I’ll say this upfront, this story has a happy ending. But it did start a little rocky. It was towards the end of my shift yesterday when a woman (I’d guess around 60) came in by herself and sat at, without question, the most unpopular table in the restaurant, despite the fact that every more desirable table was available. (We were empty.) She asked about a combination special we used to have for 20 years that’s been gone for 5. That question is not rare, we get it at least once a day. The news that that special was gone and then the subsequent news that she missed the lunch special by 9 minutes seemed to affect her deeply.

As I said, the restaurant was empty. She asked me questions about one item that included breaded and deep fried chicken. She wanted to know if it was crispy, I said it was. She asked if they could make it crispy but not too crispy. She had a toothache. I told her we could make the dish with the chicken not breaded and fried but she said, no, no, no. She liked the chicken crispy just not too crispy. She repeated the information about her tooth hurting. She did order this particular chicken dish, with the directive to the kitchen about the crispness ratio. (“Chicken crispy but not too crispy” is exactly what I typed.) Then she proceeded to order two other items that are both, well, crispy. I warned her that those dishes were also crispy and she assured me that that was fine.

She asked me how caffeinated and sweet our iced tea was (very caffeinated, unsweetened). I think the moment I offered to bring her a taste of the iced tea was when our relationship shifted. I put some ice in a glass and filled it a quarter or so, brought it to the table with sugar. She told me she needed caffeine and sugar because she had been cleaning her house all day. She was almost done but she would do the rest tomorrow. She also told me she used to have a cleaning woman who was very good but the woman stopped returning her calls after the pandemic. Anyway, she needed the caffeine and the sugar to recover from the cleaning.

(Side note: Eric and I do not have a cleaning person. We could use it. We have way too much stuff and honestly, my time would be better served going through stacks of ephemera (playbills, estate sale books, photographs) and throwing most in the trash, than me retelling you this story about my day. But, as they say, I digress.)

The kitchen guys did ask me what I meant by crispy but not too crispy and I just said, “you know, crispy. But also, not too crispy.” When the food was ready, I brought it to the table and she thanked me. From a distance, I looked back and I saw her lifting her hands to the sky in a measured, reverent manner then brought her fingers to her lips and kissed them. It was a prayer of thanksgiving that I’d never seen before. (And I went to Bible college. In the 1980s.) I felt almost ashamed to witness such a private moment, but also, touched. My heart had already softened, and I saw a glimpse of the young girl she must have once been. God is great, God is good, let us thank Him for this food.

The chicken was apparently appropriately crispy because she ate it happily, if slowly. One time I went to the table to refill her iced tea and she asked me if I liked classical music. “Yes, I do.” (Only a small exaggeration.) She said, “I had a feeling you liked classical music.” She then gave me two flyers she’d received in the mail for concerts that were coming up in the LA. “Oh, that’s so nice of you, but I don’t want to take your mail.” “No, no, it’s for you, I scratched out my name and address.” So, I took them.

I must say, she had charmed me by presuming I was more erudite than I am. I’d already figured out that she was a little lonely. When the next server, my relief, came in I told him that she’d annoyed me until I realized that she is basically me and I am basically her. He laughed but did not disagree with me.

Here is how her I am. Some might remember in my last blog, about that car accident in July, I mentioned that the salads I’d purchased at Mendocino Farms ended up being casualties of the collision. (Literally tossed, the backseat of a Toyota Corolla the world’s largest salad spinner.) Last week, I reentered Mendocino Farms for the first time in two months. “Funny story,” I began to the early 20 something taking my order, “the last time I bought Mendocino Farms I almost died on the way to the Hollywood Bowl.” And because I do not hesitate to repeat a tired punchline, I told them the salads, intended for my friends and me, were “literally tossed” in the backseat of my Uber.

Though every person working at the counter (also young 20somethings) turned to listen to my story, their reactions were tepid, at best. “Oh wow,” my cashier said. Wow, indeed, I thought. I’ll be honest, I had hoped my story would be good for a free cookie or a bag of chips. Did I fantasize about the manager comping that day’s order, saying, “You, SIR, are exactly the customer, no, GUEST, that we value here in the Mendocino Farm Community. Thank you for not dying, but also, also, thank you for coming back to us, for coming back HOME!”?!?! You know me and you know I did. Anyway, no free cookie, no genuine, “I’m really sorry that happened to you.”

Now, I’m the first to admit that I’m kooky, kooky being a euphemism for any number of other descriptors. I am Alex Forrest from Fatal Attraction. My internal monologue is always, persistently, “I’m not going to be IGNORED, Dan.” And the older I get, the more I feel this vanishing, this inconsequentiality. I am not heard, I am not seen. (Not always, obviously I AM exaggerating, for dramatic effect, but you get it.)

My friend, at Table 42, she told me that lately she has been watching the Three’s Company marathon on Logo. She said she watches it for twelve hours and her neighbor gets mad because she’s laughing into the early morning hours. “John Ritter is so funny. And Suzanne Somers, playing this ditzy girl but she was VERY smart.” She told me that Three’s Company was the first show she watched on tv when she moved to America as a child. We both sighed as we remembered the early death of John Ritter who had so much more joy, more laughs, to give the world. “And Suzanne died last year, of course,” she added sadly.

Anyway, not much later, she paid for her check. She tipped in cash, a thoughtful and appreciated gesture. She told me she was going to stay for awhile because she needed to call Autozone. She needed to find out if they had replacement bulbs for the lights that are in car visors. She told me that there used to be three really helpful guys at the Autozone in Burbank but they all left awhile ago.

She was on the phone when I slipped away, I looked her way to wave goodbye but she seemed very embroiled in her conversation. I couldn’t imagine how one could keep an Autozone employee on the phone that long. But she’d probably penetrated their gruffness the same way she did mine. There is a lesson there for all of us. And I know we all feel a little lonely, a little forgotten sometimes. Still, when you tell the universe you won’t be ignored, you will not be ignored.

And, maybe, you might be loved.

If Instagram is to be believed, and to a certain extent, it is, I have several friends who unbeknownst to me ended up at the Hollywood Bowl this Sunday evening for John Williams: Maestro of the Movies. On one of those friend’s posts, I commented “So crazy, I was ALMOST there! Looks like a fun night.” A true enough statement but not the whole story. 

I was in fact, 1.5 miles away from the Hollywood Bowl when the Uber I was riding in was hit by a car in an intersection. (Cahuenga and Santa Monica Boulevard for the locals who might be  curious.) I was on my phone in the car when the driver said something about a car coming at us, I did look up as the car made contact with the right rear passenger side, where I was sitting. I felt the impact, I screamed. Our car spun around and as soon as it stopped, I jumped out of the left rear side. The one thought that was clear in that moment was, if I can jump out, I’m not dead. I was stunned (understatement) and could not breathe. I found a curb and sat down. I asked strangers walking by if I was bleeding and they said I wasn’t. But again, I wasn’t able to breathe, it felt like my lung collapsed or, technically, how I  think a collapsed lung would feel. I called Eric who was at home less than a mile away. I also called and texted the friends I was meeting at the Bowl. (I was bringing salad for all of us from Mendocino Farms.) I’ve included a screenshot of that exchange but it’s crazy that at 5:31 I was texting “In the Uber now” and four minutes later, “I was hit by a car in the Uber.”

It was not long before the paramedics arrived. I had asked the Uber driver to get a bottle of water from my bag in the car. I did get up to take a few pictures of both cars but I felt lightheaded and again, I couldn’t not breathe well. A paramedic took my vitals but he couldn’t get a read for my oxygen. He tried both hands a few times and finally he was able to get a read of 97, which is better than 0. They asked if I wanted to go to the ER and I said definitely. By then Eric had arrived on the scene. In part because of the location, there were at least 50 people who were gathering and/or walking by and not one person asked if I was okay, not before the ambulance & police came or after. Is that significant to the story I am telling about my evening? I’m not sure. 

At 6:11, I texted the Hollywood Bowl friends, “sorry about the salads”. 

At 6:41, I texted the same friends, “At Hollywood Pres” abbreviating the Presbyterian like already we are old friends. 

The staff at Hollywood Pres was pretty nice. After I was admitted and more vitals were taken , I had to wait in the lobby with Eric. We could overhear a loud conversation between the intake nurse and a woman who was clearly a frequent flier. He was as caring as he was harsh with her and I thought, in a way, he was her best friend. Maybe her exchanges with this caustic yet kind man were the highlights of her life. After he spoke with her he came over to me. I asked him if he was going to be nicer to me than he was to the lady. He asked me if I was going to give him a reason to be spoken to like that. We laughed and I thought, ow, wow, I needed that laugh. He told me that Eric had come when I was in another part of the ER. “You should have seen him.” “Oh, I heard him, Shirley MacLaine, right?” The nurse, our new friend, I’ll call him Albert, laughed again. I impersonated Aurora Greenway (and Eric) with a precise enough to count, “Give my daughter her medicine!!” (The actual quote is “Give my daughter the shot.”) I can only imagine all of the Shirley MacLaine meltdowns Albert has seen working in ERs in Los Angeles for all these decades. He did tell us he’d worked at Cedars and he’d witnessed much. 

By 8:00, they had done the CT scan. I know this because my friend Sue texted to see if I wanted to have lunch or dinner with her son on Tuesday and I responded with the following screenshot.

The results of CT were relatively good, I was released with some prescriptions for pain management. Eric drove us through Astro Burger on the way home since the Mendocino Farms salads had been literally tossed throughout the backseat of my Uber. (Not sure if it’s a total or not, but the car will likely always smell like Caesar dressing now.) At Astro I ordered zucchini sticks and chicken tenders, like a five year old. 

When we got home, I started watching the new Faye Dunaway documentary which dropped on Sunday. During the day, I thought a funny FB post would be to say “Somewhere in LA, a gay is cancelling his Hollywood Bowl plans so he can stay home to watch the Faye doc.” I didn’t post it. I actually did not watch that much of the movie, my body was battered and my brain was beaten. I took to my bed and tried to watch TikTok videos and pondered all of the what ifs that accompanied the evening. The most obvious: if the other driver had been going even 10 miles an hour faster, I would probably be dead. But also, if the Uber driver had picked me up even 30 seconds sooner or later, the collision would not have occurred. I knew I should feel lucky to have not sustained worse injuries and I did (and do), but I also wondered how long until I’ll be breathing normally again. How long until the aches go away? Will my body be affected by the events of this day for the rest of my life? Well, yeah, it will. 

That was Sunday and today is Wednesday morning. Still in a lot of pain when I do certain things. Getting in and out of bed is the hardest. Turning onto my side to sleep is excruciating. I can’t watch tv for long because my attention span is shot. Oh, and neither of our dogs are good caretakers. Last night, I took Ricky’s face in mine before his evening walk. I said, “Ricky you have to be good on your walk, your father is not feeling well right now.” The outcome was unaffected by my plea. 

I find myself wondering how I might write about this experience when I have more perspective. As big as the event was, I can’t from this vantage point know all the ways that one day will color the rest of my days. 

If I’m smart, and perhaps I’m only a wee bit smart, but I must acknowledge all the things I’m grateful for. Like Eric, who was on the scene in 2 minutes, ready to get all the information I was too unsteady to get. And wait patiently with me at the ER. And not judge when I basically ordered a happy meal at Astro Burger. 

I’m grateful for my mom, who has shed more tears than anyone over this. She told me she wished she could be here. My mother is in a phase of her life where she needs a little help but she is still a caretaker. Perhaps sometimes the only thing she feels she can do to help those she loves when they are hurting is to pray. And while I don’t have the same relationship to prayer that she does, I can value that sacrifice and the intention and the love behind it. 

I’m grateful for friends who have checked on me.

I’m grateful for Ricky and Veronica, budding Florence Nightingales they are not, but nobody’s perfect, not even dogs. 

Also, in no particular order, I’m grateful for chocolate cake, nice walks, cool evenings, water, a good baguette, sandwiches, chips with French onion dip, audiobooks (even though the one I’m listening to right now is a dud), California, art, time capsule estate sales, driving Mulholland, martinis, a perfect chocolate chip cookie, See’s California brittle, and sunsets. 

And coffee, which I’m going to make a pot of soon, as soon as I wrap this up. It’s been a hard few days, I won’t lie, but there have been beautiful moments in the midst of all of it. And with luck, I hope there will be more. 

I’ve been teetering on the edge of writing about something for the last month or so. I would say it was something that happened to me and that is true but also misleading.

Trigger warning:

My neighbor jumped to her death from the roof of her building last month. When I say it like that, it sounds like I knew her but I didn’t. She lived in the building across from me. Surely I had walked by her before when I was walking my dogs or going to or from my car. It was days before I learned her name and saw a photo of her. If I had walked by her, and again, I probably had, I had no recollection.

I came home from work one Thursday in March to find more than ten police vehicles, my street closed and an ominous white tent assembled in front the building across the street from my building. I drove around the block, found parking and walked toward the yellow caution tape that surrounded both entrances of my building. Two policeman told me they needed to escort me in since the street was a crime scene. I asked what happened and one policeman told me a person jumped from the roof. The other policeman quickly added, “jumped or fell, hasn’t been determined yet.” They told me they were waiting for the coroner and that the street would be closed until they came.

I made it to my apartment and for the next four hours kept watch of the happenings outside my window. The police stood around, seemingly bored, sometimes laughing, occasionally kicking people off of their own lawns. I was fixated on the white tent. Inside, a person was dead. Was it someone I knew? It seemed unlikely it was an accident, but why did they jump? Did they feel alone in this world? Were they sick? Did they have money woes?

Finally, the coroner came around 8:00 pm, the body was removed and the tent deflated.

The next day, flowers started showing up in the spot where the body landed. Someone wrote in chalk, “you are loved.” Maybe this person was loved, I thought, but maybe not. It’s a hopeful and kind thing to say but a little presumptuous.

Within 24 hours, from someone who lived in my building, I learned that the victim was an older woman, around 70. I couldn’t think of anyone I saw regularly who fit that description. Was it maybe the frail old lady who wore a dark brown wig and bright red lipstick who had been running stop signs since I’d moved in to the neighborhood 25 years ago? She’s probably 90, not 70. Still, I wondered.

It was a week before one of the local newspapers printed an article with her name and age. If I were to write about this, I pondered, because I’d been considering writing about her since the day she died, would I share her real name or give her a pseudonym?

I’m going to call her Carlotta Valhalla. She sounds like a character from a movie, I know. She sounds beautiful and mysterious and dramatic. I’d like to think the real Carlotta would appreciate such a grandiose pseudonym.

Once I had Carlotta’s name, I found what I believed to be her FB page. There were few posts, a picture of her in a kitchen, smiling warmly and also a picture of French toast from a bakery in my (our) neighborhood. Under the picture of her a woman wrote “hermosas” to which Carlotta responded “gracias” and three gracias emojis. The French toast picture had a handful of comments from people saying it looked delicious and every time, Carlotta responded, “Come see me in LA, I’ll take you to this place.” According to Facebook, Carlotta was from Canada. So friendly, I thought, so Canadian.

I also found that Carlotta had a profile on the Wallis Annenberg Center. She had done storytelling events there. And at least two were posted to YouTube. I thought about watching the videos but didn’t. They’ll make me sad. I thought.

Still, I did not stop thinking about Carlotta Valhalla. For two weeks, every day, someone placed flowers on the sidewalk. They would wilt and die and melt and then be replaced and then the replacements would repeat the cycle. Every time I walked by, I looked up at the roof. One day, there was an elegant crow watching me from the spot where I presumed she stood. I see you, Carlotta, I thought.

I wondered if other people thought of Carlotta as much as I did. I checked her FB to see if anyone left a condolence message. “I am so sorry I didn’t come to LA to see you!Rest in peace, my dear Carlotta.” In reality, I saw nothing but it appeared Carlotta had not been active on FB for five years. A lot has happened to all of us since 2019.

I have searched every few days for “Carlotta Valhalla Obituary” or “Carlotta Valhalla Los Angeles Obituary” or “Carlotta Valhalla Canada Obituary.” Nothing. Surely, someone misses Carlotta. Surely, someone loved her.

This week, I told myself it was time to write about Carlotta. Yesterday, I watched her YouTube videos. I had a hope that they would be astoundingly good and I would repost them and both she and my blog would go viral. She would get the recognition from life that I believed she yearned for. Like most of us LA transplants, Carlotta was once an actor.

The first video wasn’t exactly a story, just a 30 second introduction. The second video was juicier, a yarn about a beautiful coworker that a then 19 year old Carlotta brought home to dinner with her mom. Carlotta offered to help the coworker get a job with her boyfriend. After the coworker left, the mother warned, she’ll sleep with your boyfriend. And within a week, that’s exactly what happened. I’ve been there, I thought. Relatable.

When I was a sophomore in high school, one of that year’s two English teachers taught us a poem called No Man is an Island by John Donne.

No man is an island,

Entire of itself;

Every man is a piece of the continent, 

A part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less,

As well as if a promontory were:

As well as if a manor of thy friend’s

Or of thine own were.

Any man’s death diminishes me,

Because I am involved in mankind.

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;

It tolls for thee.

I’m not sure how we were even tested on this poem. Maybe we had to write or recite it from memory. I am sure I did not get a good score. I am sure any number of my classmates’ grades and comprehension were better than mine. And yet somehow this old poem hooked into me. I have thought about it at least once a week for the last 40 years.

Today, I walked to Larchmont to buy a baguette. I thought about my dear Carlotta, wondering if we’d ever been in the same queue at Peet’s, if she’d stood in line for the opening of Levain bakery. Did she buy produce at our farmers’ market? Sometimes I go to Larchmont and run into friends and we gossip and catch up and I feel such a part of the continent. And other days, it feels like the entire street is one big password protected inside network and I’m the clod being washed away by the sea. Did Carlotta feel that disconnect?

I’ll never know the whole story and it’s likely I’ll never know much more about Carlotta than what I do now. But I will remember her, I have shared a bit of her story. You can pray for her or think good thoughts or wish peace upon her soul or whatever you might do to honor this woman, as we grapple with our own place in this sometimes isolating world. Not quite a friend, but certainly no stranger.

I work at a restaurant in the San Fernando Valley, on Ventura Boulevard. It’s on the second floor of a strip mall so most of the people who come in are people who know we are there. Because the restaurant is a bit of an LA institution, a lot of guests are quick to tell us or me that they’ve been coming for 30 years and they grew up eating (insert name of their favorite dish, usually a salad that has a certain #iykyk following). 

Yesterday, a neatly dressed sixty something woman came in asking for a table. She said she was meeting her son and wanted someplace quiet. At that moment, a man who appeared to be unhoused, Grizzly Adams beard, overstuffed backpack in hand, walked through the door. She turned and said, “There he is.”

She gave him an awkward hug and I told them to pick any table they wanted. Definitely, I was cognizant of the mother’s request for a quiet table but I also tried to let the son know that I wanted both of them to feel comfortable. 

They settled on a table not far from the servers’ station. It took a minute for the son to find the right spot for his cumbersome bag. I wasn’t sure if it was my turn in the rotation. I hoped they would be mine.  

Lucky for me, they were. I returned to the table and asked what they wanted to drink to start. She ordered a sparkling water and he asked for a Pepsi. I made eye contact with both.  I conveyed the kindness and warmth I only bestow on the tables I like. (Sorry, customers, yes, I do play favorites.) 

As a career waiter, I am also an armchair (or table side) psychologist. I tell myself I understand people very well. I tell myself that I’m skilled at very little, but my instincts about others rarely fail. So, all of this is just my take on what these two were thinking and feeling, I could be wrong. I’ve been wrong about people at least 2% of the time. 

I brought the Pepsi and two glasses for the sparkling water. I poured the mom’s water and asked the son if he wanted some too. “Do you want some water, James?” the mom echoed. He said “just a little” and I poured a little into his glass. I interjected one of my go to server quips, “Gotta stay hydrated, it’s hot out there.”

The second I said it, I thought how a statement so innocuous to another guest might land differently for an unhoused person, for whom the heat of a day has more serious implications. Perhaps an unhoused person does not want to drink too much water because finding a spot to relieve oneself can be a challenge. 

I asked the two if they wanted to order their meal or an appetizer. “Do you want the ______, James?” the mother asked. He looked at me and said, “Yes, I’d like the ______, please.” Their synchronicity and familiarity with the item made me think that this was a dish they’d both ordered before, that probably they dined here when James was growing up. He had his favorite menu items, so had mom. Probably, there was a time when the whole family came here, siblings, dad, maybe grandparents. But today, now, it was only mother and son. Sitting on Table 64, catching up over lunch. Not exactly Michelangelo’s La Pieta, but perhaps a spiritual descendant. 

They struck me as tentative yet protective with each other. At first, when mom asked for a quiet table, I thought she worried her son would make other customers uncomfortable. Probably that concern was at play, but more, I think she wanted to make James feel as comfortable and relaxed as possible.

They ordered their entrees, including the #iykyk salad, large to be shared. (They most definitely had been here before.) They were both unfailingly polite, to each other and also to me. I wondered if I was being too nice. Was I treating James like a child or a handicapped person? Sometimes the grouchy version of me is better than the obsequious one. 

When I delivered their food, I asked if they needed anything. “Looks good as always,” James enthusiastically told me. It was a quiet day at my restaurant. They were able to stay in their bubble and catch up. I never saw their conversation lull or become heated, or mirthful, for that matter. They ate their food slowly, thoughtfully, politely. I wondered how slowly I would eat my food if I were unhoused and eating in a restaurant for the first time in awhile. How self-conscious would I be? 

I had so many questions. Where does James sleep at night? How long has he been unhoused? Is he actually unhoused or am I misjudging the situation? What were his life circumstances that led up to this? It is not my business, but did addiction or mental health play a role in his life’s trajectory? I relate to both of those challenges. Was James so damaged by certain events in his youth that he found coping as an adult to be even more challenging than most of us find it? I don’t know. 

I started swimming at a new pool recently. It’s 7 feet deep as opposed to the 4 foot pool where I used to swim. It’s taken me some time to adjust to this added perceived danger. At no point can I stand to find my footing, I have to keep swimming or tread water. As long as I can remember, I have loved swimming. Every summer was filled with swim lessons and then swim team practices and meets. I was never the fastest swimmer, but oddly, I was usually the best treader. I could tread water for hours. I think most people can, but they‘ll grow bored before me. Every swim class had a day where we’d compete to see who could tread the longest. It was always me or me plus another person who endured with me until the point when the teacher, exhausted, would say, “Fine, you both win. But I only brought one prize so you’re going to have to split the bag of Razzles.”

Anyway, a few days ago, when I had the youthful flashback, I thought I’d check to see if I am still a good treader. I am. I mean, I only did it for about five minutes after my regular swim, but I did get into a rhythm that I suspect I could have maintained quite awhile. Hours. That being said, treading water was harder than I remembered. It took me a moment to figure out the circular motions that worked for me, that gave me enough float. It was, I believe, a variation of the standard way of treading I was taught all those years ago. I think there’s a joke in there: how do you know if you’re treading water correctly? If you don’t drown.

I am a 55 year old waiter. I’ve done other things in my life, but career wise, I’ve mostly been a waiter. I’ve never been rich. No one has ever been impressed by my career achievements. I am sometimes dismissed as “just a waiter”. And yet, I am still afloat. I am still a good treader. Some days my only accomplishment is that I kept my head above water. Don’t pity me, I have a fine life, I share this because I think that all of us have days where our only achievement was not drowning. 

When James’ mother first came into the restaurant and said she was meeting her son, for some reason I pictured someone like John Krasinksi or Noah Wyle. (Why Noah Wyle? I do not know.) I told her I had not seen anyone waiting which was both true and not true. I had seen her son pass by the restaurant windows a couple of times. I had seen him but not seen him. And I definitely didn’t think he was coming in to dine. I did not see a son who was meeting his mom for lunch.

I hate that I don’t always look at or take in the unhoused. I have to do better. James and his mom were a firm reminder of that lesson. I don’t know if James’ mom’s recurrent use of his name was intentional, but some part of her definitely wanted him and me to hear her say his name.  James. 

If you don’t think you’re going to like or connect with someone, think of how much their mom loved them when they were a baby, or when they went to their first day of kindergarten or when they broke their arm on a slide. Maybe think of the hope a mother and a father had for their child to live an extraordinary life.

As James and his mother’s meal wound down, there was still some food left on their plates. “Do you want togo boxes?”  “Yes, James, do you want to take this with you?” his mom asked. He said no. Probably he did not want another thing to weigh him down. I asked if they wanted dessert and James said he had no room for it. I did get some cookies and put them in a bag and brought them to him. “For when you’re craving something sweet later.” If James were my son or my brother or nephew, I’d want someone to give him cookies. Clearly raised to be polite, he thanked me grandly. 

Soon they were on their way.

I know I see myself in James. He is a good treader. He sees and experiences things on a daily basis that I don’t think I could survive, and he continues to soldier on. He loves his mother. He is kind to those who are kind to him. Every day that he stays afloat is an accomplishment. Ventura Boulevard is long. I hope I see him again someday. And I hope I see him when I do.

I woke up at 4 a.m. and couldn’t fall back to sleep. I got up eventually and now I’m sitting with my coffee on the couch. Ricky is nearby, sleeping in his sister Millie’s old spot. It’s Christmas Eve morning. I have to work in a few hours then I’ll be off for a few days. It will be in the 70s today in Los Angeles, but the temperatures throughout much of the country are supposed to hit record lows. I’m glad I’m here in LA. I was just in Kansas and I was glad to be there when I was there but now I’m glad to be home.

My mom and I had a busy few days while I was in Kansas. Eating at restaurants, seeing family, going for drives, visiting Ruby and the family who adopted her. One of the more meta conversations we had was when I told her that she had kind of, sort of achieved a certain TikTok notoriety. Not that she knew exactly what TikTok was. “Sort of like Facebook, but just videos. And people are meaner, ” I told her. I explained that in August I posted a video of her saying goodbye to Ruby before I took Ruby to ARF, the no kill rescue group that took her in. My heart-tugging caption said, “This is my mom’s last day in her house before moving to assisted living.” Tiktok is an odd medium. You either get a lot of people to watch your video or you’ll get 4. And most of us only get four. But this video struck a chord. And, you probably see where this is headed, it went viral (viral-adjacent, to be fair) because most people watching the video were convinced I was the worst person in the world for separating my mom and her dog and sending each to variations of jail sentences.

I told my mom that 500,000 people watched the video and 70,000 liked it. (That is a slight exaggeration. 452,000 and 68,900 are the true numbers.) She told me she wanted to see the video so I showed it to her. It plays with a sad cover of “The Winner Takes it All.” “I want to read the comments. Can you read me the comments later?” I told her that no, we do not need to sift through 2500 comments, 80% of which (NOT an exaggeration) are telling her what a horrible son she has. While many folks praised my mom, Ruby and the family who adopted her, I was the crystal clear villain. (It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me.)

A few friends and even more strangers have asked why I posted the video. On some level I knew that if more than 4 people were going to watch it, a certain amount of vitriol was going to come with it. But I guess we all want that taste of notoriety, some of us more than others. When the views and hate comments started escalating, I had mixed emotions. On the one hand, I was being told repeatedly and colorfully, I was a “piece of shit” (a quote and also the recurring theme), but on the other hand, I was getting views. Like, lots of them.

Few of my real life friends are on Tiktok. And as the hate piled, my friend Linda, aka @lindaistoooldfortiktok was the first to wade into the mire to defend my sterling reputation. I appreciated her efforts, but as those early days wore on, she saw how it affected me. “Maybe it would be best for you to delete the video.” At that point, I had 28,000 views. More views than I’d ever had on anything. “Maybe I will,” I told her. But I didn’t. Instead, I did what Jennifer Lawrence and Adam Sandler do, I stopped reading the reviews.

Instead of reading the comments, I posted a few more videos, giving more of the story. I talked about Ruby’s new home, I shared that my mom has adjusted well in her assisted living, that she had already known people there because she had worked there years ago. I praised senior caregivers and healthcare workers. I advised people on how to find no kill rescues and shelters in their area.

Eventually, I did revisit the comments and tried to respond to folks who said they were negotiating similar situations. I thanked the commenters who said they work in assisted livings and take pride and care in their work. Did this stop the judgment? A little, maybe. For a few weeks there, people were pretty invested, and then the views dwindled, then eventually, it stopped. Frozen at 452,000, destined to never hit 453,000.

Desperate to reinvent myself like Meghan Trainor and JoJo Siwa before me, I posted a couple videos about winning on a game show. Those two received 10 views, collectively. Even my most recent video, my mom being reunited with Ruby, only garnered 300 views and a smattering of likes. (Zero hate comments to date.)

“What makes a Tiktok go viral?” my mom asked sadly after I told her the reunited video wasn’t hitting great numbers. “Ahhh, that is the eternal question,” I sagely told her. If I knew the answer to that question, I wouldn’t be waiting tables on Christmas Eve. I’d be posting a holiday dance collab with @chris.

I will say this about that video. I posted it roughly a year after the day it was recorded. August 2021 was a very rough month for my mom and me. She hit a point where she could not live alone. Though we considered me moving home, we knew that Ruby and my dogs would never safely coexist in the same house. No one we knew wanted to adopt Ruby. It was heartbreaking and bleak and I did not have a playbook for how to proceed. My mom and I did the best we could with what we had. And then in August 2022, I stumbled upon the video and it was an assurance that it ended much better than I feared it would.

I don’t know what you’re going through today. Holidays can be overwhelming and depressing. On these days, we tend to take the magnifying glass out and scrutinize what we’ve done wrong or who we’ve failed or why we aren’t any number of things we were sure we’d be by the age we are. If you’re feeling that, you’re not alone. In fact, if you’re too damn happy right this moment, you might be the only one.

I’m glad I didn’t take my video down. I can only say that because of the time that has passed because truthfully, the comments did hurt me. But I didn’t delete the hate. Even in the videos where I defended myself, I tried to say, it doesn’t matter if you hate me, but please, offer grace to the people who are truly in your life and not on some dumb app.

If you’re reading this, you are the ones in my life. You know my story. You know my many flaws. Y’all know way more of my failings than Tiktok does! To you, I send wishes of joy and grace in this holiday season. I have to go now, Ricky and Veronica are both pawing and moaning to take them outside for their morning walks in the California sunshine. Merry Christmas, I love you all!

Next weekend, for the first time in my entire life, I will go home to see my mom and stay in a motel. My parents’ house sold in May. The last time I was in Independence, in December, I spent three weeks going through closets and drawers and boxes, deciding the fate of the contents from a lifetime of memories. My mom lives just down the street at an assisted living facility where she once worked. Her space there is enlivened (but hopefully not cluttered) by her favorite objects from our old house on Russell Road. We put some stuff in storage, gave items to friends and family. I brought tchotchkes and photographs and some of my grandmother’s artwork back to LA. Everything else was left to be sold in an estate sale.

In the last few years, I’ve spent extended periods in my hometown. First with my dad’s illness and death, and then to help with some of my mom’s health challenges. I can’t lie, these chapters were a gift. I was the boy who ran as far and as fast away from Kansas as he could, but in my adulthood, I learned there was a peace I needed (and wanted) to make with my imperfect Independence.

In December, it was just me and the dogs staying in a quiet house without even a television. Fourteen year old me could not have fathomed three weeks without a television, but we are not always aware of our strength until it’s called of us. I’d visit my mom at her new place and drive around town and through the park, getting food from my favorite places. I’d attack each room, each closet, each drawer, putting a piece of tape on whatever was “estate sale” ready.

It was all so nostalgic, spending weeks scouring the archives of our family’s museum. Christmas and birthday cards from long dead relatives. Pictures of my dad and mom, young and beautiful and innocent. Aged newspaper articles about family reunions in my mom’s hometown of La Junta, Colorado. My baby clothes, my baby books, my favorite stuffed animals. I was buried in memories, overwhelmed by personal objects with loaded significance.

When I drove into town, I’d drive the same loop I used to “cruise” when I was in high school. Penn to Main, then left, left at 6th, then left onto Myrtle and right on Penn. Then I’d drive to the park, maybe on Penn but maybe take Park. It’s such a time warp, breaking down a childhood home and part of you being sure it was only about 15 minutes ago you were 16. This time, just like 35 years earlier, I had that one song that I played on repeat. Over and over. Loudly. Windows down. Singing far louder than a person of my age/talent would be advised to do.

This time, it wasn’t Amy Grant. Or Chicago. Or Pat Benatar. To be honest, it was cringily age inappropriate but, hey, #jesuisarresteddevelopment. This time, my song was All Too Well by Taylor Swift. (Taylor’s Version, of course.) Just like we did it high school, it was the only song I wanted to hear, the only song that made me FEEL the feelings I wanted to feel.

For those who don’t know, All Too Well is a memory song. It’s about a young woman looking back on a former relationship where, how do I say this? She was more innocent at the beginning of the relationship than she was at the end. Taylor Swift originally recorded it in 2012 not too long after the written about relationship ended. When she re-recorded and rereleased it in 2021, there was added gravity and beauty. (IMHO.) When Taylor sang about the little town street, I was on MY little town street. It wasn’t just JAKE who was a little kid with glasses in a twin sized bed, I had been a little kid with glasses in a twin size bed. My mom tells stories about when I was on the tee ball team. As the days wore on, I understood that if I wanted to dance around the kitchen in the refrigerator light, the time was nigh. Soon, there would be no kitchen, no refrigerator, certainly no refrigerator light.

A few times, I brought my mom to the house and she would go through pictures or her jewelry. She’d tell a story and somehow get necklaces tangled up with each other. It’s easy to do. They are like memories in that regard. Part of the story of our house, or the house that was our house, is that my mom bought the house while my dad was out of town. The people who built it were transferred less than a year after it’s completion. She loved it and knew someone else would buy it before my dad returned so she made the down payment. It worked out. He loved the house. We all did. But no one loved the house more than my mom. In sentimental moments, I think of that house like Shel Silverstein’s Giving Tree, a generous protector who in turn, loved my mother most of all too.

I took pictures of every room before I left the house on that last morning on my way out of town. A friend who had gone through the same thing advised it and I am glad to have the photographic evidence. A family lived here. They weren’t perfect, they weren’t rich, they weren’t happy every moment. There was pain, there was death. Loss. Tears. But there was good. There were laughs. Hugs. Joy. And of course, love.

Are all stories love stories? Most are. From my house, our house, I drove to say goodbye to my mom. She sat on a bench outside so she could tell her grand pups how much she loved them. She and I hugged goodbye. “Don’t cry,” I said. Foolish, because certainly, everyone knows we feel better after we cry a little. “I love you,” we told each other.

And then I drove out of town. It felt necessary to play my anthem one last time as I pulled onto Highway 75. Not unlike young me, I couldn’t wait to leave. Again.

And maybe we got lost in translation
Maybe I asked for too much
But maybe this thing was a masterpiece ’til you tore it all up
Running scared, I was there
I remember it all too well.

Wind in my hair, you were there, you remember it all
Down the stairs, you were there, you remember it all
It was rare, I was there, I remember it all too well.

My longtime friend Michael has been a frequent contributor to Easily Crestfallen over the years. Recently, he wrote this piece about his mom. The events he has written about are a timeline that many of us can relate to. When you read this, you will think not only about Michael and his family, but also you will envisage your own mother, your own father, your own family. One of Thornton Wilder’s great lessons is the significance of life’s quietest moments. And here, Michael has lovingly quilted together sweet, sad and even funny remembrances of a time that will be a part of his story until it’s his own turn to join the others up on that hill.

Last Friday, April 15th, 2022, was my first time back on stage, in front of a live audience in over two-in-a-half years, due to Covid-19. It was our first preview of a beautiful production of Our Town, by Thornton Wilder, which happens to be my favorite play of all time! Saturday morning my husband woke me up with the news that he had just tested positive for Covid-19. I tested immediately and of course I was positive as well. I knew this meant I may have exposed my fellow cast members and that I would have to leave the show for at least a week, if not the entire run. I was devastated. I wanted to call my mom as she is the only person who could tell me how silly I was being, and that it would all work out just fine. I just needed to hear her say to me, “Chin up, Michael!” But my mother passed away on Monday, February 21st 2022, at 10:40pm Central Standard time. She had been in failing health for quite a while and during the pandemic shut down, she had gone from a cane, to a walker, to a wheelchair, to being bedridden the last month of her life. I had gone home to Oklahoma this past Christmas, and she was in good spirts, laughing and joking and bossing us all around as was her nature.

On Friday, February 19th my brother, Tim Facetimed me from my mother’s bedside and I could tell by the tears in his eyes that she didn’t have long.  He said, “Maybe you just want to remember the great Christmas you had with her? Not be here for the messy end and just come for the funeral?”  For a few minutes I thought about it…maybe he had a good point, but I had to see her and touch her one last time, so I booked a flight and was there the next afternoon.

My sister Julie is a hospice nurse and made it possible for my mom and dad to stay in the house and not go into assisted living as my brother and I had suggested. When I arrived at the house, they were all in the bedroom with my mother. She was very weak but responsive and said, “Hello Michael, my son. They all think I’m dying. I’m not dying!” I put a big smile on my face and gave her a kiss on the cheek. We stayed with her and talked,and held her hand the rest of that day. The next morning, Sunday February 20th, she was singing and so full of energy! My sister said that she was rallying as a lot of people do before the end. One last surge of life. Funny as hell and busting my chops one last time…

Mom – ”Oh, Michael you’re so, so…What’s the word?”  “

Me – Passive-aggressive?”  

Mom – “YES, passive aggressive!  That’s it!” 

Me – “Well where do you think I got it from, Ma?”

Mom – “Well that’s true.”

She was asking for Coca-Cola, and I fed her four small spoonfuls of Cherry Garcia ice cream, which was her favorite. Early that evening we were all in the bedroom with her and my father came in to join us and when he went to sit in the chair next to the bed, he fell and hit his head on the wall, so we called 911. When the paramedics arrived, my mother asked them if they were there to take her to the morgue and we all laughed and laughed. Dad was fine but when the paramedics left mom said, “Nothing ever goes right in the family.” I barked back, “What are you talking about?! He’s fine, he didn’t have to go to the E.R., and we all had a good laugh!”

Monday morning was very different.  The hospice nurse arrived around 11am and was so gentle and kind with my mom.  Toward the end of her visit my mom whispered to the nurse, “Am I Done?”  I didn’t hear the nurse’s answer as I was still processing my mother’s question to her.  Those were the last words I heard my mother utter.  

The rest of that day she was non-responsive and very still. At 10:30pm my sister said it would be soon, so I opened the window because I was told that, that’s what you do to allow the souls of family members who had already died come retrieve the soul of the person who is dying.

With my dad sleeping in the next bed, my sister, my cousin Laurie and I gathered around my mother’s hospital bed, my sister and cousin on either side and me kneeling at the foot, we watched her take her last breath. It was like watching a clock stop. It was so gentle. We said the Hail Mary prayer together because we thought my mother would have liked that, and we wept. After a few minutes I went over to my dad to wake him and tell him that mom was gone. He was quite groggy from the sleeping pill he had taken earlier, so he just looked over at her and said, “oh” and went back to sleep. We woke him up again a few minutes later and walked him over to give her a kiss good-bye and then we walked him back to his bed. He laid his head down on the pillow and went back to sleep. My sister called the hospice nurse on duty, who had to come and fill out the paperwork and prepare mom’s body for the funeral home to take her away. Once the nurse arrived my sister and my cousin didn’t want to be in the room any longer and went to bed. I felt like staying since my dad was still there and I wasn’t ready to leave my mom. I placed a red rose on her chest and sprayed some Giorgio perfume on her since it was her favorite. I chatted with Zeta, the hospice nurse while we waited for the funeral home to arrive. I pulled out my phone and showed her pictures of my mom and dad on their wedding day so she could see how beautiful she was when she was young. About 30 minutes later two men from the funeral home arrived. Zeta, dad, and I watched them very gently wrap mom in a white sheet with her face still showing and carefully place her on the gurney. Zeta and I walked with them down the hall and out the garage door and down the driveway to their unmarked, white cargo van. They loaded her body through the back and shut the doors and drove away. I waved good-bye to my mom and told her I loved her.

One of my favorites moments in Our Town is the top of the 3rd Act. Emily has died giving birth to her second son and her family is just about to arrive at the graveside. The Stage Manager, who is the narrator, for anyone not familiar with the play, gives his iconic monologue about death:

“We all know that something is eternal. And it ain’t houses and it ain’t names, and it ain’t earth, and it ain’t even the stars . . . everybody knows in their bones that something is eternal, and that something has to do with human beings. All the greatest people ever lived have been telling us that for five thousand years and yet you’d be surprised how people are always losing hold of it. There’s something way down deep that’s eternal about every human being.” These words by, Thornton Wilder give me great comfort as they have for so many others over the past 84 years.

Today is April 18th and I sit waiting in my house, hoping and praying that I get a negative antigen test in the next few days so I can return to the show and not let my castmates down and do what I love most in the world. I want to stand in the wings during the 3rd Act and hear those words spoken and think of my mom.

Last night, I was working at my restaurant. A young guy came in and indicated to the host that he wanted a table. The host asked for a vaccine card or proof of covid-negative status which is what is currently mandated for indoor dining in Los Angeles. There was a breakdown in communication between the host and the guest. Not only did he apparently not have a proof of vaccine, he wasn’t able to talk. “I think he can hear though,” the host told me. A few minutes later, the manager sat the guy. He thought the guy was indicating he was vaccinated, I guess. Of course, he was in my section. He pointed to items on the menu. A Pepsi, orange chicken, beef and broccoli. Initially I believed he could hear me, he nodded when I repeated his order. He was thin and wiry, with big brown eyes watching my every move. His metallic grey fingernails were dingy and partially grown out. He wore his mask, I wore mine. So angry, I thought. He guzzled his Pepsi and when I replaced it with a new one, his disposition seemed to shift a little. More scared than angry. I brought him his two entrees and asked him if he wanted soy sauce or chili paste. He nodded no. As I walked away, it occurred to me that probably he wasn’t able to hear me at all. He couldn’t read any of our lips because in restaurants right now, all workers are masked. On a hunch, I decided to type on my phone and ask him if he wanted soy sauce or chili paste. Yes, he nodded and pointed at the screen. And when I came back to the table, another shift occurred. He smiled at me. Still scared but also, I think, pleased I was trying my best to communicate with him. I kept his Pepsi refilled, he ate all of both of his entrees. He was really hungry, this skinny guy. On my screen, I typed, “Dessert?” He nodded as if to ask, what do you have? “Churros, cheesecake and chocolate cake,” I typed. He pointed to a lone uneaten mushroom on his plate. “Mushroom?“ I typed, confused. He nodded yes. The new mode of communication I was congratulating myself on turned out to be flawed. What did he want? But then he pointed to chocolate cake on my screen. I thumbs upped him and he nodded. I brought him the dessert and he wolfed that down too. I brought him two fortune cookies. He seemed happy but also, still anxious. I dropped the check and he sat quietly for another ten minutes. At some point, I noticed he was no longer at the table but the check was still there. I opened the book, no cash. We are not strangers to dine and dashers in the restaurant industry. So I ran outside to look for him. No sign. Soon, the host told me he thought the guy went to the bathroom. Sure enough, the door said occupied. Five or ten minutes elapsed, no one emerged.

A bit more about his appearance. I am not saying he looked like a meth addict but I can assure you, were he an actor and he showed up to audition for a skinhead, a meth head or a skinhead methhead, he certainly would not have been turned away for not understanding the brief.

I have worked in restaurants on and off for 30 years, I’ve seen it all. (Including watching a young woman poop little turds as she walked to the bathroom. Graphic, but not an exaggeration.) But while my friend lingered in the bathroom, I tried to imagine every possible scenario. Overdose, strapping a suicide bomb to his chest, digging a hole through the ceiling, digging a hole through the floor, dynamiting a wall, doing coke, doing meth, smoking a joint, smoking a crack pipe. After a stealth 27 minutes, he did come out of the bathroom. I showed him the check presenter. He looked at me sheepishly. He stood at the takeout counter, rifling through his pockets. I watched him. He watched me. He seemed scared. I felt scared. Was he going to pull out a gun or a knife? Was he isolating in the bathroom to whittle his chopstick into a lethal weapon? Was he going to make a run for it, sprinting then leaping off our second story balcony to flee down Ventura Boulevard on his way to pull the same stunt for margaritas and nachos at Casa Vega? Finally, he signaled for a piece of paper. I gave him paper and a pen. He wrote, “I am so sorry to inconvenience you. I have had a bit of trouble lately. My credit card is in my sweater. Would it be okay if I went to get my credit card and come back? It won’t take longer than 30 minutes.” I showed my manager.

“You know he’s not coming back, don’t you?” he said.

“You’re probably right, but what do you want me to say to him?“

“Ask for his phone or ID.” So I wrote down for the guy, “Do you have a phone or an ID?”

“My phone is out of service. Do you want my name?” My boss intervened, he told him to go home and get his credit card, he’d leave the check open until he came back. My friend nodded a thank you and left. “He’s not coming back, you know,” my boss repeated.

And as far as I know, he didn’t come back. I was done for the night so, you know, maybe he did return. Obviously, I didn’t get a tip from the guy, and technically, he proved to be more trouble than he was worth. But even today, I couldn’t stop thinking, wondering about him. He ate two entrees AND dessert. He was definitely hungry. When was his last meal? How many times has he done this before? Does he have friends? Does he have anyone to help him negotiate life? Is he really deaf? Does he even have a home? I don’t know. His actions seemed more motivated by fear than calculation. But I’ll probably never know. Still, I’ll continue to think about him, continue to wonder. And, root for him too. He made the night interesting. I don’t know the day to day trials he experiences. His life is likely harder than I will ever know. But for one evening, someone kept his Pepsi glass filled and even gave him extra fortune cookies. I hope they bring him luck.

Last night, I was working. It’s been so long since I’ve blogged, I should probably give a short recap. I work at a Chinese restaurant in Studio City now, waiting tables. I’ve been there awhile and I make enough (knock wood) that I only have to work a few shifts a week. My body is always tired at the end of a busy shift. I’m simultaneously thrilled and depleted by the physicality of my job.

There is a spiritual energy that is also depleted as a server. At least for a server who cares about doing the job well. When people are mean, it affects me. But on the plus side, when I have a table or several tables with whom I make what feels like a genuine connection, it bolsters me. On a good day, I can walk to my car at the end of a shift feeling seen, helpful, valuable, insightful, and connected to humanity.

As a vocation, restaurant work is often easily dismissed. I have been in a few too many social situations, even recently, where if it comes up that I work as a server, an expectation about me shifts. Their eyes wander over my shoulder for a more interesting person to talk to. There is a genial, “It was so nice to meet you,” as they slip away to better chat companions. And yes, it always hurts my feelings.

Last night, I was waiting on a couple who live in Albuquerque. They moved there after several years in LA and we bonded when I told them how much time I’d spent in Albuquerque over the years and how much I loved it. Two tables away, another couple incredulously interrupted with, “Hey, we just moved to Albuquerque from LA too!” I trailed off to deliver food and I could hear the two tables connecting over the parallels in their lives. All worked in entertainment and had moved to New Mexico in part because that industry is booming now.

Later, after the first couple left, the second couple asked why I had spent so much time in Albuquerque. I told them a bit about traveling back and forth to help my mom in Kansas and years earlier, my dad. The wife said she related, she had been traveling back and forth from Albuquerque to LA to care for her mom. And that her mom had died at the beginning of November. She shared how she’d been there in the last weeks of her mother’s life. Of course, I offered my apologies. What started as casual bonding over a city we both enjoyed, forged deeper, rapidly, with our shared experiences. Not identical, but similar. I asked if she had siblings, and she told me she was an only child. I told her that while I have two half brothers, I am my mom’s only child. So, you know, more connection.

I am affected by feelings that I let both of my parents down by living so far away. Some of my relatives give me subtle (and not so subtle) hints that I’ve failed my parents too. Probably, I have. In retrospect, we always see clearly the things we should have done better.

Last night, this woman, her grief still fresh, told me, “You are a good son.” I thanked her. Do I feel like a good son when most of my mother’s physical care falls to other people? No, I don’t. This nice lady doesn’t know me, I thought. But then maybe, hopefully, maybe she does know me. Maybe strangers who connect over life’s nuances do instinctively understand the other.

As they were leaving, I wanted to do something special for them. For her. I could have snuck them chocolate covered fortune cookies, but that felt too glib of a gesture. (Sorry your mom died, these might be your lucky numbers.) Earlier we had talked a bit about creative pursuits, their work in the arts. And I remembered I had a sketch another customer had left on the paper we cover our tables with. Another couple from another evening. Another connection. On that night, one half of the couple drew two birds as we reminisced about gay life in 1990s Los Angeles, our parallels. When they left, I kept the sketch, carried it in my check presenter. I loved it. This piece of his soul, rendered onto butcher paper with a borrowed pen, saved from the garbage while the rest of his table’s detritus now rotted in a San Fernando valley landfill. My treasure.

So, last night, I gave my new friend that sketch of the birds. I told her how when my dad died, my friend Linda gave me a photo of a red cardinal and told me bird sightings are a message from our departed loved one that they love us and are still with us. Honestly, I don’t know if I believe such stuff, but I do know it’s something I like to believe. I love the thought of her mother sending these two birds into her daughter’s unassuming dinner of peanut noodles and sweet and sour chicken to say, “I love you. You are a WONDERFUL daughter.”

She teared up. She told me she wished she could hug me. I told her the name of the artist, gave her his Instagram profile, since now the two of them were also connected. It is my sense, that my new friends felt the same shared moment I did. It is my sense, that they left the restaurant with a little less weariness. More connection. But probably I will never know.

What I do know, is where I am in my life. I am leaving next week to go home and prepare my childhood home for sale. My mother’s dream home that she bought while my dad was out of town on a business trip. (It worked out. He loved the house too.) For her, for me, it feels like such a daunting task, but it also feels like the appropriate time. Right now, all of my thoughts are on the stuff, the physical objects that have collected in a house for 45 years. Piece by piece, I will go through boxes and cupboards and drawers and rooms and decide what is kept and what is relinquished.

Though it wasn’t discussed, I know my new friend will experience something similar. And you, reading at home, maybe you’ve gone through the same or will go through the same, sooner than you wish. It’s all so much. I didn’t know how much I needed last night’s exchange to happen until it did. Two weary souls bumping into each other, needing someone to see them.

I began my day, as I try to do every day, with a swim. In my final laps this morning, a young man (early 20s) began swimming in the lane next to me. I’ve seen him before. He looks like Ian Thorpe, the Australian Olympic swimming champion. I always swim a little faster, a little longer, when he is there. I feel younger, slimmer, stronger when this strapping, speedo-clad 20-something is in the lane next to me. Yes, obviously, it’s kind of a crush. But it’s also something else.

Swimmers, we rotate our arms and kick our feet, lap after lap, but really what we do is think about ourselves the whole time. We think about our problems, our joys, our victories, failures. Perhaps because we swim in lanes and there are only 5 lanes, I am always aware of the speed and the age and the attractiveness of my fellow swimmers. I am always comparing. I am always either winning or losing. Don’t compare yourself to others, you tell me. I know, I know.

I just finished Joan Didion’s Blue Nights this afternoon. Because I am not working right now, I drive around Los Angeles listening to audiobooks. It’s indulgent to listen to Joan Didion’s stories about Los Angeles as I drive around Joan Didion’s Los Angeles. Blue Nights is about the death of her Didion’s daughter, Quintana Roo, and also about her own medical frailties. She writes about how at 75, things happen to your body that when you were young, you never could have imagined. But here I am, halfway between 25 and 75. And I imagine it ALL, what I’ve lost, what I never had, what I will lose, what I wonder if I will lose.

My friend from the pool, after his swim, he leapt across the deck to the outdoor shower. He stood under the nozzle, luxuriating in not only the warm water on a cool day, but also, the energy he no doubt absorbed from his fellow swimmers. It was not only I who was cognizant of our young Ian Thorpe. We all, male and female, gay and straight, kept tabs on him on while he sudded and rinsed. He remained in our periphery as he pulled on his green tie-dyed sweatpants and beat up Nikes. There goes youth, we thought as he lidded his long brown locks with a turned around ball cap and sauntered out of the club.

Mostly unrelated, this morning I was telling my friend Parker about a fancy Malibu cast party I had to leave full swing 25 years ago because I had been appointed to cart home a drunk, gay South African who had become so inebriated that he was sitting in the hot tub, champagne in hand, crying in his Speedo. At 27, it did not occur to me that some version of this would be my fate. But I can see now. We are not twins, but we are kin. I am always aging-gay-crying-in-a-Speedo-adjacent. (It’s not as bad as it sounds if you can make a little peace with the humor of it.)

In some ways, my self-absorption is a gift. Filling my days with leisurely swims and then drives, studying great Southern California architecture, homes where people lived dramatic lives. It’s not a life exactly but it’s close enough for me to reach a hand through my sunroof and graze the Jacaranda trees. Life-adjacent.

If young Ian Thorpe and ailing but venerated Joan Didion are the bookends of my day, what is at the center? It is this flux that we are all weighted by, day after day. We wait for symptoms to appear or disappear, we wait for news about the health and jobs and safety of people we love. We wait to go back to work. We wait for a vaccine. We tamp down jealousy of our friends who deservedly have already received the vaccine, both doses. Always comparing.

Will I be a person who enjoys being around people when I am allowed to be around people again? What happened to the flamboyant young man who loved to host parties and drink margaritas and smoke cigarettes and drink so much he always turned somewhere between a little and very nasty before the evening was over? That guy had so much fun. He had so many friends. Now my evenings end with setting the timer on my audiobook and sprawling on the couch, cuddling with Ricky, the dog who loves me the most. I hope each time that I will fall asleep before the timer ends. Later, when I wake up, I can crawl into our bed with Eric and Veronica. And I whisper to Veronica not to snarl (or snap!) at Ricky, because sometimes his proximity is triggering for her. Am I still the guy who broke into fancy West Hollywood hotels and apartment buildings to swim in my Speedo and make new friends? I mean, my guess would be no.

But, actually, he is still there, at least a bit of him. Slivers of young Ian Thorpe, slivers of Joan Didion, slivers of Quintana Roo, who died too young, slivers of the gay South African actor, slivers of my friends I haven’t seen for a year, slivers of the friends I text and FB message every day, slivers of my dad, gone 3 years on Sunday, slivers of my mom, who loves me more than anyone, even more than Ricky, the dog who loves me the most.

When I started this blog, I titled it, He Swims in Beauty. Lord Byron would surely grimace at my sophomoric allusion to his beloved poem. But as young Ian swam next to me this morning, that is was came to me. It felt a privilege to swim next to a person that beautiful. Of course, my day continued post swim, I did laundry, went for my drive, came home to two surprises from Eric: our favorite sandwiches from Larchmont Wine & Cheese and a freshly groomed Ricky, looking like a puppy again.

And then I sat down to string a few words together. Writing is another theme Joan Didion addressed in Blue Nights, how writing came easier when she was younger. We writers don’t always know what to say, but also, sometimes, don’t know HOW to say what we want to say. But today, for the most part, I have written what I wanted. I think it makes sense. I think you might relate to at least one thing I’ve shared. Maybe two things.

So really, maybe I was referring to myself, when I chose “He Swims in Beauty”. Beauty is not what I am, merely the womb that nurtures me, prepares me. In the grand as well as in the minuscule. It is present and as I swim from wall to wall, over and over, the salty water buoying, propelling, cleansing me to my completion, I soak in everything that is beauty which surrounds me.