Beautiful Noise

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.

Jim* called me on Monday. He’s climbing Mount Whitney this weekend and needed to pick up some shit at Adventure 16. What the fuck, I thought. I needed to get away from the computer.

He picked me up at work around lunch time, and soon we were inside the great outdoors. The first thing I noticed were the bad haircuts. Every salesperson had one. I usually internalize such observations, but the Twilight-Zone quality of these zombie salespeople pushed me to remark.

“Jim, do you notice something about these people,” I asked while he was leafing through some North Face.

“Na,” he said, giving a distracted courtesy look.

“Come on, have a look.”

“I don’t know, everyone’s wearing Teva Sandals?”

“No you schlump, everyone has bad hair. Really bad hair. The same bad hair.”

He looked up and smiled. He finally saw what I did. It was prince hair. Strange by a single account, but in numbers it became almost cultish.

“You’re right Lowe, but your hair sucks too.”

“It’s in the in-between stage, I told you.”

I walked away, looking for something remotely interesting. This shit was really expensive. Really expensive. A hiking stick set was $80 and most of the jackets were $300-$500. Nothing appealed to me, so I thought of a fun game. Find the most expensive items, and see if I could get Jim to buy them. So I began, picking and shopping and bullshitting about the quality of this over this. In the end, he spent about $1,800 bucks. I wish I was on commission.

We got in his truck and drove to Poquito Mas, a Mexican restaurant around the corner.

“So, you’re doing this hike in one day. Dude, you know Mark did it in four. That’s a lot of shit.”

“Don’t be such a mom.”

“Mark is in better shape than you. And he doesn’t drink.”

“But he’s a loser, and can’t cum unless his ankles are tied together.”

“That’s a rumor.”

“Whatever, he’s a loser.”

“Yea, no shit he’s a loser, but he’s a fitness freak and it took him 4 days to climb Whitney.”

“Relax and eat your gay salad.”

“Do you want a fill?” I said, referring to his drink.

“Na.”

I walked inside and went to the soda fountain to refill my own. No soda. No lights. There was a guy in front of me, and I asked him what was up.

“No lights, for the past 10 minutes. Maybe you should take your sunglasses off,” he said to the profound amusement of his plumbing buddy, wearing the same sassy plumbing T-shirt.

“Good one. Yea, thanks.”

“It’s been that way for the past 10 minutes.” Plumber 2 said, trying to one up his friend.

“I get it."

Just then my phone rang. Yep, same fucking stupid ringtone. I really need to find time to change it. Plumber boys looked at me and smirked at the fem sound of my phone. I turned away and answered. It was Tracy.

“Rob, do you have power?”

“Really, it’s fucking out for you, too?” I said, realizing her grid must be out too. This was bigger than I thought.

“Yea, I almost got stuck in the elevator. I would have died.”

"Man are you ok, did they get you out?"

"Well, I didn't actually go in, but usually I take it for lunch, and I could have been trapped."

“Where are you now?” I said, unfettered by her pronounced exaggeration.

“Outside our building.”

“I’m at Poquito Mas with Jim…being harassed by plumbers.”

“What?”

‘Nothing, the power’s off here too.”

“Do you think it’s the Muslims? How am I going to get my car out of the parking garage?”

“I doubt it’s the terrorists," I said, politely eschewing her unknowingly racist comment.

“But yesterday, they were talking about it on the news.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Anyway, Jim is motioning for us to leave. He’s got some teenage girls talking to him. I think he wants me to save him.”

“So you don’t think-"

“It’s fine, seriously. And call me if you need me or if your car is stuck. I’ll call you from work and let you know if there’s power. Sounds like we may have a snowday.”

“Oh, that would be fun.”

“Oh, one last thing. Is my hair that bad?”

“It’s in-between, right?” she said sheepishly aware.

“That’s why I love you. Bye.”

I walked outside and saw Jim regrettably holding court with two high school seniors.

“Ready," I said walking by, grabbing his arm.

“Gotta go,” he said, pointing to my hand on his arm.

"They asked me if I was friends with Kutcher, ha. I told them he was a fag."

"Making friends everywhere you go, huh?"

"But I said I would fuck Demi."

“Yea, who wouldn't, she's got a few good years left in her," I said, "by the way, that was Tracy, they have no lights in West Hollywood.”

“Fuck, really? Goddamn Al Qaeda,” he said, with a remarked expression.

“That’s what she said. Turn on the radio.”

We got in his truck and looked to the left on Westwood Blvd., the light was out. We looked to the right, seemed clear. Until we saw the huge backup, five blocks ahead.

“Fuck, dude, it’s out by the Pavilion too. Should I take the freeway?”

“I don’t know. I think we’re just fucked.”

“All right, then what should we do?”

“Just drive” I said.

We both sat silent, simply listening to AM radio. We both were afraid to talk about what we thought was happening, even as the announcer listed other city districts that were in chaos. I didn’t need this shit in my life right now. I didn’t need to reconnect to the most heinous moments in the history of our country, but inevitably I did. Cars floated by, each in a similar dimension. The bigger picture and unhealed wounds allowed us to all connect to a mournful past, as much as we fought it.

Drivers didn’t honk, pedestrians didn’t scream. For better or for worse, we were in this situation together--bound by the bigger picture, unconcerned with commute times or lights or the “D” we just got on a test. We weren’t thinking about making rent or what we would wear to the Tropicana Friday. Those thoughts were dormant, lost in the unsolicited caress of nervous survival. Finally, Jim broke the silence.

“Want to get out of here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just get out of the city. My assistant can get Elan’s place in Santa Barbara.”

“Are you trying to hit on me, in this moment of crisis,” I said mockingly.

“Not with that hair,” he said.

Just then we saw a beacon of hope, a green light. No flashing, no four-way stops. No good-mannered drivers. Santa Monica sat unaware and unaffected by the blackout. We felt relieved. The radio announcer told us they were investigating worker error. And slowly we inched once again on our own personal journey of the everyday. Concerns of ex-girlfriends, hair, box office grosses and lines in our faces slowly revealed themselves. We were happy to be back to the yelling and the horns. We were happy to be back to the beautiful noise of a cloudy city.

We were happy to be back.

*actor bud, not real name.