LA is big. It’s all spread out, and some people refuse to go from one side to the other. It’s a maze of anonymity. I’m in a cafe right now surrounded by laptops. Clicking and more clicking. Nobody looks up. We’re all the same, but we don’t even notice each other. I did one of those asshole things today and noticed someone. I sat down at a table directly facing a woman at the table across. We keep making accidental eye contact. Sorry, lady. I broke the unwritten rule of ‘whoever sits second makes sure they’re out of the eye horizon of others.’
There are many secret LA cafe rules.
-Watch other peoples’ computers when they go to the bathroom
-Don’t take up the outlet for longer than you need.
-Don’t make loud phone calls about your Vitamin-selling business.
That last one gets broken quite often.
It’s easy for Angelenos to forget about humanity, remaining lost in their headphones. We isolate in our cars and swim in this concrete pool of strangers and palm trees. So, when I got a call to go to Blackburg, Virginia for a job, I said YES! (with an exclamation point). It would be a week-long journey to work in an ad agency in a town with one movie theater and a few local restaurants. I accepted because I wanted to see a new town.
I also said yes because I love hotels.
Ok, and I also said yes because they promised there’d be a man standing at the airport waiting for me WITH A SIGN!
This is when I knew I had made it.
A MAN WITH A SIGN AT THE AIRPORT!!
Sure, he spelled my name wrong in two places, but STILLLLLL! I’ve made it! I’ve made it! Sure, I traveled in coach, but I still traveled on business. I made sure to tell all those in the US Airways waiting area that I was traveling on business.
“Excuse me, have they started boarding yet? I’m traveling ON BUSINESS.”
Ever since watching Working Girl in 1988, I’ve wanted a really business-y job that comes with an airport lounge membership, a briefcase, red nails, sneakers that I wear to work, and heels I change into at my desk.
Even though he spelled my name wrong, this man with the sign would have to do:
He drove my writing partner and I to our LUXURY hotel. I am capitalizing ‘luxury’ so you get an idea of how high-class this hotel was. No gym, room service, or pool, BUT my room had two TVs in it. AND a fridge. You might not understand the amount of luxury in this place until I tell you that they gave me a ‘thank you’ note at the end of my stay. MAN WITH SIGN. TWO TVs. THANK YOU NOTE. CAPITALS.
I will be signing autographs outside my apartment for the next three hours.
They gave my partner and me the keys to an annexed office where we were holed up and alone for seven days, taking breaks only to dine in the town’s local spots. There were lots of calzone restaurants. Virginians must love calzones.
It was day #2 when we ran out of ideas. We had to present our genius writings and prove we were worth all this luxury. We’d thought for two days in a row, and since we’re writers (and sensitive ‘artists’), we immediately hated all our ideas.
In an attempt to be funny, my partner wrote ‘HELP’ on the window in Post-It notes. We laughed. We scribbled some ideas on papers. We ate calzones.
By day four, we hadn’t met many locals. We tried to go to a frat party, but the Virginia Tech kids wouldn’t tell us where they were. We were too old and didn’t smell enough like Abercrombie. We had memorized every mole on each other’s faces and wanted to run away from each other. But we were TRAPPED in a vacant office. By Day Five, we really did need help.
And lucky us. Help came.
As we pulled up to our office, the cops were there. A tall one and a short one. A good and a bad one.
“We got a call about someone needing help in here?”
“Oh, we’re fine.” I told them. I froze up. Cops! I don’t know why I am always nervous around cops. They have the power to fine me and arrest me in a non-sexy way. AH! Cops. Rodney King. Cops.
“Who put this up? Who needs help?” They were pissed. They were gonna take us in and we’d surely be raped in a southern jail over Post-Its.
“Uh, sorry sir,” I said. “We, uh, we just needed help with ideas.”
“Well,” the short one said. He got closer to me. I saw a bead of sweat.
Ah! It’s all over. I’m going to be sent back to LA in a taxi without a man with a sign. I have ruined all my credibility.
“Next time,” he breathed. “Be sure to specify that. Write ‘HELP WITH IDEAS.’”
“Okay?”
“Have a good one.” They walked out.
I LOVE VIRGINIA!
In all caps.
Be more specific when faking emergencies? Sure, I can do that. Cops would never have even come in LA. Most of us are too busy to notice when someone needs help here. Unless they faint in a cafe or accidentally stop listening to their headphones, nobody notices. I just sneezed in this crowded cafe of 20 people, and nobody said a word. Why don’t I live in Virginia? They have calzones! And friendly police officers. Should I move? I think I need some ideas. HELP WITH IDEAS.
I fucking LOVE calzones.
{ 12 comments }
During my stint in SoCal, I always wondered why people looked at me like I had an extra head. I assumed it was because of my accent and they were waiting for me to take off my shoes and start playing a banjo. But now I know.
Note to self: No chatting up random strangers. Unless said stranger is hot and I want to get laid.
Virginia is for Lovers.
Yeah, why in the hell do I live in this dirty old town? Oh, that’s right – I could wear shorts and a t-shirt yesterday. If I wanted.
I’m sure there’s a calzone place in Northridge or Reseda. Maybe Pomona…
I lived in Virginia, and I didn’t find it all that friendly. Of course, we lived near DC so things would come up, like we couldn’t go to our favorite Thai place anymore because somebody got shot outside the Chinese restaurant next door to it, which happened to be the favorite Chinese place of the Bush family. Coincidence? I think not.
Ahh, you’re also forgetting that, in your cafe situation, you are NOT a peer. You are COMPETITION. For all they know, you could be crafting the next great screenplay…the one that JUST might be better than the piece of crap they are working on.
Sometimes we Angelenos forget that there’s normalcy that exists in the world.
Also, it is, too, my dream to travel for business so I can say something similar. I always think of that Romy and Michelle scene when they ask for the “business womens lunch” Even though im a guy. But whatever, the point stands!
I think people think I’m weird that I ALWAYS say Bless You when someone sneezes (which I learned from watching Blue Hawaii as a kid). I’ve had people give me the Fuck Off look when I say it. Doesn’t matter though, dark movie theater, random messenger passing my cube who doesn’t even notice me, someone passing me on the street. If I hear it, I say it. But, most of the time, it makes people stop, look at me and say thank you. For one second, we get each other.
So Bless You Laurenna… :)
I don’t think I’d do so well in LA. I actually get offended if no one says anything when I sneeze.
Thanks for the laugh.
After seeing the pic I had to find this song.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TU7JjJJZi1Q
Is there such a thing as buttery vegan calzones?
Cheers,
John
ps Laurenne is pity card to smell.
Calzones freak me out.
I don’t know why.
I like to see exactly what I’m eating – I can’t bear the thought that the calzone could be stuffed with anything and I can’t see it.
Does this make me a control freak?
The limo driver spelled your name wrong. You left the ‘s’ out of his town’s name. You’re even.
Once I was cleaning the phone and somehow managed to dial 911 without knowing it. I was vacuuming when suddenly there were two police cars and four cops in my driveway, hands on pistols, etc. Totally freaked me out. It took awhile to figure out what had happened–who knew washing the phone was so dangerous–but when I did, I couldn’t help laughing at the bizarre situation. Unfortunately, the police were not amused. I must have apologized for half an hour…and dammit, that made me mad later because c’mon, it was an accident people!
I also love calzone…yummmm
I lived in Virginia for almost three years. Sure, there were calzones, but there were also a lot of people without teeth. Maybe there’s a connection.
P.S. I think you really want to move to New York City. And this is your way of playing hard to get.
Doesn’t that cop know how many more post its you would have had to use to spell out “with ideas?” That guy must hate the environment. Good thing you didn’t point out his non green solution or you definitely would have been put in the poke (that’s what they call it in the South) with guys like Luke and Bo trying to get away from Boss Hog.
That could have been fun though.