I f lew to L. A. for a kiss
FLIRT Y TEXTS. PINK MINI- S KI RT. COULD IT BE IN OUR STARS?
IHAD ALWAYS LIKED S. Always. One of those small crushes that you barely recognize until the object of your affection is out of reach. For four years, I had seen him a few nights a week. Both aspiring comedians, we were staples of the Portland, Ore., comedy scene.
Now he was moving on to try to make it big time: Los Angeles. When I found out, I knew I had to speak up. To have my moment. I sent him a text saying that I needed a kiss before he left.
One text turned into a million flirty messages. His remaining days in town were a whirlwind. I spent my working hours trying to remain awake after staying out with him every night, following him from one venue to another. I ruined my purse with the grease from McDonald’s French fries, the only thing I had time to eat. Feeding my crush was more important. He left. I cried. A few weeks later, I was interviewing a friend for another friend’s podcast and, between takes, explained my state of bereftness. “You should go visit,” he said. The idea to me was stupid. I had never gone anywhere on a plane by myself. ( I mean, without my parents on family vacations.) And I certainly had no business in L. A. Traveling alone sounded insane. Three hours later, I had a plane ticket.
I arrived on a Thursday night. S. couldn’t see me Friday; he had to work. I spent my time doing what I call “literary tourism” — visiting sites from various books. The New Beverly Cinema ( after reading “Silver Screen Fiend” by Patton Oswalt). Oki- Dog from “Weetzie Bat.” I texted S. everything I saw. Every tiny detail. Even pictures of the photo shoot I saw happening on Fairfax. He couldn’t have got any work done that day. He was too busy texting me back.
That night, he said he had a stand- up show to go to. He didn’t invite me. ( You’re probably wondering why I just didn’t say, “Sounds cool, where is it? I’ll come check it out.” That is a very good question and the answer: my low self- esteem.)
Instead, I looked around for something to do and caught Tig Notaro. While I waited for the show to begin, I got my nails done at a tiny salon nearby. I texted S. that a plain manicure is cheaper than getting a drink when you’re killing time and need to charge your phone. Plus, no one hits on you. “Good,” he replied. I beamed, glad he didn’t want anyone else flirting with me.
I spent the night in my big hotel bed alone.
Saturday was my birthday. I woke up to my first birthday texts, from my mom and S.
I put on my favorite pink miniskirt to meet him at Stories in Echo Park for a comedy show. I thought I looked sexy. S. told me I looked cold. He’d gotten there early, and we chatted briefly before he peeled off to help set up chairs, explaining it helped him have an “in” for future bookings. I was pretty sure he was keeping an eye on me as I browsed the bookshelves.
During the show, he stood in the back while I ended up in the fourth row, where I’d sat so I could charge my phone at a nearby outlet. We exchanged looks throughout the show, grimacing when we truly hated something. Always the same jokes.
After the show, I waited out front for him. He came over and put his arms around me. It would have been the perfect moment for that kiss I never got back in Portland.
“I have to go,” he said, explaining he had to work the next day.
I offered to come see him before my Sunday afternoon f light home. He mumbled something about all the stuff he had to do. It didn’t sound like a rejection, exactly, just like he didn’t want to bother me.
Instead of going back to my empty hotel room, I met up with a friend for silver dollar pancakes at the 101 Coffee Shop. I was explaining it all when a text from S. arrived, suggesting a possible comedy show to catch before my f light, but the timing didn’t work out.
“What the hell,” my friend wondered. “Is he nervous?”
Sunday, I walked around downtown L. A. trying to figure it all out. S. hadn’t turned me down, but he hadn’t kissed me either.
On the f light home it hit: I got on a plane for this man. I deserved more than a text back. Like, maybe some honesty?
A few months later I got a call from my friend Aubrey telling me that S. was moving back to Portland after he had tried to kiss his roommate — his best friend’s ex- girlfriend. Aubrey was cackling so hard I had to wait for her to calm down so I could hear the full story. He’d made his move while all three of them were still living together. “It was a disaster,” she said, still laughing so hard she was gasping for air. I laughed too.
Mostly at myself.
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