My Only Friend La Croix - Chapter 10

I nearly close my eyes every time I take a sip of My Only Friend La Croix. I would like to think My Only Friend La Croix is not kissing others, but I know he is, for My Only Friend La Croix has friends all over. I would like to think that I am the only one who sees his existence for what it is.

My Only Friend La Croix could not help but sit and admire the new world around him. Bursting with light and color, as a baby born into this world, My Only Friend La Croix was blinded by shock upon realizing his existence. Metal and water to meet the man and his earth, gone as quickly as he can drink twelve ounces. Yet My Only Friend La Croix may only regard a momentary spectacle, small bits at a time; one consciousness sewn together by the thread of life anew facilitated by the crack tab of his head. I held My Only Friend La Croix high, tipped him back so he could savor the view, and continued about my painting.

“Kevin,” Dee started to ask, “do you ever get lonely?”

I watched her standing at the sink as she washed the dishes. She was about to leave for the airport and we had spent the last few hours lamenting her upcoming departure.

I wondered for a moment and felt my eyes water.

“I mean, when I was in Arizona living alone I felt really lonely, does that ever happen to you?” she continued.

I thought about it some more, reflecting that I was excited to get my space back to my lonesome after our three weeks together. I was eager to get into my painting rhythm. Still, I couldn’t lie—I was often lonely.

“Yes, sometimes,” I told her. I went in to hold her waist.

Much of the season was spent in reflection. Dee was in Los Angeles and I was dissatisfied with my job at the startup. I got caught up in a rhythm with a level of speed I didn’t understand; I wrote, worked, went to the gym and climbed, ate dinner, and painted before bed. I biked about four miles every day—up the hill, to and from work, up the hill, to and from the gym. The momentum of it all kept me going—never stop, add some inertia for the hill, put on a layer of oil so that you may lay the next. I found it odd that I was not “burned out” due to this consistent activity, but I could tell that my mind wanted a respite so that I might process these actions with more intention.

I did grow tired of the attachment to software developing from my work at the startup. The founders’ attention to the company was warranted given their stake, but I was not so incentivized to justify deep involvement. My frustration grew to the point that I had planned an exit, so I interviewed at the solar company from which I had previously received an offer, and they were excited to have me join them.

I was uncertain about my future with Dee. She was off in Los Angeles and I was in San Francisco, and I think my internal conflicts with my career fueled my angst in the relationship. Certainly with the remote job that I attained, I could follow her to Los Angeles. I was convinced that I would move. Still, something felt off—I did not make progress in my art and I neglected my muse, a goddamn can of seltzer. Surely that would improve when I gained time back from no longer programming about trucking logistics.

I started the new job as soon as it started to get warmer in San Francisco. The heat in the city was nothing like the heat I knew in Phoenix. The Arizona heat was much more pleasant, since you can expect it and know to stay hydrated. Always unrelenting, however—at least in San Francisco, one can walk about the street in the mid-morning.

I slid on my Birkenstocks and traipsed across Sanchez to pick up a croissant. I called it my reward for starting the new job. I was still struggling to rise early with my alarm, and I snoozed excessively on this morning, but I was content with how things progressed. More than content, I thought—everyone was exceedingly nice and they seemed to prioritize employee happiness.

I wrote code from Casa Sanchez. Within a week, I lost the routine around going to Spro in the morning to write. My home had been influenced by work, and the line became blurry; I settled into a new form of work, able to use my off-time for errands around the house, but it was much harder to crack open my journal or sit at the easel and not be polluted by the after-image of a screen in my vicinity. Still, I was learning and felt good to contribute to a new team where my inputs were highly valued. The company had a mission to which I fully subscribed. I guess I could only ask for such changes.

I reached out to My Only Friend La Croix before interrupting myself—I did not choose to crack into his metallic crown as it was getting quite late and I already drank tea for the evening. Thus I laid in bed on the tails of my slumber with an emptying mind, not accomplishing anything nor garnering the initiative to suddenly rise from my sheets, ready to seize the moment and write or paint—no, I chose to wallow actively, musing over My Only Friend La Croix’s appropriate presence in my lonely life. It is feeling less and less of a coincidence that La Croix has goaded me into this Devoid Silicon Valley of Genuine Social Connection, and he has forced his way into my psyche, torturing my sense of well-being. So pervasive A Can of Seltzer has become in my life. My First Only Friend La Croix is but a tangerine memory, and now My Only Friends La Croix have become innumerable, crushed and recycled, accumulating daily. Quantity is a meaningless metric for friendships, and true satisfaction is indicated by the level of comfort felt in sharing space. My Only Friend La Croix and I had that nailed.

I arrived in Los Angeles on a Wednesday. It was tough to get an Uber or a Lyft from LAX, so Dee called one for me—I encountered her waiting outside for me, standing above the three steps before the glass door at her apartment. We held each other for a long time then made our way upstairs. We made love then took a shower and had a long conversation under the water, catching up on all that was best said in person. She did not want to go to sleep since her roommate would arrive late with her boyfriend, and she wanted to catch them before the night was up. We caught them near midnight, exchanged some stories, then everyone went off to bed.

Thursday I worked all day. In the evening Dee and I walked down toward Santa Monica and made a note of all of the fancy houses and cars along the way. We both agreed that some of the architecture of the new houses was too monolithic and the slate gray homes had a spectacular lack of character. The streets, however, were beautiful, lined with palm trees which leaned high over the halfway point of the road. Dee and I walked slowly under this light canopy until we reached a post office, which was the entrance to a food hall hidden in a courtyard with half a dozen restaurants. Dee had me choose.

We woke up early on Saturday to find our chariot for the day, a blue Toyota Corolla. There were scratches everywhere as with every rental car I’ve ever seen, so I took a few shots of the car as Dee found the keys under the wipers. We piled in and she was suspect of my driving at first, which might have been fair considering I hadn’t driven after moving to San Francisco. Still, I find myself a good driver, and I wasn’t even whipping the Corolla like my old S2000.

I drove us way up the hills north of Point Dume toward a café that Dee had picked called The Saloon. It was in a vineyard compound which neither of us realized—there were attendants and a valet. I asked if I could just park myself, and they let me put our Corolla next to a black Range Rover. The valet claimed that the first twenty minutes were free. I read the sign that said $20 by the hour.

We decided to run in and out and get our coffee to go. There was a fountain-adorned pond in the courtyard. The café itself was small but seemed well-equipped with its La Marzocco espresso machine. We split a blueberry coffee crumble cake and two drinks, all for a steal at $24. Dee took a bite of the cake and she made a cute noise and looked at me to share her excitement. I always found second-hand satisfaction from her enjoyment.

We drove down to the beach and held each other with our feet in the ocean. We were sloshed by a big wave at the same time as we turned back and saw some seagulls digging in our bags, so I chased them down with wet pants—one of them was carrying a pb&j, but it was too heavy for vertical flight, so I ran him down and he dropped it and rose. I chased off another opportunist and Dee and I salvaged the remainder of our snacks. We split the untouched pb&j and drove home, cleaned up, then went out a dimly-lit Thai place for dinner. I met more of Dee’s friends and we talked about art and Los Angeles.

“Oh, you’re going to love the Getty,” they all said.

I did love the Getty. It felt even more magical to have gone with Dee and we spent time out in the courtyard taking photos and admiring the view together. We spent a short time actually looking at the art, then we drove over to the Getty Villa for the evening. We caught golden hour and sat out by the fountain and I etched the imagery of Dee and her wonderful dark features against the soft sun and pink flowers into my memory.