I haven’t posted since last June! Time flies when you’re trying to hang on to this merry-go-round we call life! BUT! I was working on a new short story and it’s finally here. It’s called, An Evening Storm and I hope it’s as cathartic for you reading it, as it was for me writing it.
An Evening Storm
At this point, I had been going in and out of consciousness for about an hour. I didn’t need my phone because all of my voracious imaginings were so ingrained into my inner world that they had zip codes and identification cards. Phones were for people who had someone to exchange information, thoughts, and feelings with, and at the moment, I wasn’t really one of them. I didn’t need to check for a stray text here and there because I hardly received any. If it wasn’t some holiday sale notification or a missed call from my father, it was static space. A space I filled with beaches in Fiji or suites in Paris. Whatever was actually going on in the store was background and scenery. It wasn’t the worst job I’ve ever had, but it was just that, a job. A colorless, grey mush purgatory where you stood around as a placeholder, no one walking out of the store with the merchandise without having spent a paycheck on it.
It was around 4:15 P.M. when my tête-à-tête with a dashing British barrister in a cute, Parisian boulangerie was interrupted by my lead. “Hey, the store is slow so I am sending you and Leslie home. It looks like rain too; you might want to grab an umbrella before it breaks.” I nodded that I understood and he traipsed off to the underground storage cellar, walkie in hand, getting worked up over about some Instacart emergency, non-emergency. It was a relief that he didn’t want to make any more conversation. He was weirdly always only interested in talking about “work” and anytime I veered into anything else it was shut down quickly.
I understood not talking about deeply personal issues at THE JOB, but even when, “Nice weather we’re having,” seemed like too much of a commitment, you started to wonder if it was you. Having to learn all the quirks of upper management to keep from being fired from such banal labor was exhausting and ridiculous. I hurried to the lockers and ran into Leslie, who was irritated that she wouldn’t be able to work until closing. It was a bit odd that we had been told to go home, considering this was a downtown location and there would have to be a statewide national disaster to slow anything down, but she told me she was sort of happy that she would get to spend some time working on her art pieces. I pretended to care and moved ahead of her out of the employee backrooms. While she was nice enough, she had the one flaw of being about as exciting and interesting as wet paper. She was boring, her art was boring. When you have the luxury of having parents who paid for you to go to art school, you usually take minimum-wage jobs as a way to seem less uninteresting. The illusion of poverty is always in vogue for the young, bland, and rich.
The hallway to the exit seemed extra over-lighted for some reason and walking out, I saw the basket of umbrellas almost half gone and decided against buying one. It had been overcast since the early morning and the sky hadn’t broken open once, not even a drizzle. Why waste the money? Even if it did start to pour, it was one of those days when I needed it. I needed to feel something that reminded me that I was alive and whole, and not missing some very important piece of myself. That the natural world acknowledged me as real and whole. I stood at the exit to the store for a brief moment and listened to the lone dove who made its nest on the signage above the door. Its coo somehow comforted me and made me horribly sad. I took the escalator downstairs to the food court for a quick bathroom pit stop and got some chips, queso, and guacamole. Even if it took me hours to get home, I wouldn’t hate it cold. As I grabbed my food, I heard my phone ping with a text message. Before I reached for it, I found it odd that I was getting a text at all. I hadn’t spoken to anyone in ages; friends were gone and stayed with me as hollow memories and new acquaintances were like delicate bone china that might shatter at the first instance of emotional weakness on my part; so it couldn’t be someone like Karla. I had just met Karla at a rally for a community organization I started attending meetings for and she looked just as lost as I did, but not so lost to be reaching out first, secure enough in her life to not bother with anyone new yet.
The screen of my phone gave a glow over my face in the dimly lit dining hall, as the sun was finally sinking into the hazy horizon. It was Daisy, a girl I met at cattle call 3 months ago, who I begrudgingly exchanged numbers with and whose seemingly euphoric life I also had watched play out on Instagram (“follow me, I sometimes post open castings”).
[Hey!! OMG, I am sorry I haven’t hit you up, stuff has been pretty hectic with all the jobs I’ve been going out on and the brand deals I’ve been organizing. But I am having a Christmas party tonight and was wondering if you wanted to come?]
I looked up bewildered. She hadn’t really interacted with me at all since we’d met, so I didn’t know what had brought any of this on. Christmas cheer? A pitiful perusal of my last Instagram post, which had been sometime in April and was about how we almost got kicked out of our apartment building by our slumlord-landlord? Did I even want to go? I didn’t live in downtown and was hesitant to spend the Lyft money to get home if I got out of there after 10 P.M. As I was thinking over my response, my phone rang and it was my dad. I took a seat in front of the hot chicken place’s outside seating and Dad said he was heading to Macario’s Bar for a beer and to watch the international soccer channel. He’d probably be home by 1 P.M., he was going to stop by Adan’s after to help fix their Toyota. I told him it was fine, and was grateful he actually told me where he was going, he was 75 and didn’t drive anymore and had argued with me about at least checking in. I told him I didn’t know when I’d be home, but would probably be there before him. We exchanged, “I love yous” and I was left to figure out what to tell Daisy. Again, I had no real desire to go, but the last 6 months of repetitive isolation were weighing on me like anchors on a rusty, mildewed ship. Fine, I’ll go:
[Hey, no problem. Sure, I’ll go. What’s your address?]
In a few more pings I had the address as well as pictures of a gorgeous charcuterie board and roaring fire. It filled me with grief and malaise instead of any warm feelings.
The air was cold and clean as I made my way down Figueroa, night had blanked the city, and people walked through the streets on their way home or to parties or other rendezvous. I stopped in front of the subway station and contemplated actually going home. But to who and for what? I saw myself make my way towards Van Nuys, to my well-worn apartment, dropping my bag near the door, taking in the mail, turning on the Christmas lights, eating my food, watching some comfort show on Hulu for the thousandth time, all until I would fall into an uneasy sleep, waking up to the sound of my father in the shower who would come home around 12:30 instead of 1. It made me lose my appetite for all of it. So much so that I gave the chips, queso, and guacamole to an unhoused neighbor I always saw come into the store. I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t hungry for the food, but more so my beige, aimless existence that I walked around in daily.
But I kept walking, checking ever so often the map on my phone. I took in the scenes of downtown. White collar workers heading into high raises to burn the midnight oil for bosses currently on some yacht in the sea near Portugal or skiing in Luxembourg. Groups of teens grabbing snacks at 7-Eleven or meeting up to go to the movies or taking the bus back home. Sellers at their tables hoping to make a few bucks before everything semi-shuts down on Christmas. All of them looked natural like they were born to do exactly what they were doing, not questioning one bit if they were acting and doing it in the right place and time.
The blue dot on my phone told me that Daisy’s was about 2 minutes away and I finally met a shiny, glass building, covered in so many Christmas decorations that you’d think Kevin McCallister was about to walk out of it. I could see my breath, but the cold didn’t faze me. I stopped. And as I had often done over the years, I left my body:
I walked into the building and politely asked the security guard to let me into the locked elevator, so I could go up to 7245. I saw my reflection in the spotless elevator doors, being let onto a floor where your neighbor could throw Live Aid and you’d never hear it. I knocked on the door and was greeted warmly by Daisy’s boyfriend and then Daisy herself, and was handed a warm mug of cider so well put together that Martha Stewart wouldn’t be able to find fault with it, and then I was corralled to a balcony. I was told that there was more food and other people I didn’t know in the outdoor recreational area of the building. I made small talk in 5-minute intervals with people who lost interest as soon as they saw I was a nobody like they were. I finally felt like I had punished myself enough with the company of strangers and found Daisy and knew that she was too drunk or high to care if I left early and wouldn’t make a fuss and would see me to the door. We exchanged a lukewarm hug and promised to meet up for lunch. I left. When Daisy was sober later on the next day, when talking to her boyfriend about the guests at the party, she’d off-handily remember me leaving early and would mildly take offense. Not with enough effort to actually care, because she hardly knew me. I was just another faceless drone creative in LA, her LA, the LA she claimed when she got here from Everton, some little town just outside of Pittsburg. The one who welcomed her with open arms, because she looked like she belonged here and knew what to say and who to say it to and had no shame or backbone about anything she said. She’d tell her bf, Nick, or Rick, Bradley, John, whoever he was, that, “She was nice, but weird, I don’t need her vibe in my space; I won’t invite her to anything anymore.” That would be the last of it and they’d fuck or go out to run errands at Wholefoods because they needed to walk their pug.
I saw it all and chunks of my spirit started falling from the sky, like a meteor shower, back into my body. I couldn’t do it. And I didn’t just mean Daisy’s party. I wanted so desperately to run somewhere. Go. Do something that wasn’t this. I rushed away from the building with my only plan being to keep going.
I eventually reached a bus stop that I knew would take me to Chinatown. It was still early enough that nothing would be closed, so I just got on and sat by a window seat. I had my headphones on but nothing was playing. I stared into space for a few minutes but was suddenly struck by how beautiful everything through that bus window was. The overcast sky, the city lights, the people gathered outside clubs and restaurants, it all felt so poetic and right. Time felt like it paused for a moment and I was able to just be again. I, happily, wasn’t bothered by anyone on the bus and I made it to Chinatown. In dreamy autopilot, I eventually reached the well-worn storefront of me and Evelyn’s favorite dim sum spot. I hadn’t been to this place in years, since we stopped speaking, for fear of running into her and being terrified of my love for her vomiting out of me in the form of tears and sobs in line to get siopao. I tried to not stew on that and keep my thoughts on nothing but food. I made it to the counter and got half of what once was me and Evelyn’s standard order and a drink, and made my way outside.
The only available seating was indoors, but I felt too self-conscious to sit at a table at the moment, so I spotted a bus stop bench, sat down, and dug in. It was at a time in the evening when everyone was too busy in their own movements to wonder much about what I was or wasn’t doing, too dark to care. I ate and unfortunately started to think and reminisce again. I was looking out at a place I didn’t recolonize anymore. Chinatown had been completely gutted in the name of “rejuvenation.” It had always felt like an old friend that you had wonderful lunches, shopping trips, and dinners with, who spoke with you about life and your troubles. It held you close and offered solutions. Everything had changed so much. But those who lived and worked there were fighting to bring it back to the people who loved it most and I hoped I was doing enough on my end and thanked them for everything they did on theirs.
The last time Evelyn and I had been here popped into my mind. By then, we really were just keeping each other company, like a couple who had foregone all and every type of intimacy. It felt so suffocating and solid to me, but Evelyn didn’t mind it, though all I could do was feel it slowly suffocating me. It stopped feeling safe and right months ago. So, I left. We were so different. It was intolerable.
I surprised myself by finishing my meal. I sipped on my drink and just sat there. The rain still hadn’t come. I looked at my phone and noticed it was just barely scratching 7:00 P.M. Little Tokyo. I’d walk to Little Tokyo. I could take the train, but more apparitions waited for me there too. All of them still living, but apparitions, nonetheless. Sergio had been a friend for about, 2 years? I couldn’t remember. I saw him there like I saw Daisy’s party. I looked up at the platform and saw myself and Sergio laughing and talking. He was fun when he wasn’t angry and rageful. I stopped talking to him when I realized he was capable of physically hurting me. It had been an awful surprise. I wasn’t lonely enough to put up with it, but I still missed him and was glad he was gone. I probably looked strange as I waved goodbye to an empty platform, but I didn’t care. The timelines had merged, it wasn’t a figment of my imagination, 2023 and 2013 had come together, powered by the high voltage and the rawness of this incarnation of myself trying to find peace with an older version.
I was going through the dragon-guarded arched entrance of Chinatown when I decided to take the long way to Little Tokyo. I wanted to go down 1st. I didn’t cut through Placita Olvera because I didn’t feel like dealing with the crowds, even though by now, they’d be waning. I circled around to Union Station, went down the escalators, and took the purple or red line, it didn’t matter; to Civic Center. I got off and started to walk again. I asked myself what, now? I didn’t really know. I did know that walking down this way made me feel relieved for some reason. I had done it enough times pretending that this was how I’d met the love of my life. Little Tokyo was always a great date option, but I never seemed to find anyone worth taking in the romantic sense.
I made my way past the Weller Court Shopping Center. As I got closer to the Japanese Village Plaza, I watched the restaurants that lined the left side of the street backed up with patrons, on the right, the Miyako, which I didn’t know much about other than the cafes and souvenir spots next to it, and quickly reached the plaza overflowing with people. It was Thursday and besides people starting their weekends early, it would officially be Christmas on Sunday. No wonder it was packed. It felt redundant to browse the shops, so I made a beeline for the Christmas tree in the center of it all, which was always there this time of year, and thought of Ulysses. I had once had a huge crush on him and he worked in the area. He was charming to a degree and attractive about as much, the hornier parts of me thought of us having sex often, but it was always in the form of sating a need. I was desperate enough to have gone to a local café in the area to see if I would run into him. When I didn’t, I grew bored and thought of just outright propositioning him for sex; or at least a blow job if I couldn’t commit all the way. I messaged him and found out he was on business in New York. Passions extinguished, I sheepishly went home, somehow humiliated even though I was the only one who knew of my plans. He was a stand-in in my fantasies for a while. When I worked at the coffee shop near my house, he was all I could talk about because it had been one of the most boring jobs I ever held in my life. The people there were sure I was in the deepest caverns of love with him, when the reality was, that I was indifferent and in lust and limerence. I needed someone to take the edge off of the mediocracy. I thought he was interested too because he later told me he had gone to said coffee shop (one of the only ones with a special kind of dessert that he told me he hated) to get some work done. I knew it was a signal that he wanted to engage in the carnality of whatever this was between us, but was too afraid to say so, so we passed each other like two sex-starved ships in the night. Or at least I was.
While admiring the Christmas tree and shaming myself for the most timid acts of almost debauchery, no one, unfortunately, came up to me to ask if I, “came here often?” and I decided it was time to go. I couldn’t even drown my sorrows in mochi, the best mochi around and one of the oldest stores in the area, having closed a couple of years back. Walking out towards the Angel City Brewery, I realized it was almost 9:00 P.M. Should go home? I had a shift that started around 2:00 P.M the next day, so I could technically go home late and be fine, but, again why?
“Give me the softest shit you got, like I mean shit that barely gives you a buzz, I mean, it’s not even weed,” I told this to a tired-faced girl at the dispensary. I was in the industrial-ish part of East LA. I would go to the bridge and smoke this barely weed there. She knew what I meant thank God, and gave me some sort of herbal cigarette with a little bit of a punch. She bagged a couple more, seemed to be the sweetest person I’ve run into a long time and then I stood outside in the deserted parking lot waiting for my Lyft. Fuck. I spent a lot tonight on too many things, but didn’t care. I would take a Lyft home too. It was? —God, it was still so early. Barely 10:00 P.M. My ride came and it was a driver that actually enjoyed talking. He told me about Vermont, how he’d come down here to be a screenwriter, and lived with a couple in San Gabriel who loved being passive-aggressive. When I asked him how he could stand it, he waved his hand in the air, and said, “It’s fine.” It’s fine. I wished I could care so little about my neighbors and their annoying habits (to put it mildly). We didn’t have roommates, but my neighbors seemed to think they lived in a cabin in the middle of the forest with no civilization for miles around. They played loud music, had obnoxious sex, and for good measure, peeped into our windows if we left the curtains open all before 9:00 A.M. I told him this and he just kept that cheery grin on his face and told me he’d just buy ear plugs and buy curtain clips if he was me. I must have looked like I wanted to jump out of the car because he saw my bag and said he didn’t mind if I wanted to light up. I told him thanks, but no thanks. This was a little ritual I wanted to do by myself and didn’t need anyone else in my space while I did it.
He dropped me off at the bridge. I got to the middle took out my cigarette and made a show of my silver, double-chambered lighter. I moved it here and there, tossed it, laughing. No one was around to tell me how much of a fool I was making of myself. I finally lit it and let the flavors and smoke shroud me. There was too much fresh air and it didn’t create the fog I longed for. I wanted to feel like how those old fucks who go to a tobacconist and smoke in those lounges must feel. Invincible and carefree. But was feeling a bit calmer and then people seemed to come out of nowhere: A couple, fresh out of high school in love with life and hoping for so much in the future. After them, a couple in their twilight years, a glimpse into the future of the former couple 60 years down the road, happily chatting in Spanish about visiting back home (Rosarito), the last week of December. Then finally, a group of girlfriends who grew up in the area and were now working at non-profits, at clinics, and as teachers, still in the area, carrying presents, having come from a dinner-gift exchange at a fancy restaurant in downtown. They talked about how it was still early and that they should just drop these presents off at Jimena’s and catch a movie. Then another one of them said they knew about this awesome theater in Irvine whose last show ended at 4:00 A.M. They all squealed and giggled and Jimena who had been designated the gift keeper, said that they might as well stay out all night and have breakfast at The Pan. They could take the scenic route back since they opened at 9:00 A.M. or hell, grab something at a gas station before, so they didn’t starve. They all agreed and Jimena motioned for them to hurry since they probably wouldn’t get out of her house until her mother made them all have at least one tamale and other goodies. None of them noticed me. They were so caught up in their fun that even though I was a chimney in the middle of the sidewalk, so much smoke was bellowing out of me, but they didn’t even cough or wave it away.
What would they do if I suddenly ran behind them and said, “Hi, I know you have no idea who I am, I know we probably have nothing in common, but I can’t stand another day alone with my own thoughts, and my past. Please let me come with you. Talk to me like we’ve known each other for years, like we work together, like we went to college together and were on the same dorm floor. Please, your night seems like everything I’ve wanted for so long. PLEASE! BE MY FRIEND!” Their looks of disgust would haunt me worse than the past my mind was so adamant about replaying and I am pretty sure they’d start to run as fast as they could to Jimena’s and the cops would show up sometime later to make sure I didn’t have any weapons on me. They would let me go because I hadn’t really done anything wrong but have an emotional breakdown and thoroughly embarrassed myself. So, I am kinda glad I just watched them walk away, arms around each other like an episode of The Baby-Sitters Club, the best of friends and only imagined that little lunacy.
Whatever Jimena and the girls had planned wasn’t something I could be a part of. Even if I met Jimena yesterday, let’s say she walked into the store to buy some micellar water and we struck up a friendly conversation, good enough to warrant following each other on Instagram, it would be months before she would introduce me to the rest of her friends. Or I might not even get that far. We’d follow each other commenting here and there for the rest of eternity or until Instagram became defunct. Jimena and her friends weren’t for me. They had somehow escaped boring each other. The little snide comments and “friendly competition” they had with one another didn’t feel like raking your body over hot coals. The odd comment about—what would one of her friends be called? How about we call her Alba? —The odd comment about how Alba’s dream of becoming a Broadway singer was silly (“You know I don’t mean, silly, silly,”) and that she should just focus on getting her Masters and moving up the ladder at her NGO, wouldn’t make Alba not want to talk to Jimena or her other friends ever again. Alba would stay put because she feared being alone, feared the silence. She’d once found out the group hadn’t invited her on a little 4-day weekend out to Solvang because she had been being a real “downer” lately. They had covered their tracks so well that she would have never found out if she hadn’t decided to drop off a cupcake pan —let’s baptize another one of her friends— to Sarai’s house. Sarai’s mother acted a bit shocked to see her and casually asked why Alba hadn’t left with the girls yesterday morning. Alba had quickly put two and two together and since entering her depression, was made aware that she hadn’t been her usual happy-go-lucky self and her friends had noticed and she was so completely unbearable that sharing a car and a cabin with her for more than an hour would have been way too much to ask. Plopping the cupcake pan on Mrs. Gomez’s counter while holding back tears, she’d make up an excuse about having to take her little sister to choir rehearsals all weekend and she hadn’t been able to go. Mrs. Gomez was just being polite and didn’t really give a shit, so while her back was turned, tending to her grandchildren, she’d mumble a response and Alba would tell her she’d see her later and rush out. The whirlwind of feelings that her friends were starting to see her as a liability almost making her fall to the ground and sob. She’d play scenes of them having the time of their lives in front of that random Danish village in Northern California and vow to be better, less depressed, more cheerful. She’d never take anything personally, again. She’d call Tony tonight and tell him she was dropping out of the community college’s production of Sweet Charity. He’d be livid. “You’re the lead! What are you talking about? You practiced for two months for the auditions! I know it’s not even, off-off Broadway, but it’s a start! Is something going on? Let’s get a late dinner in Koreatown, I am busy as hell, but we need to talk!” She’d tell him no, nothing was wrong, and since Tony was just a good acquaintance, he wouldn’t push it. Never mind how lucky Alba was that even her acquaintances seemed to care more than usual. She wanted and needed to be with her friends. She just couldn’t be alone, start over. She was sure she’d die. Fortunately for Alba or whatever her name actually was, she was still there. Unfortunately for me, I had chosen to leave. And in the worst of it, I had wished I was dead.
“But I didn’t die.” I said this out loud, into the night, having finished my beginner’s joint. I was here. And alone. And too many years had passed since then and I still was alone. The magical group of friends I thought I’d make along the way, having not made an appearance yet. I checked my phone. Shit, it was 1:00 A.M.! I had been standing in the same spot for two hours. I took my phone off personal and noticed my dad had called 3 times. I ordered my Lyft and was lucky that one was only 5 minutes away at this time of night. I promptly then called my dad back, who was glad I was ok and making my way home.
The Lyft came and asked me what I was doing at the bridge this time of night, “Thinking about killing yourself?” He burst out laughing like he’d made the cleverest joke in the world. He then proceeded to hit on me the whole almost half-hour way to my apartment and just as I was out the door, he pulls out a condom from the glove compartment and asks me if I want to fuck in the nearby park. I tell him no and slam the door. Before I reach my building, I’ve had a full conversation about what just happened with Lyft customer service (to not leave you in suspense: They didn’t refund me for the ride, only blocked the driver, and tell me he’s under investigation and never update me again). I am finally in the safety of my home. I hear the snores of my dad coming from his room. I go to the kitchen table and smile at the food he’s left me with a little note saying he hopes I had a good night. It makes me happy, but I still tear up. I eat the food while watching an old episode of The Golden Girls on almost silent, too much noise feeling overwhelming right now. Besides, I could perform this episode with 20 minutes notice if I needed to, I’ve seen it so many times. Full, I decide to sit on my couch, not wanting to sleep just yet. I think about the day: Was not going to Daisy’s party a missed opportunity to “network”? Could I have done something more constructive than wander around the city fighting off the ghosts of my past? No, and no. Spilled milk. Even if I would have gone or gone somewhere else and met the person(s) who were going to change the whole trajectory of my life, I chose the opposite. No use caring now.
I checked on Dad one last time. He was in a deep sleep, the real world asleep with him. I got to my door and the silence of the night made my ears feel like bleeding. I took off my robe, got into bed, and tried to think of nothing. But I thought. I thought of the heaviness of loneliness, of sacrifice, and what it truly meant to put yourself first. The vastness of it all. I would not awaken tomorrow to messages from beautiful friends with plans and TikTok videos shared to the group chat and the location of where we were meeting that night. I wouldn’t be sent the itinerary from a boyfriend about our trip in a month’s time. The truth was I would awaken tomorrow with myself. And I had to work on seeing how much more than enough that was. Sleep came and it never did rain that night.