I haven’t listened to Tom Waits since I moved to LA over four years ago. When I lived in New York, I did all the time, but LA’s sunny skies and palm trees don’t go well with his often grim tone. I was going through my Spotify at work, it was a slow Tuesday afternoon. I bartend at a rooftop bar in Beverly Hills, and was looking for a good soundtrack to fit the day. I was also texting with my Ok Cupid date, Adam. I told him I put him in my phone as 'Adam OK Cupid,' and he said he put me in his phone as 'Maria Comedian.' I thought about the evolution of my name in his phone. After a couple dates it will become 'Maria Shehata,' and then if all goes well, 'Maria Girlfriend,' and probably eventually, 'Maria Don’t Answer.'
A man came and sat at my bar and ordered a bottle of white wine. I offered for him to try it first, he said: “Does it have alcohol?” “Yes, usually.” “Then just pour.”
I obliged.
“This city is full of wankers. No offense.” He was somewhere into his third glass now. I put my phone down. “None taken.” I said. “I’ve been married for 38 years. Three daughters. Same mother!” “Oh fantastic.” I wasn’t sure why I was supposed to be impressed by this. “Everyone here thinks they’re something, but they’re all just dick shit. No offense.” “None taken.” I said, a little confused by his stance.“I’m 63 years old! I should be wasting away in Dorset. But my wife, you know my wife of 38 years…” “I recall, yes.” “She likes it here. Something about the weather. Oh the WEATHER."
Finally, now, I understood his strong stance against this city. When you have someone pulling so hard in one direction, you’re free to pull as hard back in the other.
“LA.” He spat. “What is LA? What is this shit?” Here he kind of shrugged his hands around in the air, to say the sunshine and 88 degree, late October weather, was a disgrace. His face in a frown, like his daughter had just come down the stairs in a mini skirt to go to church. “The ENTERTAINMENT INDUSTRY.”
Here he practically vomited the words.
“Pour me more wine, please.” His glass was half full, but I knew he wasn’t seeing it that way, so I just poured.“And I’m sorry, but this system just doesn’t work.” We’ve moved on to America as a whole now. “Take you, for instance. You have a degree from a university? Drowning in student loans? And here you are, working at a BAR. No offense.” “None taken.” Some taken. I didn’t want to mention my goals beyond bartending, considering the way he just spewed the words “entertainment industry”.
“Everyone here thinks the rest of the world gives a shit about them, but no one does. NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOU…No offense.” This guy was ripping the curtain off LA. It’s worked so hard at its image of glitz, glamour, and the sweet life, and here he was saying, “NO! You’re all SHIT!” Like the person at a magic show too smart for magic. “Oh COME ON! No one’s really buying this huballoo, are they?”
I’ve seen a few spats over this city. The LA/World divide is a deep one. A couple once sat at my bar, the man was from the Bronx, and his wife was from Sweden. She, to put it simply, hated LA. We happened into a conversation about how great NYC is. The longer we went on about cabs, fall weather, and the energy of the city, the more the husband fumed, until finally he stood up for LA. He, of course, brought up the weather. She retaliated harder for New York. I sensed this wasn’t their first fight on the matter.
“Well then, by all means, MOVE BACK!” With that, he pushed his stool away, and left her sitting there to consider it. I topped up her wine.
I wondered about Adam Ok Cupid, a die hard fan of LA. If one day I’d become 'Maria Don’t Answer' over a variance in degrees. We’d both find out the weather can make you happy or miserable, no matter where you are.
I went to check on my guy at the bar, but he was already flagging me down to pour the rest of his bottle. He was tired. I saw it in his eyes, and his scraggly hair. He stared just past me, lost in his thoughts of river towns. The charm of this city doesn’t work on everyone. Eternal sunshine for the right state of mind.
He asked for the bill and paid. I looked at my Spotify. As the man staggered away, I had Waits serenade him out. “And all over the world, strangers talk only about the weather. All over the world, it’s the same, it’s the same.”
Maria Shehata is a comedian and writer for 'My Super Overactive Imagination' and lives in Los Angeles, you can visit her site HERE!
Pictured: The Lost Weekend, Maria Shehata
