“Oh, God, if I’m anything by a clinical name, I’m a kind of paranoiac in reverse. I suspect people of plotting to make me happy.”
Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters
J.D. Salinger
(1919 – 2010)
When the email arrived, explaining the evening’s events, I considered deleting it. But I didn’t. Yes, part of me wanted to hide away, doing my best rendition of a recluse. But another part of me – a much quieter part – wanted to go. That part of me thought the night sounded like fun. And fun has been sorely lacking. So I didn’t delete the email. In fact, a day after receiving it I decided to purchase a ticket online. I knew that if I didn’t get an advance ticket, I would definitely crawl under a rock that night, pretending no one was home. I also knew that if I did get an advance ticket, I would definitely go to the danged event. I’m too frugal to spend money on something and not attend. I didn’t just meet me. So I committed. Ticket for one, please.
By the time the appointed day arrived, I realized some company would be nice. (Duh.) So I texted my pals Betro and Baker Jen. Turned out Betro was indeed planning to attend, but had to arrive early to take care of some set-up duties. Baker Jen was on the fence. She was sort of planning her own recluse performance and besides, there would be traffic and it was a school night. I told her I’d wait for her after work, and that if she made it to my house I’d be more than happy to drive us both. She was this close to bailing, I could tell, but she didn’t. By the time she made it to the house, we were both ready to hunker down in the car for the cross-town journey. We had no idea what we were getting ourselves into.
Los Angeles traffic simply is. Anyone who battles it with an air of non-acceptance will always lose. (Road rage, anyone?) Those of us who acknowledge it and move on, well, do move on. I’ve often wished I had a Powerful Mach 5, so that I could push a steering wheel button and launch myself high overhead, avoiding the traffic and snarls of L.A. roads, but my ’66 Volvo doesn’t begin to resemble Speed Racer’s hoopty, so there you go. On that evening, Baker Jen and I accepted the situation and slowly rolled into the dark L.A. night.
As we followed red tail lights, Baker Jen shared some of her life with me. I replied in kind. Neither of us was in a socializing mode, but we knew enough to at least try to lift our own spirits. (Friends, that job will always fall squarely on our own shoulders, no matter how much we may wish for others to fill the role of Joy Dealers. End of sermon.) So there in the car, my friend and I talked about life, exactly as it is, not as we wish it to be. We talked about our feelings and disappointments. We talked about stress and our fears of what harm that dastardly villain might be doing. Baker Jen told me about a Wanda Sykes routine in which she jokes about her infant daughter’s inability to just be content. Baker Jen paraphrased by saying, “If you can’t handle Baby, life is gonna kick your ass!” From that point on, our running joke of the night became I can’t handle Baby! Life is kicking my ass! Before we knew it, we were both laughing. Honestly.
When we arrived at the Bootleg Theater, we didn’t know what to expect. All we’d been told was that the evening was a benefit for Rock Camp. We had absolutely no idea what Ladies Arm Wrestling was about (besides the obvious assumptions). We did not know there would be such theater involved. We didn’t know how magnificent the production would be. We didn’t anticipate the supportive crowd (mostly male, by the way). We didn’t know the bar would be selling 22-ounce beers.
As we looked around, we spotted more and more of our Rock Camp friends. It didn’t take long for those smiling faces to induce smiles from us. We laughed loudly. We hugged heartily. Memories of traffic were fading. Life’s stress stepped aside long enough for us to enjoy the night.
By the time the championship match was being decided, I was hoarse from screaming for my fave competitor of the night, “Less Slim More Shady.” When she won the competition, I cheered with abandon. We all did.
Baker Jen and I were tired out from all the activity (and from the beer), so we said our goodbyes and moseyed back down the street to the car and made our way home. As we moved easily down the late-night, traffic-free highway, Baker Jen said that she thought the Universe had conspired to get her out that night. She said she thought maybe she was meant to venture out – outside herself – for a while. I thought about her words and said I agreed. It seemed the Universe did us both a good turn in sending us out into the world.
When I said goodbye to Baker Jen, she tossed out one more “I can’t handle Baby!” before climbing into her car and driving away. I headed into the house to wash my face and get ready for bed.
A few minutes later, as I was closing my eyes and starting to drift off, I realized I was smiling. I had had such a fun night. I was so glad I’d committed and gotten a ticket. I quietly laughed a bit, thinking of the Wanda Sykes bit. I can handle Baby, I thought. I really can. Then peaceful sleep washed over me, like a soft, blue blanket, filled with warm stars.