Our mutual friends, Rich and Nicole, invited us to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art's jazz night. I, the self-proclaimed queen of snacks, brought a plethora of treats and drinks from my Sherman Oaks apartment. This was one of my first forays into the post-COVID-19 vaccine world, and I was pretty much ready to mix and mingle with the masses again.
Nicole gestured for me to sit in the front seats, coveted seats that Alex had saved by arriving an hour early on the bus. I said “Hello” and explained my apologies for being late.
“I'm sorry,” I sighed with a slight lisp from my new Invisaligns. (I later learned that Alex thought my orthodontic-induced speech impediment was pretty cute.) “I parked so far away I might as well be in the Valley.”
Alex chuckled.
I would soon learn that this die-hard Westsider had not owned a car since the transmission in his 2001 Cadillac DeVille exploded on the 5 Freeway four years ago. I passed out thimbles of sake I had brought to share and noticed a woman sitting next to Alex. She was smiling at the group. I asked her if she would like some too.
I thought Alex looked very cute in his light maroon jacket, the kind that is perfect for those gray May nights, and one that highlighted his thinning blonde hair. But I figured he and the smiling sake lady were together.
The next two hours were filled with between-set chatter: Nicole's end-of-school-year frenzy, Rich's musician's thoughts on those sweet drum riffs, and where we should all go for something to eat afterwards. The Grove or the Canter? Alex and I were sitting on opposite ends of our row. I passed him snacks and at some point I noticed that the woman sitting next to him was no longer there.
Maybe that wasn't his girlfriend. Could it be that he was single?
After the concert, we walked down Fairfax Avenue. I learned that Alex was originally from Long Island, New York, and asked him to use an accent like “The Sopranos.” He gave me an obedient “fuhgeddaboudit.” As a transplant from the Midwest, I found this very funny. We stopped for ice cream at Wanderlust.
The conversation was easy. After all, we had known Rich and Nicole for years. Yet somehow, Alex and I had never met at Friendsgivings or birthday gatherings. Then we would count the almosts and maybes of our almost 20 years in Los Angeles. At one point, he was staying at a motel just a five-minute walk from my first apartment, near Hollywood Boulevard and Western Avenue.
Could we have met at nearby Ralphs? Maybe it just wasn't the right time…until now.
The next month, the four of us met at another jazz club and returned to Wanderlust. A few weeks later, I got a text from Alex asking if we should keep the jazz club open while Rich and Nicole were on their honeymoon.
This was my self-proclaimed post-lockdown year of yes, and I promised myself to be more open and say yes to things more. I texted back: Yes!
I wasn't sure if this was a date, but I filled my summer picnic bag with delicious snacks and once again headed up the hill toward Mid-Wilshire. When I got there, Alex had reserved two seats and I realized it would just be the two of us for two hours of jazz. I offered him a drink from Trader Joe's and reminded myself that I was already 40 years old and that it was okay to be myself. Against the backdrop of those sweet drum riffs and a little liquid courage, Alex and I share how we both ended up in Los Angeles. It turns out that we were both in search of a new path in life, one that was not yet resolved at home.
After the concert, we headed to our usual spot, but then opted to make a new memory at the Original Farmers Market, where we ordered a couple of coffees and donuts before Bob's Coffee & Donuts closed.
As I spun around on the dining room stool, the butterflies began to grow.
We got back to my car and I offered him a ride. He refused, but couldn't understand how he was going to get home so late at night. (Two years later, I too would opt for Alex's car-free lifestyle.)
With my teacher's voice, I insisted.
He climbed into the car and spread out the seat, his 6-foot-2 frame expanding like an accordion. I shamelessly asked him to hand me my night driving glasses. He said calmly: “I don't know where those are.”
I already felt so comfortable with him that I forgot that we hadn't met yet. When I opened the glove compartment, our hands brushed lightly and there was a moment of excitement. Per his request, I dropped him off near La Cienega and Santa Monica boulevards. He would take the number 4 bus home, which runs all night on Santa Monica Boulevard, and I would take the Canyon Over the Hill back to my house.
We said goodbye as we watched a sedan turn left and get stuck in the middle of the median. There is never a dull moment in the west.
Our second date at the Getty summer concert led to a third date at SoFi Stadium, where the Red Hot Chili Peppers sang our song: “Sometimes I feel like I don't have a partner / Sometimes I feel like my only friend is the city I live in, the City of Angels / Alone as I am, together we cry.”
As we kissed, I knew this would be something special, a gift only Los Angeles could offer.
The author lives with her boyfriend, Alex, in Westside. They don't have cars and still take the number 4 bus to the LACMA jazz club every summer.
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