Story for a Thirty Dollar Discount

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Last night* I did a real “writer-y” thing. I attended a Meetup activity for writers, by writers. A group of students from a writing school were performing Moth style in a black box theatre in KoreaTown. It was a small and chatty crowd. I scanned the room for a place to sit. There was a cluster of guys in the corner so I headed that direction. I wasn’t in it for the networking or the dating (which my husband will appreciate), I was in it to hear stories and I thought these gents might provide some entertainment before the entertainment. I grabbed the only empty seat in that area.

Tucking in to the chair was a bit difficult as the guy I was to sit next to was quite comfortable in his wide, Larry Craig-like stance. Squished in, within moments it seemed as though my body chemistry was changing. Can one get a contact buzz sitting next to a guy that reeks of alcohol and cigarettes?

A few hours earlier a homeless man came up to me while I was feeding the meter and asked me if I had water in my car. Okay, first take a minute. How sad is that? I didn’t. But I did have a beet/apple/lemon/ginger drink that I had just bought at Whole Foods. I told him he was welcome to that. That I had just taken a few sips. He said sure and thanked me. He polished it off in three big gulps and tossed the bottle in the garbage can next to us. His arms were dirty and he wore a hospital admittance band around his wrist. It seemed fairly new which was surprising because he was clearly unwashed for a long time. His clothes were filthy. And when I say “filthy” I don’t mean it in the biting, disdainful way I hear my mother say it. Just filthy.

Turns out the guy in the theater actually smelled worse than the homeless guy. I decided to move. The smell would get the best of me. I knew this. I took a look around. The seats were filling up. I went to another spot. “Oh, I’m saving this,” a woman in an out of place, bright orange, business dress shared. I moved on to another spot. “Sorry, I’m saving these seats,” an LA hipster guy said.

“How many seats do you need?” I asked.

“Five,” he said.

Wow. Five. He had lots of friends. I just needed one. I found a seat in the front row. 

I hate the front row. It makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like the back row either. I think life is best managed from the second row. You’re almost up front, but you don’t have to be entirely committed. You care, obviously, you’re sitting so close, but you don’t look overly eager. And if I can get a second row aisle seat – the "I can still get outta here if I want to" seat – well then I’m golden. There was a notebook and scarf on a chair next to me. More seat saving. I was reminded how much of my new LA life I am doing alone. Not complaining. Just observing. 

I was thrilled when the host of the event set up an additional row of chairs in front of me. Thank God. Second row. Then a woman walked in with her gay boyfriend. I’m not sure if she knows he’s gay, but that’s how I’m calling it. You should have seen his wave. Not trying to stereotype, but I’ve seen it often enough. I’ve been in theatre my entire adult life. That over-the-top queenie, “Hey girl! Over here!” wave. It just had a brightness about it that I’ve never seen displayed by my husband or any other straight male friends. I overheard someone say to the woman, “Do people still recognize you from the Bachelor?” I didn’t hear the answer. I didn’t try. I don’t watch those shows. Not judging.

All of the two-together seats were taken. The bachelorette sat next to me in the open seat on the other side. She kept looking forlornly at her gay boyfriend as he tried to find a seat. He didn’t seem to want to sit in the front row either. I leaned over and said, “I’ll just move up. You can have my seat for your friend.” I played it safe. Maybe he wasn’t a boyfriend. I mean he was so handsome and impeccably dressed. Maybe she did know he was gay. Maybe I called it wrong. It could happen. “You would do that?” she said. As if I had just said, “I’m happy to be your surrogate.” It was really sweet. Not at all what I would expect one of those Bachelorette women to say. Okay, shit. Maybe I was judging.

Anyway, it was so nice. I liked her immediately and thought surely America must have loved her too. I moved to the front row. I watched all the performers in their seats on the stage before the show was to begin. They were encouraging each other. Excited. Nervous. “You’re going to be great.” “Give me a hug”. “You’re amazing.” I was so excited to be in that supportive energy. That’s the seat I wanted. On stage. Next to them.

The organizer of the event, who ended up sitting next to me, stepped up to the mic to start the show. She was pleased with the turnout. Her happiness was infectious and her professionalism was greatly appreciated. She encouraged all of us to follow them on Twitter and Facebook and Instagram (writingpad.com). She said you could get a $30 discount on a class if you submit a story with your registration. I was intrigued. I had already been taking notes and knew that I was going to write about this experience before the night was over. If I actually take a class and get the discount, wouldn’t that be like money back in my pocket? Wouldn’t that be as if I was paid for writing something? An LA writing gig. Cool.

She turned the mic over to the instructor who was a Moth winner. I coveted her dress. She, in turn, introduced each writer/storyteller – a virgin, a recovering asshole, a non-equestrian/non- lesbian, a weed mom, a ghosted boyfriend, a Korean loving Oklahoman and a hedonistic Jewish woman with OCD. The performances exceeded my expectations.

On my way out (I was among the first to leave - a first row gift/) I looked around Korea Town. I took in the area. My mother had lived just blocks away from this place in 1953. I wondered if this building was here when she was here. Surely the police caution tape surrounding the building across the street wasn’t there in 1953, but I wondered if she was ever on this street. I was on Western - a pretty busy street. I have to believe she was. I thought on the drive home, “I may not be saving a seat, but that’s okay. I’m in relationship with this amazing city, with its people, with my past, with my mother’s past.” This thought made me very happy. Grateful even. Not alone. Just where I need to be.

*Note: This wasn't last night. It's something I wrote a while ago.