Lost in Translation

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.

Last night I encountered something so sinister, so vile that I needed to re-evaluate what I was about to do. I could not run, I could not hide, I could not park. LAX had once again captured me in its ugly snare.

I left for the airport around 7:00. Evan’s plane was flying in from Germany, and armed with a digital picture and a sharpied grocery bag with his name on it, I took off for the dreaded circle. I hate airports in general, but usually I can justify the means, because the end is usually worth it. But when I must endure the yellow zones, busses and nuns without any real upside, that’s when it really gets to me. I was so excited before and LAX totally deflated my sail. I guess I’ll just park.

I grabbed a cart that someone had left behind and walked into baggage claim. I kept looking at the digital picture, as if I would forget what he looked like. Everything this month was hinging on him coming, so I was doing whatever it took to make sure this went down. I looked at the picture again.

I walked over to the monitor and saw there was an two-hour delay on his flight. Fuck, there was no way I was going to wait around. So I went to get in my car and grab a bite on Century, since I didn’t get a chance to eat dinner. I read the L.A. Weekly and chilled.

I got in my car and left again. I figured this time, I could just drive around the loop and wait for him to come. I got my paper bag “Evan” sign and held it out the convertible top. I’ve always wanted to be at the airport holding a sign for someone. So cool.

I waited by the curb, looking in baggage claim. It was too hard to see in. Finally, I saw a recognizable face pop out from the crowd. That happens all the time in L.A. though. You’re not sure if you went to school with that person or they happen to be a supporting player on CSI. It is all very confusing.

I looked at the picture, and back at him, much like a private eye would do, then I screamed his name twice, “Evan,” then “Even,” I wasn’t sure how he pronounced it, since we had communicated only through e-mail. He looked around, saw the sign and smiled. He held up his wait finger and went back inside.

Soon a tall, blonde Euro man with a backpack bigger than my sister made his way towards my car. He was talking to someone that in a strange way looked like the bastard child of Ali G and the bad ass guy from the end of Lock, Stock and two Smoking Barrels.

“Rob Lowe,” he said, smiling, “You have Porsche…the little one. Very cute.” I wasn’t sure if he was belittling me or belittling me. Whatever.

“Ivan,” great to meet you, intentially mis-pronouncing his name in response.

“This is Scorpio," he said pointing to the Sweat suit guy.

“Hey,” he said giving me the hand bump.

“Hey.” I was a bit confused. I thought Evan was coming by himself today, and his friends were coming later.

“Dude, I’m sorry, I thought it was just you coming, I can only fit one guy.”

“No problem,” said Evan, “M.C., you stay. Rob do you have key?”

“Yea,” I said grabbing it from my ashtray.

I handed the key to Evan and he threw it to Scorpio, along with an e-mail printout I had sent with my address. “Get cab,” he said and got in the car.

We took off, without saying a word. He held his giant backpack on his lap, knowing there was no way that was fitting in my trunk.

“Sorry about not being able to pick up your friend,” I said, finally breaking the silence.

“He is not my friend,” he said distantly. He was looking around at the palm trees and lights. When you’re in L.A. for the first time, even Sepulveda Blvd. seems strangely exotic. He was taken in, and we hadn’t even left El Segundo.

“Did you meet him on the plane?”

“Huh?” he said, snapping out of it. “No, no, he is my sister’s boyfriend and insisted on coming. He wants to be famous DJ. Calls himself M.C. Scorpio. I only call him that because it makes him sound so stupid.”

“Ah, anyone else coming tonight? Got a stowaway in the big backpack?” I said lightly.

“Rob Lowe, you have sense of humor, that’s good, me too.”

We drove a bit more.

“Are you hungry? I can stop for food if you want?”

“No food. I just want to fuck.”

I gave him a startled/angry look, and he looked back.

“Ahh,” he said smiling, “Not fuck you, Rob Lowe, Fuck L.A. Woman.”

That was a relief.

“There’s a pub called King’s head in Santa Monica. It’s by the hostel there, and there’s always some hot girls from Europe there.”

“Rob Lowe, If I want German girls, I stay in Germany. I want American girls. Blonde, with the tits.” He said cupping around his chest.

“All right, how about the Circle Bar. They have hot, American bartenders there. It’s a pretty good place.”

“Movie Stars?”

“I, mean, I guess. I met Topher Grace there once, but you probably want chick stars.”

“Tofer who?” he said.

“Forget it.”

We were on our way back and I asked if he wanted to go to my place to wait for M.C., change and drop off his bag.

“That will not get me laid,” He said matter-of-factly.

So I drove straight to the bar. Evan was in a t-shirt, khaki shorts and Teva sandals. There was no way this guy was getting laid in his present gear.

We parked the car, and got out.

“I can lock that inside,” I said referring to the backpack, “but it won’t fit in the trunk.”

“I can carry,” he said and proceeded to snap, pull and latch about 15 different things.

He smiled. “We go,” he said.

Inside the bar, we walked around to the back. I bought him a beer and we talked for a bit. The backpack caused all kinds of stares, especially since Evan is about 6’6” and the backpack towered over nearly everyone. It was a yellow spectacle.

Evan walked to the bathroom, and was gone for about 10 minutes. I followed to see if he was ok. Next thing I know, he throwing down major game on a brunette that was no doubt out of his league in his present state. Perhaps without the backpack, shorts and road dirt, he could have had her. But he persevered, and I think the girl eventually found his look earnest and refreshing. This guy had anti-game, and it worked.

Evan got drunker and drunker and about an hour later, he pulled me aside.

“I go home with her, but she has no good-looking friends here. See that girl there,” he said pointing. “She’s an ugly dog. I don’t even mention you and her going home.”

“Uh, ok, thanks for thinking of me,” I said, “but I’m going to hang here until close. Can you get the key from M.C.?”

“No problem, I get it tomorrow. I see you then to pay.”

“All right, have fun.”

So I sat at the bar until 1:30 and got in my car. I didn’t really plan this out, but what the fuck. I went back to my place to pick up some shit and M.C. was sitting on the couch, drunk, playing with my TiVo.

“I love this” he said, pausing, then rewinding.

So I sat my ass on the couch and watched M.C. playing with the remote. I had a few more beers and eventually just passed out on my own couch. So the first night was as anti-climactic as an anti-climax can be. I managed to move from my bed to the couch. At least it was a start.