Vanguard: A Miscellany

Not So Perfect

In my mind's eye, I saw my jaw drop to the floor, my heart sinking in like fashion.  But I knew outwardly, nothing gave the disappointment away.  

Up until then the night had been perfect.  Even with the initial delays, it was perfect.  It provided just that little bit of conflict, that sense that the fates were somehow standing in the way that built up the anticipation.  I was supposed to pick him up at 5:45.  I had given myself a decent amount of time to get from the west side to WeHo, but still with rush hour traffic, I was going to be late.  I was antsy and starting to get pissed.  I just don't get fucking L.A. traffic.  Why can't people all just drive at a normal pace?!  Fuck!

My phone chimed in a text at the height of my frustration: "Sorry can we make 6.  Still stuck in class."

And then the evening just settled into a groove.  I arrived at his home at 6:15.  He rushed out to greet me in jeans and a hoodie with his chest completely exposed, even hotter than I remembered from our first meeting five days before.  "Come into the bedroom," he yelled.  I walked in on him buttoning up a white button up shirt.  He completed the look with dark jeans, dress shoes and a sport coat--definitely hotter than I remembered.  We lingered at his home for a while.  He'd only been there for a few months and was proud of the changes he'd made.  He gave me a tour of the bedrooms and the redone kitchen and the backyard with recently installed jacuzzi before we decided it was time to go.

The drive to Silverlake was, despite the still molasses slow traffic, pleasant, and it had everything to do with the company.  Even after spending four hours together at the previous Saturday night's party, it turned out we still had a lot to talk about, leaving not a minute of uncomfortable silence on the drive.

We arrived at my friend's art gallery show at around 8:00.  My friend was showcasing a collection of paintings that were contemporary interpretations of ancient deities from various pantheons from Greek to Nordic to Native American.  And we both enjoyed it.  We would take turns guessing which god or goddess we thought was depicted, together studying the choice of color, the mood, the expressions before offering our guess.  I found him to be thoughtful and incisive, and I was even more impressed by his ability to jump into any conversation with the other guests and the artist himself.  We said our goodbyes at about 8:45, and the artist whispered in my ear, "Your date is adorable.  Keep him."

I took him to Kitchen 24 for dinner.  It was ideal--hip and trendy with gourmet takes on old American standards for an affordable price; I didn't want to go too extravagant on a first date.  We were seated at a small table for two, but forced to lean into each other because the restaurant does get a little loud.  And over a turkey burger and a monte cristo sandwich both of which we split and shared, we talked about family and friends and coming out.  And how funny it was to think that we had just met a few days before at a random Hollywood party.

We were at the valet by 10:00, late for me, especially with work in the morning.  After the art show and the dinner, I thought it had been a good first date.  

"Hey it's only 10:00.  Do you want to go to O Bar for a drink?"

Apparently, he wanted to hang out some more, and I was not going to turn that down.  Besides, it was O Bar.  On a Thursday.  More than a handful of acquaintances stopped by to say hello, and a few of them without solicitation whispered into my ear that from a distance, it looked as though the date was going well.  And it was...until he said "I just don't understand dating in this country."  

In Europe, people were either one night stands or exclusively dating.  There isn't the American version of dating with its litany of iterations--"seeing each other", friends with benefits, dating, exclusively dating, in a relationship, in an open relationship, etc.  So he wasn't sure what was going on.  Not what was going on with me, but what was going on with this other guy who, for the last few months, he'd been sort of "seeing."

That's when my jaw dropped and my heart sank.

Bail Out

I'm nervous.  And I'm having second thoughts.

Over the last few months, my practice has been busy.  Besides the schedule crammed with patients for management of chronic issues like diabetes and heart disease, there are the typical "need to be seen today" patients complaining of upper respiratory symptoms or burning on urination.  And besides those patients there has been a spike in a growing number of same day patients complaining of anxiety.

I've never seen it this bad.  In the eight or so years of clinical practice, I've never seen it this bad.  Sure there have always been those who suffer from depression or anxiety, but this is insane.  I saw a fifty two year old woman for a follow up from her hospitalization.  She had been doing so well and had been so proud of herself in the last year and a half, but she fell off the wagon.  She'd been on a one and a half week binge, resulting in a hospitalization for delerium tremens, alcohol withdrawal.  "I needed it.  I needed to drink again.  I didn't know what else to do.  Things are bad.  I'm not happy, and it's gotten worse.  My husband lost his job, and I don't know what to do."

And it's not uncommon.  One of my sweet little old 80+ women, generally very happy and very generous with end of visit hugs broke down in tears as she told of how her daughter and son-in-law have had to move in with her, into the small apartment in which she lives or rather has been forced to live since her home burned down in the November fires.  Or the couple who cried as they told me that they both wanted complete physical exams to make sure they were healthy because soon they would have no more health insurance.  I've been doling out Paxil and Prozac and Pristiq like crazy.  

So in the context of all this, yes I'm nervous.  Nervous about having depleted my savings.  Nervous about whether or not I'm getting in over my head with a mortgage payment.  

I Resolve, Pt. 2

Wow, it's only March.  Two and a half months since I posted my resolutions, the first time I actually have them in print or was determined enough to have them in print.  And how have I done?  Let's review.

Well, number one the finances.  Oh the finances.  I haven't been all that bad, but the G-Star sale kind of threw the clothing budget out the window--jeans, corduroy pants, a couple of hoodies, t-shirts and a trench coat.  Yeah that's blown that budget out of the water.  However, I haven't been spending as much money going out either, but that's not entirely my doing.  Friends have also gone on a strict budget, so those evenings at Katsuya or Wilshire are much fewer and further between.

Two.  Not focusing a lot of time and attention on men with no long term potential.  Wow!  Did I really think that was going to happen?  Let me see: 23 year old with an already sort of boyfriend.  That sounds like a lot of potential right?  Not so much.

The third resolution was charitable work.  Aside from helping friends with various issues, I've volunteered to assist Tree People, an organization that "inspires people to take responsibility for the urban forest" by planting trees in the local parks and mountain forests.  I've done that...once.

And finally I had resolved to save up enough money for a down payment on a home or get into one by the end of the year.  That was lofty!  With my budgetary cutbacks (yes that was tongue in cheek), with my 401K tanking by 40% or greater, with L.A. relatively resistant to the massive drops in home prices that the rest of the nation's home buyers seems to be enjoying, lofty is probably a good description, particularly since as of Friday 3/6/09, I've been in escrow for a loft that I fell in love with since I first laid eyes on it.

Perfect

It was perfect.  The kind of perfect that is found only in movies, only when it's scripted.

It was so perfect that it even took place in the Hollywood Hills, in the perfectly and impeccably designed home of a successful Hollywood screenwriter.  It was so perfect that it took place on February 14, on Valentine's Day, the kind of story one can see telling friends and family over a candlelit dinner recounting the circumstances of their meeting, finishing each other's sentences in their personal tale of "meant to be".

So there I was, on Valentine's Day, another fete to celebrate Single's Awareness Day only this party was specifically for single gay men.  I was there somewhat reluctantly; I'm never good at flirtation, and this was specifically designed for flirtation.  I brought Dutch along for support, as a crutch, as a guarantee that I wouldn't be left alone with no one to talk to.  But it was fine.  We walked in relatively early and straightaway started talking to various guests.

It was one of those Hollywood parties littered with industry heavyweights and their hangers on.  Cute little waiters flitted about the room with martinis in hand.  The unlucky ones were actually serving them.  The lucky ones were drinking them, because tonight, as guests, they were actors! 

I panned the room from the sitting room to the front door.  From the specially designed leather swivel chairs to the Italian tufted sofa to the contemporary but obviously extravagant runner of the foyer, just as the door opened.

That's when he walked in.  I saw the heads turn as he stood caught in a column of light from the recessed light in the entry.  He was stunning with perfectly coiffed hair and perfect skin stretched taught over perfect cheekbones dusted with the perfect amount of stubble.  And he had taste--a white ribbed sweater underneath a distressed white leather motorcycle jacket.  It was more than obvious that he also had a perfect body.

I was mesmerized.  I don't even remember what happened or how much time had passed between that first glance and the introductory handshake.  It may have been seconds; it may have been an hour.  All I know is I saw him enter and then I was shaking his cold hand.  I don't even remember if he'd introduced himself or if someone else had facilitated the introduction.  I was dizzy.  

"I'm Rick.  I'm sorry.  My hands are cold."

"I'm Van," I said as he placed his hand on my cheek to prove just how cold his hands were.  I was just getting over the fact that not only did he have the most hypnotizing smile, but also the most endearing European accent.  

Over the next four hours, we talked.  By the stairwell we talked about his life in Europe.  On the outside deck, we talked about his pursuit of acting, and I pointed out some of the actors and writers present that he might want to talk to.  In the den, as we sat side by side, we talked about music and European politics and travel.  At times, others interrupted, trying to engage him in conversation or just to tell him "You're so adorable."  I politely excused myself, conscious of monopolizing his time, and not wanting him to feel as though I was crowding him.  And yet, every time within minutes, he would find me to continue our conversation.

I admit, I felt uncomfortable and self-conscious, and I did what I am good at--self-sabotage: "With all these industry types here, I just want to make sure you don't feel like you're wasting all your time with me.  You should network a little."

But he didn't allow it.  His response was sweet, "I'm not wasting my time; I WANT to talk to you.  I don't want to make it in this business by kissing the asses of people I'm not interested in.  I want to talk to you."

At the end of the night, he took my phone.  He dialed his number and called himself: "There, you have my number and I have yours."

We left the party together and gave me a hug at my car.  "Call me if you want to hang out."

It was perfect, the perfect meeting.  Perfect like a Hollywood script.

Only the perfect Hollywood script is never this easy.  The perfect Hollywood script is never free of conflict, never free of problems.  And in that sense the rest of the story is Hollywood perfect.