The Mandate

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.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

I was standing on the curb outside my building, feeling the warm, Friday night breeze against my neck. Before me cars drifted along like disaffected ants, retreating to their hills. I looked at each, wondering which one was for me. Which car would be my chariot for the night.

Jim* pulled up in a truck. It was not any truck, this was a true blue and white 1970's beater mobile.

“Hop in, bitch,” he said, and we were off, making our way across L.A. to one of the great institutions of old Hollywood, The Bowl.

Jim is one of those friends I don’t see often, but when I do, its like no time has passed. Nothing feels stale or contrived. Everything feels fun and real. Sometimes I need that simple and silly influence in my life. Jim fills that spot.

“You still have the old truck, I thought you’d have moved on by now, being a big celebrity and everything.”

“Fuck off, Lowe, first of all that Hilton cunt is a fucking celebrity, I’m an actor. Second of all, I don’t need a bitch-ass Porsche to tool me around town,” he said, fucking with me right back.

“I got rid of that. It made me look gay.”

“Hell yea, it did. You and every other targa-topped flyboy in this town. What did you get now, a BMW minivan thing?” he said, smiling smugly.

“I’ve got nothing. I dropped my car off with Derek last weekend and flew back.”

“Yea, Derek is a much better fit for that car, sweet move.”

“I was thinking of getting a Toyota truck or something, I’m checking a few on Lincoln. Those car lots there,” I said.

“What like a Tund-roma or whatever they are?”

“No, nothing new. Like a 70’s one. The ones that look like Jeeps, kind of.”

“Yea, yea. I know.”

"Anyway, I need something," I said, looking out the window at a sea of cars on Wilshire.

“What do you want to listen to, AM or AM?” he asked.

I rose up.

“Is this seriously your only fucking car, because if it is, what’s wrong with you dude? You had this when you worked at Strattons.”

“Lowe, first off, this is a truck, not a car. And yes, it is my only ride.”

“Ok, ‘Johnny Depp,’ I get it, you’re pure. You fight the Hollywood machine.”

“All right, can we please stop talking about stupid fucking cars. Jesus.”

"Trucks, we were talking about trucks."

I relented, "What do you want to talk about then?”

“I don’t know, how about tonight. Don’t you want to hear about our seats?”

“You said they were from your publicist. They’re probably good.”

“God, they’re kick-fucking-ass, Robbie. I got the same ones for some KCRW thing with David Byrne and Arcade Fire. You’re gonna be close enough to fellate Bennett if you want.”

“Is that even a word?”

“Who knows?” He said, pulling up the truck next to a load of hot girls in a VW next to us. He gave them a small wave.

“Do you know them?”

“Na, just spreading the love. See that’s the beauty of this truck dude. I can be anyone I want to be, but myself. No one would believe I would drive this piece of love. It’s better than shades for going unnoticed. That's why I kept it.”

"Yea, it's kind of got a gardener vibe to it."

He changed the subject.

“What’s up with Jill*? I heard her husband went all postal on you in Vegas.”

“It’s been blown out of proportion a bit. We worked things out, who told you?” I said, going around the subject.

“The great one,” he answered, a nickname for our friend, Randy.

“He wasn’t even with us. What a jackass.”

“She’s trouble Lowe. Are you seeing anybody else? Have you stuck it in Tracy yet? She was in Vegas with that whole crew. ”

“Na, we’re just staying as friends. She let me crash at her hotel, we did some camping and I got the shit kicked out of me. Oh, and she let me use her car this week. That was our summer together.”

“Fucking Lowe, that girl wants you in her so bad. Pay the monkey.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“Forget it. But listen, any girl that gives a guy her car for the week wants it between the legs.”

“It wasn’t the whole week, just a day or two.”

“Let me guess, she drives a Lexus wagon?”

“No, a BMW.”

Jim clapped his hands together in triumph, “A fucking Beemer. One of those minivan ones, probably. Fuck dude, you drove that thing. You are fucking gay. Do you want to pull over and make out?”

“Dickface, first of all it’s a convertible, which probably makes your point just as well, but second, and most important, you’re taking me to see Tony Bennett at the Bowl. That’s like a fucking date. A fucking Man-date. If I want to make out, I’ll do it there.

“Rob Lowe, you ungrateful little bratpacker. I can pull over now, drop you off and call one of Heidi’s old girls to accompany me,” he said jokingly.

“Fuck, put out or get out, I didn’t think you’d have to go that deep into the arsenal until later in the evening. The truck really pays off that persona, though.”

We both laughed. Things got quiet for a moment until the silence was broken with sincerity.

“I’m not a fag,” he said, completely serious.

“I know you’re not,” I said, laughing and pausing, “but what about your boyfriend, is he?"

He looked away.

We got to the bowl, dodging a world of bluehairs carrying picnic baskets, couples carrying wine and busses carrying them all.

“Fuck, these busses suck,” he said, snailing along the entrance to the bowl.

“We should have taken one. They get preferential treatment, and no stack parking.”

“I’ve got valet,” he said, holding up a ticket.

We finally got to the front and dropped stopped the car. The valet looked at the truck like it was an alien spaceship flown to a land of Mercedes, Land Rovers and BMWs.

“It’s three on the tree,” Jim said, refererring to the shifter.

The valet got even more confused. His brylcreamed boss walked over quickly and pushed the young valet aside.

“Yes, we can drive this, here is a ticket, thank you,” he said eagerly trying to accommodate and speed us along. We walked toward the front and Jim yelled back.

“Hey, go easy on this. My truck was brand new the last time I dropped it off, and look at it now,” he said.

The valet guy smiled politely. “We take care, no problem,” he said.

Jim and I walked up to the stairs and grabbed some beers and food from a stand. We ate them on a stoop.

“So how was the birthday? he asked. “Happy Fucking birthday, by the way.”

“It was great. I won $20k in Vegas and fucked two hookers.”

Jim’s mouth dropped, and he smiled.

“You’re fucking with me?”

“No, I saved up cash, rolled it in Roulette and won. Then I dropped it on some call girls.”

“Fuck, who was there with you?”

“Just me…well, and them. The girls.”

Jim looked at me and smiled, sheepishly. He put his hand across his mouth and whispered.

“Call girls are so fucking great. Dude, you’ll never be able to go back.”

“I think I will. But one of them did give me her number.”

"Dude, let's call her."

"And say what, 'My friend Jim thinks you are cute and we are on a date together at the bowl?'"

“Fuck no, Lowe.” He got even quieter. “But seriously, I only stick prostitutes these days, it’s much simpler.”

I busted up laughing, until I realized he was serious.

“What’s wrong with you? You can get anyone. Weren’t you dating Kimberly*?”

“That was just work shit dude. I never fucked her. I mean, I mind-fucked her a bit if that counts,” he said, happy with his wordplay.

I shook my head in disapproval.

“What, you paid for sex? Don’t give me that.”

“Yes, but it was a one time thing. And you, fuck, you don’t even have to try to get chicks. You can just walk up and talk to a chick. You’re a celebrity.”

“I’m an actor, not a celebrity.”

“Whatever, you know what I mean.”

“Yea, when Rob fucks a chick and ditches her he gets called a porsche-driving asshole-"

"I don't drive-" I said, interrupting.

"Yea, yea, you don't drive a Porsche, but back to my point, If I fuck a chick and ditch her, I get called an asshole in the fucking Enquirer, or worse. Did you see that shit that chick tried to pull with Cosby. Chicks are fucked, and this year is my year. I'm not going to go all Cruise and fuck that up.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, your not that big yet,” I said smiling.

He laughed at his smugness.

“You said I was a celebrity,” he said jokingly. “Let’s go to our seats. Later we can hit up the Roosevelt. Maybe I can get you in. Just say you're Rob Lowe's brother with the same name.”

We walked inside the bowl, happy to be friends. Happy that we could still bust each other's balls like we did after graduation. Happy the only change we experienced was for the better.

It had been a while since we had been part of this history. The Bowl is a glorious place, both dignified and accessible, just like old Hollywood. But that Hollywood doesn’t live anywhere but in books, in movies and fortunately for all of us, at the Hollywood Bowl. It is a small part of the past, preserved rather than bulldozed.

We got to our seats, and sat down. Jim shook hands with some guy next to him and started a brief conversation. But not me. I looked up, around, anywhere I could. This was what brought me to the west coast in the first place. Cool evenings under the stars, accessible luxury and good friends. Friday night I connected with them all. And the best was yet to come.
* fictitious name