My Only Friend La Croix - Chapter 13

I was in a desperate battle to fall asleep. The whole day felt like an uphill battle; I went to exercise at the climbing gym in the Tenderloin, mostly hoping to make new friends and see the group of women that I met on the previous Monday, but the gym was empty and I was climbing poorly.

I made it home, took a shower, then went to bed. It was too early and I was trying to force it. My body was exhausted and my knees were stiff and sore from stomping around the concrete down Van Ness. The day might as well have started with a punch in the gut.

Somehow the entire day was elevated while I sat on the precipice of sleep, waiting at its gates, about to enter into the comfort of the transition from one bad day into a simply better, fresher one, when I heard the crack-fizz of My Only Friend La Croix from the other room, like a man on guard in the forest, suddenly brought to attention by the snap of a twig in the distance. I shifted a bit more upright in my bed, recognizing the time. It was still early. I gave a silent shout to My Only Friend La Croix, “La Croix!” out into my dark bedroom. I reveled in the fact that The Rat was about to share the conscious, dedicated space with His Only Friend La Croix, taking steps on the path of creation and simultaneous enjoyment of a late-night beverage. I knew that The Rat and My Only Friend La Croix would rest in his room while he wrote by candlelight for the night, and I smiled at the thought of the three of us; that La Croix could at least use his talents once for the night.

I split my time in the spring bussing to work in the Financial District, working remotely from our fog apartment, walking around the Tenderloin to get to the local climbing gym, and motorcycling around the Bay with Ethan. The microclimate that I occupied in this second year of my time in San Francisco was far more dreary than Mission Dolores. The days began and ended with fog, and we were surrounded by bus lines on both Eddy and Geary. There was a gate across from Jefferson Square which would project a loud buzzer toward our apartment balcony perpetually throughout the night, so nothing was ever quiet.

In the early evening I sat in the bath with all of the lights off and immersed myself in the rich darkness which I seldom cherished. A Key Lime La Croix was sitting on the edge of the tub next to me, his dark silhouette barely perceptible, left in a spot where I had to slowly trace my fingers along the smooth material of the bath to identify his aluminum skin. Eventually my eyes adjusted and I could see his body. I drew more hot into the bath, sunk my chest, then took a sip of My Only Friend La Croix. The silence and darkness were foreign, and it felt much necessary after a full day on a loud motorcycle, traversing through the hills around San Jose to Lick Observatory then down Mines Road to Livermore. The six or seven hours on my Honda had left echoes of the buzzing sensation of an engine at 4000 rpm imprinted on my crotch and skull and I wanted to soak in the scenery from the day, etching it into my brain via negativa, not cramming any other sensations into my psyche. I allowe the memories to set in my head like a layer of sedimentary rock, undisturbed by other stimulus.

It seemed that I had been kicking up too much sand, thrashing around and creating whirlpools. I was no longer able to remember all of the times that I saw My Only Friend La Croix out and about. Perhaps spreading myself too thin, adding too much to my life, giving nothing time to crystallize. I let this moment with My Only Key Lime Friend La Croix settle and I blessed all of the moments which came before it. I sighed out all the air in my body and felt the bubbles tickle my palette and I thought about the lavender flowers on the narrow road up to the east of Mount Diablo and the two other motorcyclists we met at the burger joint after seeing them at Lick Observatory and then about the two men smoking weed on the narrow road, stopped and out of their car which dipped its tires so low as they pulled out to leave, going back on the road we came in, the suspension of the Volkswagen letting the fourth and final tire sag as it made it over the lip to the asphalt and they were on the road and quickly disappeared into the distance around the bend. I thought about the orange poppies lining the fence about the road and how the yellow flowers on San Antonio Valley Road blurred into the grass, blending indiscriminately with the gray-green, just like a stroke of yellow over a green undercoat in oil. I would not be able to paint the scene from memory if I tried, I thought, but then again I have made many great paintings from an attempt—a take on such a flash of inspiration.

I thought about my own capabilities on the bike and how I felt more comfortable yet it still somewhat terrified me. I thought about the abstract sensation of a parallel life which I have felt in mostly near-death experiences, that feeling that I did in fact die from doing that, from being spun out over the side of the road or crashed into by the close-encounter SUV of the climbing gear which failed me, letting me hit the deck and break all of my bones and die, die from a universe where I slipped on a scramble, and how this existence in which I continue to live is illusory and I am an impostor, not truly alive but contained within a shadow of reality where I narrowly escaped the thing which should have (or perhaps did) kill me.

I emptied the bath with my toe and stood over the La Croix as I propped my hand against the wall so I could lean over to turn on the far-away light. I finished My Only Friend long ago while in thought and now I towered over him, naked, fully illuminated and coated in the thick sound of the bathroom fan.

The next day I flirted with a woman that I had seen once before at the climbing gym. It was the second time that I had seen her and she maintained her cheerful smile and attention that I felt radiate from her on our first interaction. She and I were alone in the upstairs section of the gym, spare for a lone man training on the hangboard. She and I chatted about her project V7 and I watched her on each attempt, the muscles of her back and biceps bulging even as she came to sit and rest. I tried some climbs and sat even closer to her. She told me that she’s a dancer, and adding in climbing has added in enough of the muscle-building that she can take. I told her how shocked I was that she doesn’t work out.

I wished I had a La Croix to sip and calm my nerves. My Only Friend was not around and I would have to do this for myself. She brushed her project as I tried mine and eventually I was able to ask her for her number.

I made my exit back toward the fog apartment. I stopped into the BevMo for a re-up of La Croix. The cashier checked me out with my two cases. I set Mure Pepino stacked over Coconut.

“How’s your Monday going so far?” she asked me.  

“Pretty solid so far. Just got done at the gym, about to go enjoy some time with La Croix,” I said. “How about you?”

“Good! It’s going by fast.”

“Nice, love a quick shift. Time goes by faster.”

“Oh yeah, and on a Monday?” she said, smirking. I thought she was cute, with nice tanned skin and well-done makeup.

“Love a great start to the week,” I said.

“Definitely. Do you want a receipt?”

“I’m good, thanks. Enjoy your week,” I said.

“Thanks, you too. Enjoy your La Croix.”

I stepped out onto dreary Van Ness. Tan clouds poked out from behind city hall, subliminal in contrast with the gray sky. I was knuckle-dragging the two cases in each hand, stomping downhill in my Vans and pink hoodie, singing along to myself to Bad Bunny. I watched a woman peering into a hole in the glass in the decrepit Persian restaurant as if it were the eye of god, then watched a man in a Packers hoodie run his hand along the bumps they installed outside of the Tesla dealership to dissuade the homeless from sleeping outside in front of the display.

I crested over Gough and looked out south beyond Eddy from the north side of the street and admired the view of the hill in the early dusk, sparse lights illuminating the distant hill, stadium lights of Jefferson Square practically level with me over the low soccer field. Sutro Tower off to the West. I thought about how happy I was now that the 20-tent-strong camp had vacated and I could now enjoy this sliver of a solid view on my walk home as I carry La Croix in each hand. I realized that the people who used to live here in tents must have also enjoyed this view just the same, perhaps daily, and I felt for them. I was still glad for my view but it made it more sentimental and somber and again I thought how fortunate I was to live in this twisted place.

I stomped up our stairs, gritty peeling white paint crumbling underfoot. I sat with The Rat on our patio and we counted the Cruise cars go by, one per minute, all with their own cheeky name printed on the bumper, like Gnocchi or Fettuccini or Poodle or Goldendoodle or whatever.

Later I thought about texting the girl from the climbing gym. I sent her something: “Nice climbing with you, let’s hit the gym soon,” very lukewarm, very middling. I had no response and I felt the pull of my device and I could not help but submit. Lonely and weak and I let my eyes glaze over as I browsed the endless stream of reasonably attractive women, all at a fingertip’s reach, calling to me, available enough that I may fantasize of the life we might so live together, happily ever after, going on dates to wine bars or camping and skinny-dipping in an alpine lake in eastern California. This one has long legs and likes dogs and smiling in the park but she may be too tall for me. Another with whom I have no sense of compatibility but find her attractive.

I send likes. I go check out my own profile after running a dozen miniature gamuts in self-selection, feeding the algorithm information about my choices and preferences. Is there some arcane reason that I haven’t received any matches in the last week? I can’t think of a reason. I pray to the Hinge algorithm, deprived of dopamine, blue light tears in my 2AM eyes. I ruminate over my own depravity. I investigate my profile, scrutinizing my details without the aim of finding any real flaws nor instigating self-reflection. I admire the photo of myself driving a boat, bicep flexing to the camera as I make a thumbs-up, considering for a moment if I have body dysmorphia over the fact that I don’t have bigger arms. No, surely unnecessary; they’re as big as my head and women have said that my arms are their favorite quality of mine. I remain uncertain where that left me.

It seemed that the damn apps had made me meek, or maybe it was the culture in the city; I felt petrified from approaching women and that my advances left me nowhere. I was happy that I was trying, but my loose attitude which used to govern my interactions with strangers had evaporated and I took the attitude that I ought to minimize: don’t impose on strangers with my eye contact, keep to yourself, don’t look the wrong way. I knew it illogical; so long as you are respectful and mild about it, everyone loves to be desired or to talk about themselves. And there I was, afraid to impose.

I took a more direct approach as the spring evolved, trying out speed dating events. I went to one in a yoga studio just north of Pacific Heights. I had no idea what to expect from this Friday night attempt at an event called “Tantric Speed Date.” I hadn’t done much research and the one that I wanted to go to was sold out, so I gave it a shot.

We stood in our circle, the women forming the inner circle and the men forming the outer. On this iteration, my partner stood behind me after I confirmed my consent to a stretch of my chest. The facilitator instructed the men to put our arms to the side, and the women were to grasp our wrists as we plunged our chests forward.

She instructed us to take a step forward to engage deeper in the stretch. She told us to begin to visualize our desire, whatever that may be, whether a person, or a feeling, or a state of mind. At first I desired something amorphous, not substantial enough to form even a memory. She told us to really visualize.

I’m in the dry, shrubby forest north of the Mogollon Rim. I’m seated on a rock, alone. The air is dry and crisp, but it’s not hot, like sticking your face into a hair dryer as it is in Phoenix. I look out to the pinkish sunset and embrace my solitude. I feel the cold rock under the seat of my jeans and I feel the smooth metallic can in my right hand. I sip the Coconut La Croix and feel peace in this moment.

“Gently come back into your own space and help the men from their stretch,” the facilitator said. The woman behind me released my wrists, and I turn to meet her gaze. She had a neutral expression on her face and I couldn’t help but stifle a smirk.

Here I was at a dating event, albeit a unique one, and all I could think of is My Only Friend La Croix, I recognized. Of all the possibilities, I’m coming back to sparkling water, I thought.

“I offer you the chance to thank your partner and I invite you to share about your desire, if you feel willing,” the facilitator said. My partner and I thanked each other.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to share about my visions,” I began. No way to explain to this stranger about My Only Friend La Croix, although the scene was innocuous enough.

“Men, please close your eyes, women reaching for a bead,” the facilitator said. I let my eyes shut and didn’t quite know what to do with the rest of my body. I held my left wrist with my right hand and I felt the hardwood floor beneath my toes, flexing my core to stand a bit straighter. I didn’t know how much I cared to receive a bead from this woman.

“Women, place a hand on your partner’s heart,” the facilitator began. My partner for this three-minute circuit touched my chest over my sweater. Some women had a more gentle touch at this step than others. “Place your bead in his pouch, real or imagined, and send this man a blessing,” she said. I tried to imagine what it feels like to receive a blessing. I stood, uncertain, imagining a point as fine as a crystal of salt shining against a space as black as the back of my eyelids, listlessly floating in space. It moved slowly from the space in front of me into the cavity of my chest. Perhaps now I was blessed.

“Women, take a step to the left, silently greeting your partner with your eyes,” said the facilitator. I cast open my eyes to each of the women that stood before me and performed these tiny, three-minute rituals, each different from the last. I danced to silent music with one, expressed a series of gratitudes with another. One woman made movements which I was to mirror. An Australian woman with silvery hair rattled off things she was willing to let go of while I stood there, nodding my approval. I received a neck massage, then gave a massage, both with a focus on complimenting what is going well, followed by a word of request of change.

On each pass, I stood there and wonder about the chance of receiving a bead. I could have left early; I knew that most of these women were ten years older than me, and I believed what I really desired was to be at home, with La Croix. Perhaps my desire for companionship got the better of me, so I remained. Plus, the experience was strange enough to warrant a fair shake.

We made about one and a third rotations of the two circles, then the facilitator closed the exercise, said a few words, sealed our intentions, and henceforth. I made my way to the restroom, said gentle goodbyes, then went into the lobby of the yoga studio. Outside was Kimberley, seated on the cushion by the window. She was scrolling her phone but looked up to meet my eye contact and I walked up to her.

“Great to meet you,” I said, nearly on my way out.

“Great to meet you,” she replied. “Definitely let me set you up with my friend. She’s also an artist and she does a lot of yoga—super cool, you’d like her. Let me give her your number. Do you mind if I take your photo and send it to her?” I said that I did not mind and I looked down at her phone, gave a thumbs-up, then she brought her phone back down low and peered at it through her glasses. “Great. Want to see her? She’s cute, isn’t she?” said Kimberley.

“Yes, definitely,” I said. I couldn’t really tell, honestly. She had sunglasses on in the photo and I only got a quick look. I supposed that at least she was closer to my age and that it wasn’t any more or less random than this speed dating event. Perhaps the whole thing could be worth it off of one connection alone.

I said goodbye to Kimberley and wished her a nice evening before jumping out onto Union Street. The three hour event left me somewhat exhausted, although I was feeling the same euphoria that comes after a long yoga or workout session. I was hungry and felt the need to capture some of my thoughts after the event, so I wandered in search of dinner. My watch showed 8:45 and I pointed myself west. A man and a woman walked out onto the empty block, caressing each other as they exited the swanky restaurant on the corner. We made eye contact as I walked beside them. The man was getting handsy and he went in to kiss her on the walk. I smirked picking up my pace as we acknowledged each other as the few out on the street. “Have a good night,” I said to them as I brushed past them.

I ate a burger and fries and began the trek straight up the hill on Octavia to get to Lafayette Park. I immediately regretted eating something heavy but I was feeling too light to care. Standard for San Francisco to stomp regardless of the circumstances. I crested over and felt the cold of the grass and looked up at the eucalyptus. I thought about kicking off my shoes and feeling the grass against my feet as the facilitator had recommended but I was in walking mode so I did not stop and I cut all the way through the park and then down Octavia toward Jefferson Square.

I felt my phone buzz and had Jordan on the line.

“How did the speed dating go, playa?” he asked.

“It was actually really fun, but not really my crowd. I was certainly the youngest one there—actually, multiple people told me I looked too young to be there.”

“What? No way,” said Jordan.

“Yeah, I think there was one girl maybe in her twenties, but the next youngest was probably like 35.”

“Wow, dude,” he said. “Well, tell you what, we’re going out in Haight and you should meet us there. I think Niki said that she’s got a young single lady friend coming out.”

“I’m not totally sure I’m making it out tonight, though,” I said. “I’m just about to get home so I’ll let you know.”

“Word. Well hey keep me posted and I’ll see you soon.”

“Sounds good. Bye.”