la la land

the troublemaker
” Wanna know the secret to winning? Creative sportsmanship. In other words, one has to rig the game.”
- from Once Upon A Time in Mexico


Sometimes I think I’m falling for this guy, you see, except for the fact that his idea of a date is going to McDonalds.’

No shit, Mickey D’s. Snotty-nosed brats and their obese mothers, senior citizens drinking endless cups of coffee, homeless people pulling half-eaten Fillets of Fish right out of the trash. Every Thursday afternoon I sit across from him in the same goddamn booth at the same fucking McDonalds’ on Santa Monica Blvd. and watch him eat two Big Macs and an order of fries while I pick at what the corporate entities refer to as a salad, and he grins at me, the big lug. I’m not a vegetarian, I’m not even virtuous when it comes to junk food, it’s just that I can’t stand that shit. But still, I sit with him for two hours and watch him eat it. And he always grins at me like he thinks it’s so goddamn funny. I guess it is, the things we’ll do when desire is involved.

The instructor of our screenwriting class calls him “the troublemaker,” because he spends the majority of his time making snide comments about everything. Whenever we read one of his excerpts it’s always as horribly offensive as possible. But our instructor thinks he has a good action sense. His storyboarding is strong and looks like it would make a cool movie. But a hard R which of course is death to marketing these days, when everyone wants to bring their kids to the movies or send their kids to the movies because they can’t be bothered to interact with them.

I write really weird stuff which he says is not commercially viable but it doesn’t matter because anyone can make a movie these days. Though he tries to temper my love for the oblique with practical advice, but I don’t think it’s helping. The troublemaker tells me I should work for him.

“Fuck you, I want to make my own movies.”

“Fine, but I’ve already got a camera and Final Cut Pro. If you could be bothered to be nice to me and type my script I’d let you use them. My light meter too.”

“Get one of your sisters to be your lackey, there’s like, what, 20 people in your family, right?”

“I love it when you resort to racial slurs.”

“How is that a racial slur?”

We’re sharing one of those sundaes: fake vanilla soft serve and plastic hot fudge, but it tastes delicious nonetheless. White trash ice cream. When I chide him for his fast food preferences he begins to discourse on culinary preferences over cultural divides.

Why do you think Mexicans and black people eat at Hometown Buffet so much? It’s because we really like white people food. But it’s not like we can admit to it.

“Because you’re inferring that just because I’m Mexican I must have a family larger than most elevators can hold.”

“I said nothing of the sort. You’re the one who said you had fifteen siblings.”

“And I said that when we were all doing shooters at Pepe’s after film night. Two words: unreliable narrator.”

We use the same spoon. I know this is unsafe as I’m likely to catch a cold or something equally vile, but there’s that shameful secret flush involved in touching something the object of desire has also touched. With his mouth. And tongue. He knows this, I think, because there’s a mischievous smirk stretching his lips, making me squirm. He’s got a round face and curly hair. Unruly hair that looks like it’s never known a brush. I remove the trucker hat he generally wears every time because I like those umber curls. We practice romantic gestures while pretending we’re doing something else instead.

“Don’t take all the hot fudge,” he bitches at me, so I let him have a taste before eating the rest of the bite. Our legs are touching because we both have long legs and the booths at McDonalds’ are notoriously small. You would think that the corporate entity largely responsible for nationwide obesity would adjust their floor plans accordingly.

“So how many siblings do you have?” I ask.

“Nine,” he says, and continues to eat fries, dunking them in the ice cream. I don’t find this objectionable, but some rational part of my mind is appalled.

“Does everyone work at the restaurant?”

“Yep,” he answers, quietly. It’s not a subject he cares to discuss, but since I know the secret I think he tolerates me, hence the lunches. One night, four months ago, I walked into a carniceria in Boyle Heights and there he was, up on a little stage, in a mariachi suit, playing “Ciento Lindo” on the guitar and singing for the patrons. He’s got a beautiful voice, actually, though he doesn’t project very well. I handed him a $20 and asked him to play “El Paso.” He gave me a look which bordered on annoyance, but the next day in class he was all smiles and smartass remarks.

“What about you?” he asks me.

“None. I’m an unwanted bastard, an accident, probably much like these kids here.”

“So were you adopted?”

“No, but my mom dumped me with my grandmother and wandered away. It’s all very sordid and sad, but I managed to rise above my circumstances, blah blah blah.”

“Wait, this is supposed to be upward mobility?” he comments, holding his hands out.

“You’re the one who wants to eat at McDonalds.’”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it. C’mon now, you’re a white girl, there’s no excuse for you not to live up to your potential.”

“You’re absolutely right except that I don’t care.”

“It’s a problem, isn’t it? This ‘not caring’ stuff.”

We smile at each other. There will always be cut-rate screenwriting classes and Quixotic attempts at creativity and wasting time eating processed shit at McDonalds.’ But anything else would have to be disguised as something more harmless then a relationship.

“So this doesn’t offend you, really?”

“Yeah, it does. But I figure you’re doing it on purpose and I admire your perversity.”

He laughs. “I’m completely without anything to recommend me, just so you know.”

“I figured that.”

He goes back to the counter to get another sundae and I watch other people interacting. Most of what I see everyday makes me defeatist and happy I’m not participating in societal rituals. That’s not to say I’m too good for these things, but I’d probably fail just as badly as I do with what it is I do attempt. I work in a bookstore and my register is always short. I write strange things which no one ever knows quite what they mean. I sit on my guano-splattered balcony every evening and watch the sun set through the smog while drinking more than I should. I try to sleep through domestic disturbances, gunplay, and other urban assaults. I tell myself this is an interesting life and there is no need for me to believe any differently. I torture myself with possibility.

And now I understand that we are alike in this regard. I like that about him.

“You should come back, you can eat for free,” he tells me, and I understand he’s not talking about the food on his tray. I always pay for my own.

“If I gave you fifty bucks to play ‘La Bamba’ would you fuck me?” I imagine the surreal aspect of this question would appeal to him, and it does. He smiles.

“My sisters would be upset with me, but what the hell. I haven’t gotten laid in two years, so I can’t remember if I’m any good.”

“What, no counter-offer?” I tease.

He warms to the game. “If I come to your place and play ‘La Bamba’ and offer you my amateur cunnilingus skills, will you type my script?”

“There’s actual labor involved, that’s not a fair trade.”

“Obviously you’ve never gone down on a woman.”

I laugh. Jesus how I laugh at him, almost choking on the shit they call ice cream at McDonalds.’

And I want him so.