Take the bait

Recently I had resolved to become a better manager of my own life. During an intense period professionally, I decided in a manic state one Tuesday evening (naturally) to put more effort into the total architecture of the human existence I fortunately had been gifted. Halfway through the present decade it seemed a number of things my parents’ generation had taken for granted began to disappear, and I wanted to grab them tightly before they slipped through my fingers forever.

That following Wednesday I awoke anew, refreshed, early and prepared to get to work on time only to find that my back left tire had been punctured by a nail and deflated entirely overnight. When I bought the truck six months before I opted out of purchasing a spare; it cost a sum of money, and I foolishly thought saving a few hundred was, in a sense, worth it. The embarrassment of loading my new truck onto a tow bed punctured the masculine facade I cultivated, though like all things it was obvious it was a man-made construction. The only thing I needed to rebuild it was the conviction to get it done. In a deeper sense, wasn’t that resolve, ultimately, a core tenet of the masculine? I told myself yes.

After the mechanic told me it would be several hours–they were backed up with oil changes, which I did not need, the truck being new–and I left it to be fixed, something that I could’ve done myself in thirty minutes had I only marked a specific box on the purchase paperwork.

I called a car to take me home and salvage what I could of my work day–the tire derailed my plans, yet I maintained a sense of responsibility to myself and knew a man could change his life any day, at any moment of the day; Thursday was just as good as Wednesday, anyway.

The driver was around my age, early thirties, and seemed eager to talk. I asked how his day was in an effort to appear polite and to try to become a more open person–that was the answer to it all, wasn’t it? Opening yourself to others allowed them to open to you.

“Better than yesterday,” he said. 

He left the sentence hanging on the branch, waiting to be plucked. I maintained a sense of curiosity and probed him what made yesterday so tough.

“Lots of drunk passengers last night.The NCAA championship game was on, so streets were crazy and drunk passengers are a nightmare to handle. All the bars had the game on, and the crowds needed to get home somehow. The ones too scared to drive, that is.”

My alma mater had won that game–I watched from my living room, pacing, ripping my nails with my teeth as they clinched the win in the final minute after trailing the entirety of the game. It goes to show it’s never over until it is. I explained to the driver that I went to the school and watched the game, too, though I had enough foresight to get drunk, alone, at my house. In college I had gone to several basketball games and even worked concessions as part of a requirement for being on the crew team. The basketball team was bad during my tenure. They won back to back championships a few years before I enrolled, and the school became a very popular in-state option. My ambitions were greater, but it didn’t work out for me; at that time in my life I put little effort into things, and still they worked out for me in the end. (That remains true–I am lucky.)

“Friend of a friend is on the UCLA team. During last year’s tournament they held a game in LA. My friend got me a seat on the floor of the stadium, told me they went for over a million during March Madness. I thought, Once in a lifetime thing. I have to go. I dressed my best and sat three rows from the court. Crazy close, right? Behind me sat this woman. Mid50s. In a fur coat that looked real and gold jewelry around her neck, down her forearms, that was definitely real. She starts talking to me, asks who I am. She hasn’t seen me at a game before, right? I sat in front of her seat, she should know. Told her one of the players was a friend and he had an open seat for this game. We keep chatting all friendly, then she turns to me and invites me to her house for an after party, just the two of us. Loaded question–way she said it, she was for sure trying to pick me up. I sit there a second and think it over. One: I’m married and love my wife. Two: I need to see the house of a woman who has million dollar floor seats to college basketball games. I got her number and her address. Not to go see her–I’m serious about my wife–but to find out where she lives. Turns out, a mansion in the Palisades. During the fires earlier this year, I reached out to her, see how she was doing. They lost the house. Think about that–I had a single shot to see it, now it’s gone.”

He maintained a steady composure at the wheel and spoke casually. He’d glance up in the rearview now and again to make eye contact, and I got the sense the history poured out of him. The feelings within needed catharsis and an outlet. In short, this wasn’t something he could tell his wife. He had done nothing wrong–surely I had committed worse sins while married–but certain heterosexual partnerships had tighter boundaries around what could be defined as a transgression. Truthfully the driver had appeared very straight and narrow. When I come into contact with men I’d describe as possessive–cars, watches, companies, children, wives–I revert to the standard conservatism I was raised in. Relieved, then, I was to find our conversation began with sports. Though we found rapport came easy, I decided I would not tell him I was gay.

I did, however, tell him that I used to work at a small, family-owned company with seven employees, including the founder and her husband. They lived near the inland fire, beside Altadena. When early days it seemed unclear how far the fire would extend, I texted her to see if they were safe. Yes, thankfully, but her son lost his house in the Palisades. Everyone survived. Oh to be born into wealth, my age, and a homeowner. I knew they would be fine; the husband had owned a wire company he sold to a Mexican businessman and reaped millions while shifting jobs there. I managed warehouse space and had to help coordinate the dissolution of his company. The driver continued:

“It’s tough making it for yourself. When I first moved to America I lived in New York. I moved with one of my best friends. He liked to go to bars and clubs, and I tagged along with him. Only thing is, they were always full of cougars. Women in their forties, fifties, sixties. Divorced or widowed. ‘Why,’ I’d ask him, ‘are we always around old women? Don’t you like them young? Don’t you want kids?’ Still we went to them. These women! One night he meets this woman in her sixties. Widowed. She takes him to a hotel room. They talk. They meet again: they talk. They meet a third time. She tells him this:

“Leave Thursday evenings for me. Get a girlfriend, I don’t care. Marry her, I don’t care. Always on Thursday nights, though, you spend with me and do what I want, whatever I want, and do what I say, whatever I say. For this, I will buy you a restaurant.’

“My friend dreamed of owning his own Greek restaurant, and here it was. She buys him a lease, puts it in his name, pays the rent on time monthly. She buys him a van to pick up food deliveries, also in his name. In this time, he meets a girl, falls in love, marries her. She stays home with the three kids. Doesn’t work. And still to this day on Thursdays he sees this woman. The wife doesn’t care–they own their house now. Now we’re thirty, he has the restaurant, the wife, the kids. He has money to send home to his parents, and is well off himself in New York. He tells me:

“Noui, find an older woman. Give her sugar, and you’ll get your store. All they want, really, is to talk. They’re lonely and don’t need the money.’

“But I couldn’t do it. I want to feel I earned what I got. I worked for what I got. But also: look at me, driving cars in Los Angeles. And he’s the success.”

I always resented the people I knew in college whose parents paid their rent, still, at thirty. I had to work, made minimum wage. The only reason I survived my twenties in LA was being in a relationship. Double the income. And still it required patience.

I have a friend–I told this to the driver–who works on movie sets in Atlanta. He works green sanitation–trash and recycling–but for the big blockbusters. Couple years back, he was working for one of those directors whose wife produces his movies. My friend’s the climbing type; always grabs emails, messages incessantly, forces his way into things. It’s aggravating, but he hustles to get his way, and somehow succeeds at it with pure willpower. That’s how I ought to be. I’m trying. Anyway, year after that shoot, he gets a call from that producer. Says she has a new movie, needs him on set. Being a hustler, he says, yes, and, then pitches his script. She bites. They start having regular phone calls, talking through his script, and still the movie shoot she mentioned initially has not started. Then after a few calls, things turn sexual. She starts telling him she’ll do what he wants–produce his movie–if he goes down on her, makes her orgasm like her husband can’t. Gets real vulgar. Real raunchy and explicit. He freaks out, gets cold feet, stops answering the calls. Emails stop. He no longer hears from her, never works that set. Few years later, ‘22, ‘23, he’s talking to his boss for all these movies. 

“Say?” he asks him, “Whatever happened to that producer wanted to make my movie? She ghosted me. Whole thing was weird.”

Turns out he never spoke with the producer. She was the target of a Hollywood con artist. Boss tells him that she was impersonated by this freak in Asia who sexually harrassed young people trying to break into the industry. Got them to write her checks, then she walked off with the money. Grand scheme of things, my friend got away fine. Didn’t lose any money, just had some lousy phone sex. I told all this to the driver. You never know who you can trust. Everyone has an agenda.

Many people are desperate, I went on, and readily accept any reality that affirms them, supports them, makes them feel good. That’s why so many people get away with catfishing. The lonely are an easy mark–show them any attention, give them a sense of belonging, and you can get anyone to do anything. Especially now. Everyone and everything is so isolated. There seem to be very few ways to connect with another person on an honest level. 

Myself I was often stuck in my own head, unable to consider anything outside of me. I needed the constant reminder that you can only expect to receive what you give. To put it another way–unless you were a good friend to someone, why should anyone be one to you? Somewhere along the way the virtue of self-sacrifice had been lost to American society, provided it ever really existed in the first place. Greed and selfishness ruled the day. I washed my back, and God help you should yours become dirty.

The driver adjusted his posture, placed his left hand at the top of the wheel.

“I tried once to start my own luxury personal driving business. For European travelers. They’d contact me, and I’d pick them up from the airport, drive them all around LA for the duration of their trip. It was supposed to be a helpful tool for them. Ease and convenience. Then, I started getting these requests. Put down a deposit for a reservation here. Pay for tickets there. They’d tell me they would reimburse me, but how am I to know it's true? So easily they could fleece me, use the tickets, eat the food, never pay me back. All because I’m trying to win their business. I ended up quitting the idea altogether. It became too risky–difficult to tell who was genuine from who was trying to take advantage. Now I just drive for the apps full time.”

Our route took us from Glendale to the canyon where I lived, straight down Los Feliz Boulevard. Past Griffith Park and the mansions lining the road. Past the film institute. Down into Hollywood cruising Franklin Avenue. The hills on one side. City on the other. Unlike elsewhere, the wealth disparity in Los Angeles was massive and obvious–across even a street you could see how both sides lived.

Do you ever run into trouble, I asked him, driving for the apps?

“Like I said, only with the drunks. Just a week or so ago I had three girls, drunk, hop into the back seat. They’re laughing, start bragging to me. They say it’s easy for a girl to drink for free. They pick a club or bar, walk in, and find the saddest looking guy sitting alone. Chat him up. Flirt. Order drinks and food on his tab. If they’re lucky and he’s a real chump, he’ll offer to pay for them. They keep him drinking. Sweet talk him. The second he gets up to piss, they bail on him without paying. Leave him with the check. Every time these girls go out, they find a mark. Never pay for drinks. Then I drive them home. They don’t tip. Figures. I’d probably be a guy they run out on.”

He pulled his car up to the curb outside my building. I thanked him for the ride, but wanted to say more. Our conversation flowed freely, and we had a wonderful rapport. There was no doubt we’d strike up a friendship if we met any other way. I wanted to tell him this, to make tangible the formless connection our words made as they tangled together in the air between us. How much two strangers can have in common, and how much is so between our soul and every other soul, if only we were forced to slow down and recognize it. Walking up to my door, my phone pushed me to send the driver a tip. I opted for fifty percent. I knew he’d appreciate it. I had the money and wanted to properly thank him. My parents always raised me to acknowledge the workers of the world, and to tip them well, especially after a job well done. Sometimes it’s the bulk of their income.