here! I open the door and suddenly wish I hadn’t.

Oh my god.

I almost vomit. This is an abomination. It smells like Satan himself ate maggot-stuffed cabbage and took a steaming dump on a burning horse. Just breathing feels like one year of your life draining out of your lungs. I can’t even hear what she’s saying, I rush into the club and gasp like a dying fish.

Once the color returns to my vision I look around. Hmm I think I’ve seen this place before. Any second now a black guy in body armor is gonna bust in and kill some of these coked-out vampires.

Not pictured: olfactory terror.

To further showcase the nightmarishness, the smell is clawing its way in from outside. I ask a bartender what the hell is going on and she says they make dog food or something around here. What the hell do they make it out of, bull nuts and pig shit?! (horrifyingly enough I’m not that far off)

We spend a while there, then she tells me she wants to hang out there ’til 5am. FUCK THAT.

I can’t take any more of this smell. I gotta find a diner but I don’t know any place around here. I text one of my boys and he suggests this place in Hollywood. Sweet! (I owe you dude)

MISTAKE #2 – CONTINENTAL DIVIDE

We go there and it’s so busy they have a security guy and a line-up out front. I chat with the bouncer and he’s pretty cool. I chat with my girl some more. So far I’m doing ok, but when we finally go inside I make Game-killing Mistake #673.

We go to sit down and get assigned a booth – one of those “booths for two”, where you have to sit face-to-face. Too late I realize that we’re stuck for the whole meal with a gulf of cheap Formica between us. By the end of the meal any sexual tension has dissipated and the date is pretty much over.

Always always SIT NEXT TO THE GIRL AT RESTAURANTS.

I should have asked for a bigger booth.

“We’ve only just met… and I have to leave. It’s a shame. We’re never gonna see each other again. So…” I get closer to her lips and my voice gets softer as I say… “We must have one… last… kiss… and it must be – ” I finish breathlessly – “incredible…”

Her soft kiss explodes into a white-hot passionate makeout. We’re ready to tear each other’s clothes off. I glance at her wristwatch. The dials don’t lie.

5:34.

My non-refundable flight leaves at 6:30. I have a choice – get laid or save $500.

ESCAPE

I send her out of my room. I pack my shit and curse my bill collectors. I run downstairs. I ask my British friend for a ride. “Sorry mate valet takes 15 minutes.”
I run to the ATM. Get cash. Call a cab. Jump inside.

5:47.

“Ft. Lauderdale-Hollywood.”
“When’s your flight?”
“6:30.”
Italian cabbie says, “You’re fucked.”
I throw him 60 bucks. He hauls ass, almost wrecks twice, and badmouths Florida cops.

6:04.

I reach the counter. Confirm my e-ticket. The desk guy says “You’re two minutes past confirmation.”
“Dude I gotta get on this plane!”
He glares at me. I smile back.
He radios “We clear for one more?”
Silence. Radio gibberish.

“You’re cleared.”

I run to security. I get “airport naked”. I curse the PILES of shit I’m carrying. TSA lady eyeballs me. I smile back.

6:17.

I clear security. Sprint through the terminal. I reach my gate to find… the jet bridge door is closing!

I brandish my boarding pass and plea for entry.
They shrug. I smile back.
They open the door. I run down the jet bridge and turn the corner to see…

The last TWO people boarding!

I make my flight with ONE MINUTE to spare. Holy shit. I lean back in my seat and shake my head. As my roommate says at home that night, “Mark one up for the record books. There might be an asterisk next to it, but whatever. It still counts.”

I earned my stripes.