It's 2 am, and I'm at a 24-hour cocktail lounge in a town I've never heard of. I found this dive after driving an hour or so outside LA towards the desert. The bar is stocked with the cliches of a small town, with young people who planned to party this Friday night and eventually found themselves here.
The guy trippin' on pharma-candy instantly becomes my friend, greeting me warmly as if we've known each other since gradeschool. I send him out on a scavenger hunt for chronic, and he obeys with boyscout-like diligence. Alone, at last, at peace in my booth, I write.
Whispers in small groups ensue. Knitting circles magically appear. I'm the fucking new guy. And I've disturbed their play.
Who am I?
Why am I?
They throw back glances like a jury with a verdict. And I secretly savor the celebrity. The bartender offers up a conversation. We chat, going through the motions, strictly following the script.
I'm out here for fresh perspectives. To be somewhere new. To swim at the dark, deep end of the pond. To journey towards insights and maybe stumble upon inspiration. And maybe find someone with the same ticket.
If history is anything to go by, I'll leave here with nothing more than I came with. But the chance is enough to keep me here for a few hours.
