Bum Heart

In New York I made out with a boy named Marty with a health condition that he described as a “bum heart.”

“I gotta bum heart!” he said matter of factly as he rapped his knuckles against his chest. His accent reminded me of someone from the TV show Jersey Shore, which normally would have been a turn-off but I had had one too many Dirty Shirlies that night and my inhibitions were all askew.

“What exactly do you mean?”

“My heart, it just ain’t right” he barely elaborated before taking a long drag off his cigarette. I watched two sinewy strands of smoke curl up into his nostrils and thought: maybe I have a similar problem. I thought about sharing this new revelation with Marty but then realized I had no medical evidence to support this claim; only a slew of spiteful exes.

Throughout the night Marty kept wandering outside for cigarette breaks and each time I would follow him, even though I didn’t smoke. It was fall and the air was so cold I could feel my fragile California blood congealing beneath my thin hoodie but somehow it was still better than being inside the bar.

“Come home with me,” he whispered, as he wrapped me in his knee-length peacoat.

The heat felt good but I ignored the question. It wasn't really a question at all. It was a demand, and I don't take well to those. I took one last glance at the tall trees that lined the parking lot. They looked tired, as if they were ready to shed the last of their lemon-colored leaves but couldn't quite muster the strength.

The pop music pulsating from inside the bar seemed palpable in my drunken state and I noticed that a dewy, mustard-colored light was spilling out from the doorway and onto our touching feet. Marty then started kissing me. I waited until he was finished to give him back his peacoat and head toward the glow.

Corporate Interviews, 10-Storey Buildings and Other Places I Don't Belong

The trouble began before I even set foot inside the building. I circled the strip lined with massive glass-windowed office buildings unable to figure out where I was supposed to park. Downtown Los Angeles was an area I avoided like Black Friday for this particular reason. Even if you did know where you were going, it was almost impossible to figure out where to park. After passing my destination for the third time--the largest building on the block--I eventually spotted the bleakly labeled parking structure behind it.

Carefully I parked my beat up Civic amidst a sea of ebony BMW's and customized Mercedes.' The thought that if I nailed this interview I could potentially be driving one of these expensive vehicles danced across my mind as I made my way toward the elevator. It disappeared, however, when I immediately began having trouble figuring out how to operate the lift. In my defense, this wasn't just your average elevator. Instead of the two regular up and down buttons, what looked like a mini-pad jutted out from the space between the two doors. Its touch screen displayed the various options. I pressed L3, which I assumed stood for where I was headed, and the machine directed me to elevator “E.” How fancy! I thought. In addition to talking phones and automatic soap dispensers, our modern world of technology now offered what I'd now mentally dubbed a “smart elevator.” This agency had impressed me before I'd even entered the building.

The doors to the smart elevator opened preemptively on level two to reveal something even more shocking than the machine's intelligence. Dozens of college-aged girls, dressed in various combinations of high heel and pencil skirt took the elevator cabin by storm. The small space immediately filled with a nauseating perfume smell as we glided to the next level. When the doors finally re-opened, a woman who could have easily been one Hugh's Playmates by night (Office Barbie by day) was the first to step out. I assumed she was guiding the tour.

“This,” announced Office Bunny. “Is the human resources level! If you do end up landing a job here at BAM you will first interview with Ben Plower, our recruiter. He will then start you in the mailroom and you can work your way up from there.” Strange, I thought. Ben Plower was the man I was supposed to see for my interview. I touched my uncurled hair and glanced down at my loose-fitting capris. I felt suddenly self-conscious and underdressed in comparison to the other girls. Nevertheless I shouldered past them, also feeling sort of lucky to have bypassed this cheesy introductory on my path to potential employment.

The reception area was sparse in an almost futuristic way that I've come to realize is typical of Hollywood talent agencies. It contained little more than a metal desk/podium in the center of a giant room with a panoramic view of Los Angeles. Behind the desk sat three attractive, young business people, two of whom were engaged in rapid phone conversations. I made my way over to the one who wasn't on the phone, a 20-something-year-old woman who gazed up at me with deep blue, deer-like eyes and said, “Can I help you?”

“Uh yeah, I'm here to see Ben Plowers?”

“Is this an interview?”

“Yeah! Yup...I guess so.” I realized that my three answers mirrored the three levels of certainty that I was feeling at that moment. On one level I was confident I could excel at whatever kind of office work this job entailed (pun intended). That was the YEAH! Part. The “I guess so” part was not quite so optimistic. This was the part of me that was still having trouble accepting the fact that anyone from this company would even want to interview me. This part of me still thought of today less as an interview and more as a casual opportunity for the HR person to unblinkingly eliminate me from the pool of serious candidates. The “yup” part, you could say, was the bridge that connected these two spectrums. Yup, you may still be young and green, but you can accomplish this!

Deer Eyes then handed me a packet of papers to fill out and phoned Ben to tell him I was here. After I was done initialing a thousand clauses that I hadn't bothered to read, I handed the packet back to Deer Eyes who directed me to Ben's office.

I guess this is where I am supposed give a brief description of Ben but, honestly, I can't. Try as I may, I just cannot seem to think of a single adjective that set Ben apart from any other middle-aged white male. Like so many other men his age, he wore black-rimmed glasses and was neither particularly attractive or particularly unattractive. His mannerisms followed suit. He wasn't unfriendly but he didn't exactly put me at ease, either. He was simply “businesslike.”

I tried to be “businesslike” also but looking back I am assuming that my attempts were futile. First of all, I could not for the life of me figure out how to sit comfortably on the gray couch positioned across from his desk for such “interview” occasions. I alternated between awkwardly leaning forward and slouching deep into the cushions, which were just a little too far back. Eventually, I settled on leaning forward with my hands clasped between my knees as if to say, 'Okay, I'm ready.'

Going off his cue, I told him “about myself.” Which is to say, I told him what was relevant. I told him I had recently graduated from film school and taken an internship at Blumhouse. I was also careful to include how I had been essentially promoted from intern to executive assistant after my supervisor was fired. This was the little nugget that usually impressed people but Mr. Plower remained unmoved. He listened to my monologue stone-faced and then glanced back at my resume. He then spent the rest of the time lecturing me on the harsh nature of the mailroom. He explained how I would have to take a disheartening amount of bullshit from some of the biggest a-holes in Hollywood on an almost minutely basis without letting anything bother me, etc. etc. etc. All of this conveyed at length, of course, using more erudite terminology.

Afterward, he handed me his business card and told me to contact him if I was still interested. I assured him that I was and threw pursed lips he responded that he would look forward to hearing from me. His eyes, however, seemed to be saying something entirely different. I scanned them for a brief moment, trying to discern their message but it quickly became clear that they were being held hostage by the rest of Mr. Plower's body. What is it? I coaxed, as I squeezed Ben's hand for a bit longer than he expected. But it wasn't until I was leaving that their message became clear. “Get out!” They squeaked over the symphony of typing. “Get out while you still can!” As I exited the reception area the squeaking persisted, this time barely audible over the chorus of voices answering different phones with identical greetings: “Get out before you turn into me!”

Black Kelp

Holding her by the neck he fingers her for the first time – a shiny new bass to accompany his shiny new band. His interest in playing music only manifested itself within the past month but he figures that if he can operate a professional grade camera, he can manipulate this sonorous machine as well. Already the room is growing indundated with young people, girls dressed as boys and vice versa, recent graduates from an assortment of liberal colleges. In his mind he is amazed at how all these people can fit in such a tiny room, let alone in his honor. He tries to play it cool. Turning his back to the crowd, he maneuvers the set list with his toes and waits for his cue from Frontman. While he waits he notices a backdrop of obscure books labeled “Anarchist Library.” Where the Wild Things Are peaks out from between Tim Leary's biography and A Beginner's Guide to Holistic Health.

Frontman, who is already a few beers deep, sloshes out some sappy speech about the formation of this new band, careful to include the fact that he's the one who started it, “conceptualized” it, whatever. He doesn't care about all the fancy jargon, so long as everyone realizes who here is the mastermind. When introducing Bass for the first time, he pays no attention to the sweat beads swiftly springing from his bandmates forehead. Due to shoddy stage presence, Frontman is unable to catch Bass's eye so instead he yells “let 'er rip!” and the two men play a song that Bass had written that morning for a girl who hasn't shown up.

By the third song, Frontman happily heaves and gyrates to the sound of his own voice, belting out lyrics as if playing to an adoring stadium rather than a local bookshop. He leers the microphone into a wall of people who dissipate rather than welcome his sweaty body. Sensing their hostility, he straightens up and steals a swig of beer from some dude in plaid. He and Bass now face opposite directions but are beginning to look more and more alike. With every stroke, their fair cheeks become more cherried, similarly strawberry hair growing darker and darker with sweat. By song five they are two twins sprung from the same Irish-American womb. However, as Frontman becomes more comfortable, drunk off of his own melody, Bass only becomes more stiff, a part of him wondering why he'd even agreed to play at all. His mouth simpers at a girl who is dancing in the front row but his eyes frown at no one in particular.

After the show, Frontman offers Bass a cigarette which he gladly accepts. He nods here and there to indifferent fans but lets Frontman do most of the talking. Someone makes a snide comment about his “cancer stick” and he tells them to kindly fuck off. Bodies whir behind a quilt of smoke as he leans against the wooden door frame. Once again, he recoils into himself. Fear, a polluted wave of insecurity, tries mightily to swallow him. The crowd, the music, the girl who never showed up could never scare him as much as he scares himself. Diving into the depths of his mind he finds a protective mountain of black kelp twisted around a skeleton that longs only to fit in with the other dead people.

Black Friday

The escalator lowers me deeper into the heart of the beast: Forever 21 the day after thanksgiving. Most people refer to this day as a holiday of it’s own right, Black Friday, a day of alleged deals and discounts, when for some reason everyone feels compelled to hoist their bloated post-thanksgiving bodies into the driver’s seat and gun it to the nearest shopping center. Why? The reason is beyond me. Yet today I am one of the crowd.

People, like herds of cattle, mill about the store, chewing the cud of the corporations who lured them there in the first place. Suddenly even the most outlandish of merchandise become must-have items. A woman in her late forties dangles a pair of plush green elf slippers from her fingers in deep contemplation. Teenage boys previously happy to defer the chore of clothing shopping to the nearest woman buckle under the weight of the jackets and flannel shirts draped from both sides of their skinny arms. I watch two young women quarrel over the last pair of Fry-inspired cowgirl boots that stand between them in solidarity like two guard dogs refusing to choose sides, no doubt mourning the recent departure of their fellow mass-produced shelf-mates.

Thanksgiving has barely passed in yet Christmas tunes are sped up, overlaid with upbeat techno tracks and blared throughout the store, serving the dual purpose of whipping the shoppers into a frenzy and providing the allusion of the "Christmas spirit." However, there is nothing generous or Christmas-y in the eyes of the women lined up en mass for the fitting rooms. They are not yet ready to play Santa Claus. After all, they've had such a trying last few weeks. Surely that 10-page report they managed to churn out in between extended bouts of Facebook "browsing" is grounds for splurging on those red, sequin undies. So perfect for the holidays, and you-know-who. After all, they're marked down a whole $2 from their original price of $10 for a fabric that costs almost nothing.

I wonder how long it will take all this stuff to end up at Goodwill, or, more likely, splayed atop the burgeoning heaps of a landfill. No doubt these novelty scarves will go through the same process that almost every cheap textile goes through: born at the fingertips of some exhausted, underpaid foreign laborer and then shipped overseas to bask in the frenetic but short-lived affection of some thoughtless consumer before being relegated to the cool depths of their closet. So, what better way to celebrate the holidays than by perpetuating this vicious cycle? I think, as I hand over my credit card. Happy, happy holidays :)

Larissa

I still have all her shit – her toothbrush, a Grow-Your-Own-Mushrooms kit that she actually purchased at Whole Foods and the hair-wrap that a wandering street hippie gave her in Indonesia which she promptly cut off upon returning to the States. It still has little pieces of her tangerine hair sticking out of it in all directions. I am repulsed.

Our breakup was surprisingly normal compared to our relationship, a mutual agreement that things “just weren’t working out,” though I can’t help feel that somehow they could have, if she had wanted them to. But she never asked for anyone’s permission, especially not mine. She was the type to steal an entire steak sandwich right off your plate if she decided that she liked yours better. It didn’t matter that everyone around us was staring, judging. And when she bit down on that greasy sirloin it made you want to personally lick off the mustard bouncing on the side of her cheek.

She was the life of the party, without even showing up. Her erratic antics and drunken faux-pauxs provided the people who knew her with hours of entertainment from gossiping alone. Someone always needed to be filled-in on the latest. However, one could not help but suspect that the silences in between the uproarious laughter were filled with the fledgling desire of wishing they had the nerve be as ridiculous as she was.

She was a fabulous liar—like Holden Caulfield, on cocaine. She could hold you in bug-eyed rapture listening to one of her tales you knew was neither fact nor fiction, but the carefully woven lovechild of both. Truths so beautifully enshrined in falsities that you wouldn’t even recognize them if you bumped into them on the street. And the scary thing was, you didn’t care.

And when she left, she was gone, leaving only the things that you wanted least from the relationship such as the germ-infested toothbrush, the unmanned, putrid fungus operation that was beginning to take over the entire kitchen and the abominable hair-wrap with her goddamn hair STILL clinging onto it...

...and as I carefully pinch each of these items into a giant trash bag, along with the three vodka bottles I have gone through this week, I am careful to include the regret I harbor from no longer being with her. I feel I am finally ridding myself of the Vulcan death grip she held on my life, body, spirit and mind. I feel almost as though I could levitate knowing that as soon as that garbage truck’s incessant wailing permeates my sleep at some ungodly hour and dumps all this trash into it’s massive caboose via mechanical forklift, as soon as it’s front wheels grind against the asphalt and away from my apartment, as soon as its tail lights blend into the endless flow of traffic and eventually disappear – So. Will. Larissa.

Sound Snake

I swear to god this beat is following me. Sometimes I hear it playing quietly out of a boom box at the back of a run-down restaurent, sometimes it comes wafting out of the ice-cream truck that lingers up and down my street. It’s a simple beat, but also very distinct. Something you might hear at a Salsa club: maracas and drums.

It fades in and out but mostly it follows me, snaking its way through the crowded sidewalks, inhabiting the headphones of the man next to me on the Subte. I like to think of it as Argentinian, like some quintessential national song that everyone here listens to, but somewhere along the way my brainwaves have twisted it into something less positive – the sound of a timer, ticking away my time here.

Three months is an awkward amount of time for a stay in a foreign country. It’s too long to be a vacation in yet too short to qualify as a move. So what is this sixth grade girlfriend of a trip? Is that not what all travel is, just a tease? I cringe to think of how the bond I have formed with this city will be severed when I board that plane, how the relationships I've cultivated will be put on hold.

I find myself channeling a lot of this tension into spending. I frequent the local crafts fairs, buying knick-knacks almost compulsively. But it’s not the matte gourd or the alpaca sweater that I want so much as Buenos Aires itself. It makes me nervous to know that, no matter what, I can’t pack away this country in my suitcase. The fruit stands, the cafes, the bookstores, the pulsating rhythm that follows me throughout the day and keeps this city alive until all hours of the night is all too intangible to bring home with me so instead I buy up one piece here and one piece there in a desperate attempt to recreate the whole.

In yet it's killing me. When I think of all the beautiful places I’ve traveled, all the places I'd like to live, it makes so anxious I want to explode. At least then I could leave a few parts here to enjoy Buenos Aires, and the rest could be flown back to the States.

Teatime in Buenos Aires

Living in Buenos Aires has been a culture shock in a number of ways but one thing that has particularly captured my attention, AND my frustration, is the difference in cafe culture here versus the United States. For example, the term "to go" or in Spanish "para alla" has little or no significance to the baristas here in Buenos Aires. For Portenos, coffee is something that is meant to enjoyed sitting down, in the company of one's friends and preferably over an abundance of sparkling conversation. While on our better days we Americans will enjoy our coffee in a similar, more social manner, overall we tend to treat our coffee the way we treat our prozac, as a necessity that ought to be ingested at all costs, in any way possible.

I find that this reflects much more than an inability on my part to obtain a much needed iced coffee "for the road," but rather a difference in our cultures altogether. To put it simply, Portenos know how to "chill" a lot better than we Americans do and it is not uncommon for a Porteno to spend hours drinking mate, eating lunch, or simply chatting it up with a friend at the grocery store. To them, it is not time that is of the essence but rather one's relations with the world around them. This can often be frustrating when, say, you are at the back of the line at the bank with an urgent issue and the person at the front of the line is giving the teller a highly animated play-by-play description of their niece's last soccer game. However, it is definitely something to consider. In accordance with the Buddhists teachings, one might even might even call it a more mindful way of living. For, rather than focusing solely on the future and all of its various mundane tasks, Portenos are able to wholly submerse themselves in the ephemeral beauty of the present, whether it be over mate, coffee or simply a chance meeting of a friend.