I noticed he fumbled a little opening the deadbolt on 1006, tossing the door open and ushering me to the bedroom threshold — which would have been weird I guess had the bedroom had a bed in it.
Jordan paused, waiting to flip on the light until I’d gotten a lingering view of the glittering juxtaposition of a twinkling Los Angeles and the blinking magnificence of two 4′ racks of vintage outboard gear.
A u87 hung from a massive boom stand to the side of small desk. I tried to sit calmly on the dark brown leather couch across from it and looked up into his almost honey brown eyes as he moved beside me.
I pointed out his Pultec, how do you like the Wunder Modules? Is that really an 1176? If only I could get my voice on that microphone… oh, were those drums in the living room?
He loved to record, he said, but drums were his passion.
The living room was large and held his queen-sized bed in addition to a full set of living room furniture and a massive (to me) 60″ television. The drum set sat half assembled in a far corner, underneath another window open to the city.
My 5th floor view of the parking lot had never seemed so bland, so lackluster as it did that day, looking out onto the bustle of Hollywood Blvd. For a moment I contemplated asking Jordan if he’d like to go finish our talk on the roof. It had a wonderful, 3 foot wide ledge, and anywhere you sat gave you a 360 view of Los Angeles all the way out to the ocean. But, as my phone buzzed impatiently with a text, I remembered that I was now 10 minutes late to my date downstairs.
We exchanged numbers, stopping ourselves from a hug as I smiled out of the front door and skipped to the elevator.
Sitting at the bar, trying to choke down the damned Beam and coke in front of me, I couldn’t remember almost anything Chris said. I think it might have been about his mom’s epic snoring, or the hassle of dealing with Medicaid. He lamented not being able to invite me to his place, he hadn’t gotten laid in like months he blathers. He’d like to come to my place, but I try to explain that I’ve got a roomate, and we live in a studi0.
I’d also like to explain that she’s sort of insane, too, and that even if I did like him at all she’d be a major buzz kill. We’d be better off trying to get down in an alley. I looked over my drink into his pale blue eyes, framed with gaudy black plastic frames, far, far too big for his face. His shaggy unwashed hair flopping over them a little on top.
I’m just saying yes to another drink as some people I know plop next to me at the bar, saying hey, do you want us to put anything into the Jukebox for you Jane? Oh great, Jamie is playing darts again, lets see how long that lasts.
I can only giggle in reply because I’ve felt my phone start to vibrate in my pocket, and the surprise of it takes me suddenly, and inexplicably out of the moment. I flip open the flimsy Motorola, reading the text over and then over again, the words not fitting, not taking meaning — like when you repeat egg until the sound of it feels foreign in your ears.
“Jane, it was so nice to meet you. I just, I had to tell you that I felt something with you that I haven’t felt before. I think you know what I mean. I think you felt it too.”
My chest feels tight, the short text from Jordan swimming loudly in my head. 5 minutes later I’ve closed my tab and left the bar, speed walking back to the Madison, sending the elevator back to 1006.