Truthful Liars

Tags

couch crashers, dating, downtown Los Angeles, Golden Gopher, illusions, illusions of romance, lies lies lies, Little girl Big city, Los Angeles, pressure cooker, serendipitous intersections, the magician, the suited gentleman, things got real, truthful liars

11:25 pm 11.21.11

Scene:  a dive bar with an orange neon sign, downtown Los Angeles

It was the night of the extra couch surfers.  The suited gent and I had escaped into the bar that has the oldest liquor license in the city.  Little did my fancy cohort and I know at the time but this particular spot is owned by the same group that also owns our favorite fancy establishment in the city.

“Ask me anything you want.” he said as he bitched about his drink.

“I’m too sober for this conversation.”

“I’m not.  Ask me.  This doesn’t happen very often.  Take it.”

“I don’t think this is a good time to have this talk.  We’ve only known each other a little more than a week.”

“Ask me.  I want to know what’s going on in your head.”

The text came in from the woman who was letting us both couch surf.  We had originally made plans to enjoy the weekend together.  She was going to be out of town.  Now we were stuck sleeping together.

In between the hand holding and the kisses, he started to counter his actions with words completely in the opposite direction.

“You shouldn’t like me. ”

“Oh god really?  You’re drunk.”

“No you really shouldn’t.  I’m not kidding.”

“Why?”

“I’m emotionally unavailable.  I’ll cheat on you.  I’ll lie to you.  It’s how I am.”

“And what if that in itself is a lie?”

“It’s not.  You deserve better.  I’m telling you.”

He held me close and kissed me again.

Like the illusion that encompassed him- both things were true and lies at the same time.

Three is company, five is a crowd

Tags

couch crashers, dating, extra couch crashers, five is a crowd, Golden Gopher, Los Angeles, pressure cooker, sleeping arrangements, stoner musicians, the suited gentleman, things got real, three's company, unexpected events

11:00 pm 11.21.11

Scene:  a dive bar with an orange neon sign, downtown Los Angeles

There were two extra couch surfers sprung on us when I’d come home from work.  The details surrounding their arrival made both the suited gentleman and I a bit frustrated.  While the suited gent has a room and a bed to sleep on while he is couch surfing this friend’s house as well, I, on the other hand, do not.  Adding to the mix that this pair of stoner musicians were smoking in the house, and, while it made me laugh, it bothered him.

Welcome to the in between of getting a place in downtown Los Angeles.   And of an unexpected encounter on top of another to turn it into an even steamier pressure cooker.

The owner of said couch establishment is the most delightful and good hearted woman you have never met.  She opened her home to the both of us.  When things started happening, it had a hiccup but then our world turned into a sitcom.

I wanted to get out.  The other set of couch surfers were not moving.  I didn’t have the heart to say anything to her about where I’d be sleeping even though I’d already given her money for the duration of my next apartment search.

“Come get a drink with me.” I told him as I gathered my purse and keys.

“Where?”

“Let’s go to the Gopher since we couldn’t get in this weekend.”

It was walking distance.  He grabbed a jacket out of his car and we walked the few blocks to greet that orange neon sign.

The night was quiet.  It was just the two of us.  Earlier in the evening, things had come out.  The black of night continued to capture us as libation after tasty libation was consumed.

“My precious suits are going to stink now.”

“They’re in another room.  At least you have somewhere to sleep.  I have no idea where I’m going to sleep tonight.”

“Why don’t you just talk to her?”

“I don’t want to be rude.  I’m thankful for everything she’s doing.  Don’t worry, I’ll be out of there soon.”

“That’s not what I meant.” he said.

I sipped my favorite beer- on draft there.  He had his whiskey drinks but I’m not sure which ones they were this time.

“They put scotch in this.” he complained.

It’s not really a whiskey bar.  It’s a dive.

“I have my beer.  I’m not complaining.”

“Neither am I.  I like it here.  Thank you for bringing me.”

And more and more drinking transpired.  But not too too much.  I had to work in the morning after all.

“Ask me anything you want.” he said to change the subject.

“I’m too sober for this conversation.”

“I’m not.  Ask me.  This doesn’t happen very often.  Take it.”

“I don’t think this is a good time to have this talk.  We’ve only known each other a little more than a week.”

“Ask me.  I want to know what’s going on in your head.”

“Look, I have no idea where I’m going to sleep tonight.  I guess in the back of my mind I was hoping someone would tell me I would just sleep in the same bed as you, but at this point, I’m grateful to sleep on the floor.  I don’t want any pressure.  I’m just enjoying all the moments.”

At 11:51, he and I both got a text from the woman we are staying with (who knows fully well what has been going on with us): “FYI, my friends fell asleep on the couches.  Sorry.  I’m sure you can share the bed for tonight?  Lol.. thank you both.  Night night.”

He looked up from his cell as we continued to talk.

“I guess you got your wish.”