Last night I learned about Hallway Sex from Byron, a handsome young orphan from the South. It’s when you pass your Other in the hallway of your apartment and she says “F-you” and you say “F-you” back, and that’s the sum of your intimacy for the week.
I picked him up at The Liquid Zoo, five drinks down and two months deep into the Hallway Sex Diet, on his way back to Culver City, where his Other had summoned him with an enraged texting finger.
She left me alone in the house for two days while she did her thing. I mean what did she expect? She knows how tempted I am to be an alcoholic.
When he first came to LA, before he became a model for skateboard wear, when he was still doing scut work, he lived around the corner on Sherman Way, and the Zoo was his hangout. It was the one place in LA he felt comfortable with himself. Three years on, after a bit of success and a move to the West side, the bouncer and bartender in Van Nuys remained his true friends. They remembered his name and didn’t mind if he crept up on them out of the blue. Nobody stood in judgment of him in Van Nuys.
When she got pregnant, he gave up on the modeling and the vague gestures toward acting and enrolled in a welding certification program. They were going to get married. He wanted to do right by God, and there was reliable money in it.
And then one day, after consulting with her mother, who has three kids by three different men who don’t support them, she went off and got herself an abortion while I was taking my welding exam and things really fell off.
I’m trying to not have hard feeling about it, but it hurts, man. I won’t lie. It hurts. I’ve been on this earth for 29 years, minus two years in jail, but this is worse. Some days I’m half a Xanax from putting a shotgun in my mouth.
Byron’s unanswered phone vibrated angrily all the way to Culver. He exited the car apologizing for oversharing.
Only Fiction can provide the true conversation which then unfolded in the apartment, but Life can put another passenger in the Uber, heading back to Sherman Oaks.
Donna was five years younger than Byron and by her own admission stupidly happy to be moving in with her boyfriend and out of her parent’s house. But for college, she’d lived her whole life in the Valley. She attended Buckley. All her friends went to Buckley, Curtis or Harvard-Westlake. Her Los Angeles was a small pond. Everyone Donna knew, knew everyone else Donna might know.
We talked about the musical re-make of Valley Girl, which she knew all about it without ever having seen the original or having any familiarity with the soundtrack. She was rather more excited about the re-make of Clueless, which came out the year she was born but which every girl she knew watched during middle school sleepovers. Who couldn’t relate to Cher Horowitz?
She didn’t like that her childhood home was now on a Waze street, thick with cars seeking a shortcut in the morning commute. Nor did she approve of second floors on ranch houses.
But those were trivial matters. Mostly Donna was really, really ready to move in with her boyfriend, who she thought she met at a party, but soon realized wasn’t the case. When they exchanged numbers they discovered they were already in each other’s contact list…from middle school. Every phone either of them had ever owned simply sucked up the old numbers.
It would have been creepy in any other context, but in our case felt like destiny. Like we had been circling each other for twenty years and these, like, electronic cherubs were steering us.
In the movie version, Donna and Byron would have crossed paths and this blog post would have a very different ending. In millennial Los Angeles, orphans remain orphans and children of the upper middle class have their destiny forged by middle school.