book

  I'm circling the parking lot at a Trader Joe's when Damien calls me. I fumble with my bluetooth for a moment too long and a bitch in a white Toyota Corolla swoops in and snags a space out from under me. I unroll my window and give her a thumbs down. She opens her door and advises me to "Fuck off", which I do, and I'm not happy about it. "What?" I finally say to Damien. "Yooo?" "Can you hear me?" I raise my voice. I'm about to go park on a side street. I yank my steering wheel around and zip out of the lot. "Okay, so. We got some of the boys from the studio coming out to Wyatt's show tonight. It's the perfect time to do some networking." Wyatt Easton is the son of a couple of people who got  very big  into denim back in the nineties. He's got enough money to pay people to think he's talented. He usually just opens warehouse shows for bigger names, but lately he's been fancying himself a headliner. Th...

   Despite all my ministrations to myself about not drinking anymore, I go to an after party with some of the guys I work with. We miss the actual show because of work - a UKF dubstep artist playing at one of the "Corporate EDM" venues on Hollywood Boulevard - but we make it to the afters. It's held at a pseudo-underground club that became popular after the pandemic despite it being nothing more that a narrow dance floor with a shitty bar attached. "Rep. Uh. Sah. Doe." I enunciate to the bartender who looks at me with buggy, but somehow sexy, blue eyes. She cocks her head at me. It is loud enough in here that I can give her the benefit of the doubt, but I wonder at the same time if she is dumb enough to go home with one of my coworkers later. I point at the bottle. "The Casamigos Repasado," I say in a loud voice, and then, to help her out, I say, "Tequila?" "Ohhhh, the brown one!" She laughs and grabs the bottle. She gives me a heal...

 I get pressed for money towards the end of every month. When I lived with Lydia, she took care of all the bills and I would just buy groceries or whatever. She'd tell me to throw her two hundred for utilities from time to time. I don't know how I got away with it. I think she thought of me as her broken but lovable pet. Back home, I made a decent amount of money bartending, and I managed to spend the majority of it on absolute bullshit nonsense. And drugs, of course. But here in Los Angeles I'm careful because I have to be and it still isn't enough. I decide it's time to pick up a second job. It doesn't take long. I wander around Burbank until I find a shitty bar with a pool table. I give the bartender my resume. "You're from Florida?" She asks. I tell her the town. "That's my hometown!" She says, excited. "Wow, that is so crazy. Let me introduce you to the owner." It strikes me as a red flag that she thinks I'm worth m...

   I don't know what to do with myself on my day off. I remember reading somewhere that when you want to be happy, you should treat yourself like you would a small child. Buy yourself ice cream if you have to. Coddle yourself. Do something for you. I don't know what that might be. I could go to the gym. Do my errands. Eat dinner. All I can think to do are chores in the endless spin cycle of monotonous bullshit that is my life. Even stuff like going to a museum or a show are just things that cost money that I've gotta be mindful of the time about. Will I get enough sleep before work? Will I be able to afford rent this month? I'm so frustrated I want to go back to bed and sleep the whole stupid day away. Instead, I get in my car and just start driving. Over and over, self criticisms run through my head: this is bad for my car, if I had real friends maybe I'd have real plans, I hate LA, why am I here, why can't I escape from myself?   I drive all the way to Laguna ...