Scene: a black scooter with an iconic decal up front, west Los Angeles
No one would go with me that night, so I was forced to go alone. It was to be a thematic. David Lynch burlesque in a quaint little club downtown. Just because my friends weren’t up for this adventure, didn’t mean I was going to sit out.
I rolled up a pair of jeans, curled my hair, tossed a bandana in, grabbed my red heels, and got on the bike. The show was to start at 10 and doors opened at 9.
Parking everywhere in Los Angeles is a nightmare, but downtown you can just forget it. Prepare to pay outrageous prices into the city’s other richest piece of real estate- the myriad of parking lots scattered across the vast city.
Driving the bike around would make my father paranoid.
“It’s not safe here. It’s worse than Illinois.” my dad would say everytime I would get onto that bike heading towards the highway.
Over time, my son would join in the chant: “Mommy you should really get rid of that bike. It’s dangerous.”
Traffic was light going out there from the west side. I weaved through like a nightingale, seamlessly with grace and in heels to match.
It was about 9:15 when I pulled up to the bar. The bouncer and a line of patrons watch in shock as this little girl, not even five feet in stature, backs up the scooter to the curb, directly in front of the door. The doorman bows his head in approval as he reaches for the stamp to adorn my hand.
“Real women do everything in heels.”