A [Redacted] Story

It had been months since I’d seen Jeremy in person between him living across the country and the pandemic shutting down all of his normal excuses to pop by for the special kind of attention only I could provide. I’d thought about him in passing, particularly as I passed our old haunts, although those opportunities had significantly diminished with the city shut down. I had fewer and fewer reasons to leave the five mile radius around my house, let alone to make the trek out to Beverly Hills, a place I loathe for its cultural vacuousness and the parasitic people drawn to a place primarily known for its conspicuous consumption. Jeremy was one of the few reasons I ended up that far west. A visit with him felt like a field trip into a world of true depravity: violent Valley girls waddling out of Hummer limos with botched BBLs straining against their Lululemon leggings; fraying bleached blonde men with filler-chiseled faces cemented in irritated expressions; generational gap couples held together with the glue of real opulence. I was coasting off of the coattails of that opulence. Jeremy would say that my reading is too jaded, that I’m too judgmental of people when I haven’t gotten to know them. I would say that there’s only so much energy I’m willing to expend upon certain kinds of people.

At 11p, Jeremy invited me to Mr. Chow. I was irritated that he had waited so long to inform me of his whereabouts after he had proactively informed me of his trip dates days prior to his arrival. He had done so well, only to ruin himself in the end. Mr. Chow is a famous LA restaurant in Beverly Hills, known for its glitterati crowd more than its celebrity head chefs and Beijing style cuisine. It’s a place to be seen and rub elbows with people who have true status. I would never intentionally make a reservation to eat there, but it is close to the offices of a few of my clients, so there was an inevitability about ending up drinking or dining at the white linen draped tables.

I know that I’m going to begin with a story I’ve already told, but I think it’s important to retell, for framing purposes. Don’t worry, there is more to tell.

That night however, I hadn’t anticipated actually sitting down. I arrived in my little Volkswagen Jetta and parked in the red, waiting for Jeremy to finish his business dinner. He’d told me he was almost done, and that by the time I arrived we could escape to the hotel nearby. I was dressed in my typical enby-punk fashion-- an oversized graphic t-shirt, black jeans, and chunky sole work boots. I watched a gaggle of women leaving the restaurant, limping in stiletto heels held in place by the tiniest straps to a giant Escalade parked behind me. Their BBLs hung heavily in skin-tight mini dresses they constantly fiddled with, adjusting for the sake of a minimal level of modesty. Their faces were a mixture of an alcoholic flush and fillers. All of them were white, but with substantial tans coloring their otherwise grayish complexions. They glared at me as they piled into their car. They weren’t happy that I’d parked behind them. I was irritated that I was even parked long enough to catch their attention. Jeremy was supposed to be ready to leave, but of course, he was not. He’s not a man to abide by anyone’s schedule, instead he prefers to be carried about by the whimsy of fate. The Escalade revved its engine and flashed its brights at me. I decided to ignore the blatant act of aggression, and instead busied myself with a Duolingo lesson. There was enough space for them to pull out, it would just take a few back and forths. I checked my rearview mirror and saw one of the deranged plastic surgery experiments mouthing “that fucking bitch” as she glared in my direction. Then she slapped her horn, honking at me repeatedly as two of the other long-clawed harpies leaned out of their respective windows to cuss me out. “Fucking stupid bitch, move your r******* car out of the way!” Things were rapidly escalating. I called Jeremy. He needed to come out immediately. I was over having to wait in front of his place where shitty people seemed to congregate en masse. I wasn’t getting paid to deal with this bullshit. The Escalade doors opened and a crumpled laundry bag of a woman got out, quickly approaching my car. She stood beside my window shouting at me, tapping on my window, signaling for me to roll down my window as she rattled off expletives. There’s nothing wrong with being a fucking bitch. There’s nothing wrong with plastic surgery. But sometimes, it all compounds. At that point, adrenaline was coursing through my body. I was in too deep. I’d dug in my heels, ratcheting up the tension, and she popped, slapping my car in a fit of rage. I froze in disbelief, only to see Jeremy approaching my car, confusion on his face. I pulled forward, losing the dangerous game of chicken I’d enabled, and the Escalade honked again, apparently discontent with the five feet of clearance they had. I slid up even further, and they finally pulled out, every single taloned hand flipping me off as they sped away.

“What was that all about?” Jeremy asked innocently.

“They slapped my car.” I said, still shaking, “Can we get out of here?”

“Why don’t you just come in for a minute? Your friends are here.” Jeremy said in a sing-songy voice.

“There’s nowhere to park.”

“Just park up there,” Jeremy said, pointing past the outdoor sitting area to a few spots up the block.

“How long are we going to be here?” I asked, pained by the idea of hanging out after getting assaulted

I didn’t want to linger any longer than I had to. I was tired. I knew he would want at least three hours at the hotel, and I didn’t want to stay out so late that I ruined my sleep cycle.

“We’re on our way out now. Just come in for a few minutes and say ‘hello’. I promise we’ll leave right after.”

I looked at him, fatigue already weighing down my face. A promise from Jeremy was not a promise at all. It was a gesture of good will that might turn to bad will due to his inconsistencies. But I knew that if I didn’t go in with him, he would take his time and get distracted.

“Fine.”

I parked down the block and walked up to where Jeremy, his business partner and his partner’s young girlfriend were dining. The restaurant was empty. The waiters, dressed in white jackets, black ties, and black slacks were performing their closing duties: wheeling in the outdoor heaters; stacking chairs as inconspicuously as possible; and sweeping the sidewalk. I could tell we were the reason they were working late, and I immediately felt uncomfortable keeping them out past the end of their shifts. I’ve waited tables and dealt with the bullshit of inconsiderate customers overstaying their welcome, tipping inadequately while I get paid less than minimum wage. I reluctantly took a seat at the table as Jeremy’s rat-faced business partner grinned at me, his eyes hard as steel yet slightly glazed over with the stupor of alcohol.

“Did you have to pick her up from the schoolyard?” he asked Jeremy, laughing at his own joke.

“You know, she’s older than yours, David.” Jeremy replied with a wink.

“I can’t believe that! How old are you, sweetheart?” David asked me.

“Twenty-eight.” I replied flatly.

His girlfriend gasped, slapping his leg in disbelief.

“No way! I thought you were eighteen!” She exclaimed.

“She’s lying to us. There’s no way. I’m gonna need to see some ID, sweetheart.” David said, leaning toward me as if he was serious.

David looked at me, expecting a laugh. I pushed my bottom lip up against my top lip in the thin fake smile I see White people make when they’re smiling out of politeness. It was the best I could muster.

“She doesn’t think I’m funny.” David said, nudging his girlfriend as he spoke to Jeremy.

“David--” Jeremy said, chidingly.

“What? She doesn’t think I’m funny. It’s okay, I’m a big boy.” He said smiling, as he turned to me, “It’s okay if you don’t think I’m funny. I won’t be hurt.”

A waiter came by with a pitcher of water in hand.

“Is there anything I can get for you, ma’am?” He asked me.

“Oh no, I’m fine.” I replied, not wanting to delay our departure any longer.

“You could get me a cappuccino!” Jeremy said, cutting in.