Chapter 1: Back in LA

18+ / Explicit content.

The palm trees outside the airport felt like balm for my soul. For the first time, I wasn’t wondering when I’d have to leave them behind again. I was here to stay. Los Angeles would be my new home. I’d get my morning coffee from little cafés wearing nothing but shorts all year round. I’d find inner peace. Skate through life without a care in the world. 

I felt the rays of the sun pricking my skin. The sun was the cure to my flexural rash. I had suffered from eczema ever since I was a kid. Stress brought it out in the worst way. The sun took care of it in a matter of hours.

I decided to save some money and took a shuttle instead of a cab. The tiny Mexican driver was holding a route map. I asked him if the shuttle would go down Wilshire Boulevard. He nodded yes. “Twenty-two dollars, fifty cents, please.” 

I sat in the front. The sunset was a crimson red, a dreamy, kind of bleak scene unfolding out the window. Huge billboards with lingerie models posing on them. Small houses, high-rises, empty parks. The City of Angels is strange that way, the vibe totally changes every ten blocks. The only common denominator is that no one walks the streets. Apart from some homeless people. 

There were a bunch of UCLA students on the shuttle. I felt ill watching them. Their laughter was genuine. They had spent their summers with their families. Now they were coming back to their everyday lives. The pain turned into envy by the third traffic light. The Toyota right next to us had a broken windshield. The Japanese driver was squinting ahead. I opened my phone, called Kian. 

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” 

Kian told me to hurry up. 

“Let’s hit the LA nightlife.”

I made it to the lobby of a tall high-rise. It was on the corner of Wilshire and Stoner. Right across from a huge Ralphs supermarket. A tense-looking doorman called Kian down. We hugged. I could see from the dimple on Kian’s face that he was genuinely happy to see me. I was wearing rocker-style jeans and a colorful t-shirt. In the elevator mirror, I took in the bags under my eyes. I hadn’t slept a wink on the plane.

The living room of the large one-bedroom apartment had a 77-inch TV, a big couch, a designer glass table with accompanying chairs. A big bed, a black leather massage recliner and a desk in the bedroom. My suitcase was still at the airport in London. They’d deliver it in the next couple of days. I was prepared for something like this and had stashed a spare t-shirt in my laptop bag. This wasn’t my first rodeo. Thanks, Finnair. 

I had a cold shower, brushed my teeth. Walked back to the living room along the soft carpeted floor. Kian had turned on the Xbox. We liked to smoke pot and play video games before heading out. The big bong was stuffed full of cannabis as usual. I changed into jeans and a tight t-shirt. Kian noticed the shirt.

“I’ve made some new friends while you were in Finland. You wear that, everyone will think you’re gay.”

“All my clothes were in the fucking suitcase.”

“At least wear that jacket on top.”

I put on a green Von Dutch windbreaker.

I smoked several full bowls. I was two points behind. There were less than two minutes left in the game. I was never anxious while high. I told myself that if I won the video game, my entire life would sort itself out. High stakes. Kian hit a three-pointer. I used Karl Malone for an accidental half-court shot right after that. I lost. Dropped the controller.

We headed to the parking garage. I checked myself out in the mirror of the first car. My nose was clean. Kian was too high to remember where he’d parked his car. Finally we found his black Porsche in a corner of the garage. A gut feeling told me this would be an unforgettable night. That was entirely due to the wacky tobacky. We drove out into the night. 

The Westwood high-rises got me daydreaming. A penthouse in a high-rise, a convertible to cruise along the beaches in Santa Monica. Kian changed CDs. “The new Linkin Park is a banger.” I felt relaxed. The flashing lights, the living buildings, the people driving around me, they were all just window dressing. There were butterflies in my belly. The golden arrows of Cupid in my chest.

The nightclub was located in a run-down block in Hollywood. Warwick was the trendiest club in the city right now. Their regulars included people like Leonardo DiCaprio, Mark Wahlberg, Nicolas Cage… Kian pulled up at the front and handed the car keys to the Mexican valet. The club was run by Linda and Jessica. Linda was a diva in her fifties, with a face covered in scars. She never wore the same clothes twice. Jessica was about thirty, a tough-seeming chick from New York. She’d tried to hit on me in another bar. I’d blocked her advances and coldly brushed her off. It’s the way I had operated since I was seventeen. It was a defense mechanism. 

I remember when my first crush, Kirsi, asked to walk me to the bus stop. We were at a party in Haukilahti. She told me she liked me. Wait, I think my first crush was Julia in junior high. Julia called me Jug Ears. That crush ended in tears in the school hallway. I still remember the day I saw Julia in the city years later. Julia thought my jug ears had grown smaller. I thought Julia had grown unpleasant. But back to Kirsi. She’d asked her big brother Samuel whether she should tell me how she felt. I felt the same way about her. I found it hard not to stutter around her, I was so into her. But I chose to walk to the bus stop alone. I didn’t change my mind when I saw the sadness in Kirsi’s face. 

On my way to the bus stop, I wiped away tears. How could I have explained my anxiety to her? I couldn’t do it then and I can’t do it now. Who knows what might have happened if I’d actually faced my fears with a nice girl when I was younger? Things might have been different. Still, hindsight is twenty-twenty. 

It was the same with Jessica. Except I thought she was just another plastic Barbie with fake tits at first. I used to watch her in dark dive bars. Soon I realized I couldn’t have been more wrong. She never drank alcohol. She blocked every guy’s pick-up attempts. There was something vulnerable in her eyes. They drew me in more and more as time went on.

I got nervous when I saw Jessica. She was sitting on a stool in front of the wooden door. I noticed her outfit. She was wearing faded jeans and a white jacket. She looked like she was at work to pay her rent. Not to hang out with the party people. I tried to be cool. Took out a cigarette and fiddled with it. I’d never liked the smell of cigarettes. Or the taste. It was just a ploy to make these fractions of a second last slightly longer. Linda drew the red rope aside for us. Jessica noticed me. Then looked away with calculated coldness. 

There were only a handful of people in the bar. It was only 10 p.m. Kian ordered a vodka cranberry and a Heineken for me. We leaned on the bar counter and looked around at the white booths. There were lanterns and champagne bottles on the tables. 

Models from the billboards were starting to trickle in slowly. Then there were the girls with their expensive rubber tits and Louis Vuitton handbags on full display. They were there hoping that this Wednesday night would be the one to change their lives. The bar would soon be full of men with Ferraris waiting in the parking lot. These women wanted to sit in the front seat. For their whole lives, preferably. Watching the common folk from behind dark shades. Kian got chatty.

“I’m young, rich, good-looking, a lawyer, why would any of these chicks ever say no to me?”

I immediately guessed Kian had had more cocaine. He got kind of narcissistic after sticking his house keys up his nose. In reality, he was an insecure little boy in a thousand-dollar blazer.

Kian showed me photos of beautiful women on his phone. I smiled, even though deep down I felt sorry for him. The girls in the photos were students, fresh in from Alabama. Kian showed them around the city, took them to expensive restaurants, opened doors for them. They adored him. Or more specifically, used him. Kian pulled out a small white baggie. Handed it to me under the bar counter.

“Just one line. This has to last ‘til Friday.”

There was a line to the restroom once again. The urinals were empty as ever. Everyone wanted to hit the stalls. I doubt it was for a good shit. A stall opened up. I sat on the toilet lid. Opened Kian’s bag carefully. Sprinkled coke on my key. Inhaled one batch, then another, then a third. I felt like my heart might crash through my ribcage. In my three months in Finland, I had only smoked pot. 

I yanked the stall door open. A ripped 6’7’’ guy stared back at me in the mirror. I splashed Dior aftershave around my neck. Gave a dollar tip to the restroom attendant. He was a black gentleman in his late sixties. He handed out napkins to the patrons, offered them perfumes and lollipops. Sometimes I felt bad for him. I checked my nostrils once more. They were clean. I walked out. My body started dancing along to Snoop Dogg. I handed the baggie to Kian.

“Did you do just the one?”

“Yeah. Fucking sweet.”

“Don’t lick your lips. Let’s get a beer.”

“Let’s have a smoke.”

I felt nervous. My mouth was spasming. My lips were totally numb. I’d taken too much.

“What was the name of that girl? The one you showed me.”

“Emily?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Are you into her?”

“I only met her on Friday.”

“Yeah. You believe in love at first sight?”

“Of course.”

“Me too.”

I felt compelled to come up with this stupid shit. I wasn’t in control of myself. I was scared of the silence.

“Dude, your mouth’s fucking twitching! How many lines did you do? Like, for real?”

“One.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“OK, two. You got any gum?”

“No. And stop licking your lips.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You look like a dog.”

“Let’s go for a smoke, c’mon.”

I thought some pot might calm me down. We went to the patio. The outdoor area was decked out with palm trees and brown couches. Two fitness models working the bar. P. Diddy dancing under a palm tree. A woman blowing a kiss. 

I look up at the black sky and see seven stars. Wait, there’s more, at least twelve. I try to count the stars. I hear a police siren somewhere. Kian digs out a glass bong from his breast pocket and lights it up. He had this habit of taking big bags of marijuana to nightclubs and making “friends” with strangers by offering them drugs. Usually his new friends were more interested in the herb than in Kian. 

Two young blondes come over and ask for a drag. Kian fills his bong again. The blondes start coughing. I pick up the bong from one of them and inhale for as long as I can. My vision gets blurry and the revelers turn into hazy outlines. The bartender winks at me. I respond with a carefree smile. I feel like Alice in Wonderland again. Except I’m holding the sceptre that’ll get me to the King’s chair. 

A snake leather belt, leather pants, two women holding hands. Marlon Wayans. A famous male model holding a motorcycle helmet, walking over for a drag. Tattooed hands, Vin Diesel in sweatpants, Hugh Hefner with his whores. A small guy in a New York baseball cap, Justin Timberlake. More Louis Vuitton handbags.

“Emil, wake up.”

I turned my attention back to the conversation.

“Oooph, I’m pretty baked.”

“Where are you from?” The second blonde.

“He’s an actor working on an accent for a role.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Are you really?” The blonde.

“Oh yeah.” Kian.

“There’s no talking in the ‘movie’ I’m doing.”

Kian shot me a sharp look. The “joke” went way over the blonde’s head.

“I’m from Finland.”

“Scandinavian.” The blonde.

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Working.”

“Where?”

The conversation was starting to get on my nerves. The girls always found a roundabout way of asking, how are you for money? Where do you live? What kind of car do you drive? On the other hand, there’s no such thing as social security in the US. People’s fear of ending up on the streets is real. Not that I was thinking that far ahead myself. I had maybe thirty dollars in my wallet. An empty bank account. My dad’s authorized user Visa in my pocket.

“I work for a music video production company.”

“What do you do over there?”

“I dunno.”

The blonde looked fuckable. Gold-digging college dropout. Probably moved to California in search of a better life. But hey, so had I.

“I’m helping out a friend. It’s an apprenticeship.”

The blondes noticed five guys sitting at a table behind us. I got the impression they were Russian. There were multiple Ketel One vodka bottles on the table. The women went over to give them a hug. Then they sat down and stayed with the guys. I’d experienced similar situations before. Kian went to order another drink. I didn’t have much money, so I walked over to the dance floor. Stared at the dancers for a while. Then I changed my mind. I’d come here to succeed. I could get another beer, why not?

I walked to the bar and ordered a beer. Stared at the Heineken label and let my mind wander.

Jessica had been on my mind a lot. After film school, I’d been aimlessly drifting in the City of Angels. I’d applied for jobs all over the place, but no one would hire me. I’d applied for assistant positions at multiple production companies. I used my credit card to pay a photographer who had spotted me at the gym. He convinced me I could get work as a model. I posed shirtless at the Grand Canyon. Felt vulnerable at every flash of the camera. He complimented my fat-free body, which made me feel even worse. After the photo shoot, I had just enough money to develop four large photos. Three were of me shirtless. 

I hiked like the Duracell Bunny from one modeling agency to another. The photographer had set up the meetings for me. I was way too tall, too muscular, the birthmark on my shoulder was too big. Two agencies suggested I take new photos. Their own photographers would do it. I’d pay them, obviously. That would get me hired, they said. I didn’t even have a work permit at the time.

I had lost touch with the boy I was, deep down. I wasn’t strong enough to take a beat and think clearly. I’d done three years at a Los Angeles art school. Everything had gone to shit after that. As a student, I got good grades. I didn’t touch alcohol or drugs. I was conscientious and enjoyed studying. All my student work explored my own fears. In a carefully roundabout way obviously. The teachers and students loved it.

After two months of loitering, my friend Niklas offered me an assistant gig. He had his own music video production company. I’d lied and told him I already had a job several times. I was too embarrassed to ask for help. Eventually I had no other choice. After a five-minute phone call, he promised to get me a work permit. Due to my studies, I had the right to work, as long as someone just hired me. I’d spent the summer at our family’s summer cottage in Finland, waiting for my permit. Now I finally had the stamp on my passport that allowed me to work. 

My eyes went back to the Heineken bottle. I searched the label carefully, as if that would fix the empty feeling inside me. It’s hard to explain why I had such a deep need to succeed.  To show the world I was more than what my bullies in elementary school said I was. To fix my broken self-image. Success would help me build defenses around myself. I wasn’t able, or wise enough, to go under my own skin. What I wanted was thick skin. Thick enough that a Stanley knife blade would shatter on contact. Fame and glory would make me whole. 

Was that a good explanation? I don’t know. I’m not sure I understand it myself. But maybe you get what I’m trying to say. Today, Instagram dictates the frame for so many young people, adults even. What the fuck are we trying to do? Advertise, brand ourselves. For what? Ourselves? What would my Instagram account have looked like? I’m embarrassed to even imagine. Five hundred thousand people in Finland are on antidepressants. Do we not have the kind of skins we’d like? An armored iPhone case protects an expensive phone. Does our armor protect us? Or is the armor what destroys us?

I took a huge sip out of the bottle. Fuck, it was good. So relaxing.

I was trying to sleep on Kian’s couch. There was a Toblerone and a bottle of Snapple on the table. I was finding it hard to doze off. I got up. Opened the white curtains. Looked at the huge supermarket across the street. Its bright lights shining. Ralphs was open all night long. Two large black SUVs pulled up. I could hear Kian snoring in the bedroom. I was sweating, so I took off my t-shirt. 

Sometimes, when I was high, I’d reminisce about my childhood. It was happening less and less though, because the drugs took away the pain. But tonight the memories scratched my skin raw.

I had my first sexual encounter when I was eleven years old with another boy. I remember asking to play the man during the act. He played the girl. It hurt the other way around. He was six years older than me. He took advantage of my ignorance. He forced me to play along. 

Matias lived on the same street as we did. I don’t actually remember how we met. Maybe it’s somewhere deep in my subconscious. In hindsight, I’m not even sure it helps to dig this stuff up. When you’re driving a car, you rarely look in the rearview mirror, right? Obviously you need to know where you’ve come from and why. Do you wanna go back? The person in the back seat can’t make that decision. 

After Matias, I’d never enjoyed sex sober. Not with anyone. Not that I knew whether I would or not, since I’d never actually had sex sober. Apart from with Matias. My own inner voice had been taken away from me. It had been left back in Matias’ grandma’s apartment, screaming all alone. And I couldn’t exactly walk down Valhallankatu to knock on the door.

“Excuse me, but my soul is haunting this place. I thought I’d come by to pick it up. It’s kinda hard to live without it.” 

I can feel my bones. There are no broken ones. You have to have something to break in the first place. 

I didn’t want to play with Matias anymore, but I was too scared to tell anyone why. Several months later, Matias broke my James Bond toy gun. My dad had brought it back as a souvenir from a business trip to Germany. That shattered toy gun saved me. I told my parents the truth, that Matias was bullying me. “He broke my toy on purpose.” That’s how I got rid of him. The broken gun is still in a box of toys at our family’s summer cottage to this day.

The first time I did drugs, the memories flooded up and out from the recesses of my mind, like a movie only I could see. The second time I did drugs, I was convinced that I was finally seeing the world the same way as everyone else.

There was something similar about Jessica, something like me. Beneath the long beautiful black hair, there was a vulnerable girl, hiding, hoping for someone to hold her hand. Her whole family had died in a car accident. Or so I’d heard. Of course, that could have just been a rumor that had grown in the telling. 

Selfishly, I thought that she could hold me, bandage my wounded body. What she saw in me were the ripped pecs, the torn True Legion jeans, the orange Converse sneakers. It was easy to hide behind trendy clothes. Nobody ever asks what your toes look like inside the shiny shoes. Then again, I can never know for sure what she actually saw.

I woke up on the couch, feeling fragile. Last night’s reminiscing felt like someone had poured sea salt all over my wounds. I couldn’t figure out why the memories had come back right now. I’d successfully erased them from the corners of my mind lately. Thank you, drugs. 

Kian had left for work around seven in the morning. I have no idea how he managed to keep going on four hours’ sleep multiple days in a row. Making important decisions at work. I knew he was a well-liked, hardworking lawyer at his office. He was analytical in everything except his leisure activities. 

I rounded up all the marijuana I could find. I wanted to forget the nightmares. I failed.

Chester Bennington was an abuse victim. He couldn’t vanquish his demons in the end. It’s not that hard for me to guess what this song is about.

I lit the bong. Fuck this!

Eventually, I put on my busted white Adidas shower sandals. Took a pot of peach yoghurt and a cup of cold Starbucks coffee out of the fridge. Headed to the backyard. Dove head first into the pool.

I should have called Niklas first thing and told him I was back in town. Ask him about work. But I didn’t. I wanted to feel the sun on my skin, close my eyes. Be at peace. Feel my breath.

I was strolling down Wilshire Boulevard. I’d just bought my first local cell phone. I had a work permit for eighteen months. You needed one to buy a phone. But I wanted a slightly better phone, so I committed to a twenty-four-month service plan. The monthly payments weren’t that bad. Eighteen months to get an artist visa. Failure wasn’t an option. It was either that or nothing.

First, I dialed Isaac’s number. I’d met him at the gym. He was a black, sporty, kindly gentleman. Always so positive. He made a living as a realtor and fitness coach. His hobbies included photography and road cycling. I often hung out at Peter and Isaac’s house in the Hollywood Hills. Their three-story house had an amazing view of the Valley. Straight out of a postcard. Peter’s father had died of cancer. I’m not sure, but I believe he inherited his millions. Peter was a truly humble guy, treated everyone the same. On weekends we would have barbecues, watch movies, have deep conversations. 

In this city, it was hard to find a friend you could talk to about anything other than work. I was grateful to have these two. After smoking pot, Isaac would show me his photo books. Usually they featured naked male models. Sometimes, I got the feeling that Isaac was more interested in the filming process than the pictures themselves. He was extremely warm and positive. I couldn’t care less about his sexual orientation. He was my friend. And he never tried to hit on me. On the contrary, he kept trying to find me a girl. Someone who had something to offer besides good hair. 

I often played with Peter’s dogs while high. They didn’t like it. They’d tell me: 

“Dog’s aren’t clean. I washed them a week ago.”

According to Isaac, dogs shouldn’t get along with strangers too well, otherwise they’d learn to beg for food and jump on their designer couches. I took no notice of these rules. And Isaac didn’t want to repeat himself.

Isaac was happy to hear my voice.

“Welcome home!”

The greeting confused me a little. My family wasn’t here, was it?

“Thanks.”

Isaac asked me to come for dinner on Wednesday. He’d pick me up and drop me off at Kian’s in Westwood. Peter had promised to serve authentic Kobe beef.

It was getting close to 6 p.m. and the sun was going down. I made a beeline for the gym. It was run by Kian’s housing co-op. There was no one else there apart from one elderly lady. I never ran on the treadmill or rode the exercise bike. I only ever pumped iron. I put 240 pounds on the bench press. Lifted my sixth rep with animal fury. The lady jumped out of her skin at the fucking roar. 

After lifting, I decided to do five hundred yards in the pool. There was a hot girl, maybe twenty-four, lounging on one of the sunbeds. I doubt I’d have hit the pool at all if it hadn’t been for her.

Back at the apartment, I jerked off to porn on the computer. There was pretty much nothing else on my laptop apart from music and porn. The Ice Hockey World Championships were on TV. I watched Finland play. I didn’t give a damn whether Finland won or not. I refilled the bong. Kian walked in.

“Are you smoking my pot?”

“Just a little.”

“You’re not gonna ask for permission?”

“Sorry.”

“Pizzas are on you!”

I called Domino’s on my cell and ordered two pepperoni pizzas. I’ve never liked American pizza, but when I was high, I’d have eaten anchovies straight out of a can. I took my laptop, went to Kian’s bedroom and started browsing. Kian followed me.

“You can’t just go into my room without asking.”

“I’m paying you 570 bucks in rent.”

I couldn’t wrap my head around it. In Finland, you’d never ask a friend to pay rent for a couple of weeks’ stay. We’d agreed to look for a place together as soon as possible. It’s just that Kian was looking at places way out of my price range. My budget was $860 a month.

“I have to check my email.”

“You could ask for permission.”

“Sorry. Let’s play an NBA game in a bit.”

“The loser pays for parking.”

Kian loved to win money off me at video games. Losing three dollars made a visible dent in my wallet. But what made it worse was that Kian seemed to enjoy making me suffer. Soon I was ten dollars poorer once again. The herb made me forget my money troubles.

I still remember the first time I smoked pot. It was in Punavuori, Helsinki. I felt nervous and surreal. I immediately had too much. Panicked and thought everyone in the room had gone. Only their ghosts had stayed to haunt me. Martti handed me a chocolate bar. The sugar made me feel better. My breathing slowed down. My panic subsided bit by bit. I swore to myself I’d never touch the green tobacco again.

In America I tried again anyway. This time, I could feel the cage I had been trapped in as a child burning to ashes. I started smoking almost every day. Lots of people in California seemed to live the same way. My confidence grew with every toke. Sometimes my own voice almost scared me. It seemed to come out of me without echoing in my windpipe.

We were stopped at a traffic light at the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard and Doheny. It was a dark and windy night. I closed my eyes. I opened my eyes. I closed them again. Kian fished a small coke baggie out of his pocket. Took a quick sniff before the lights turned green. I didn’t want one. Cocaine had a tendency to mess with my head if I’d smoked pot beforehand. I wanted to stay in a dreamlike state. Safely inside a barbed wire fence. 

We pulled up at a gas station around Highland. Kian filled up the tank. I went inside to buy a Snickers ice cream bar and a small pack of cigarettes.

We arrived at Cabaret. It was Tuesday night. Jessica was on the door again. She let us in. She gave me a wink and wished us a fun night. I stared at her, frozen. My eyes red. I was too out of it to form a coherent sentence. 

The club had a fireplace and a sky bar upstairs. We smoked more pot. Kian wanted to buy me a drink. A large vodka Red Bull. My guy was making sure I wouldn’t fall asleep standing up. 

The bar was slowly filling up. I was being checked out by multiple women. I was sitting on a window ledge upstairs, next to the fireplace. From there you could see out through a wooden lattice. I could see Jessica’s perfect body, the narrow waist and fit ass looking superb in camo trousers and a black top. She was walking alongside the queue, handpicking her customers. Kian knew I had a thing for her, though I’d never admitted it to him. “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey came on.

Two girls came up to me for a chat. I was short with them. I wanted to be left alone. I was listening to the lyrics of the familiar song. The woman I wanted to talk to was sixty yards away. I dreamed on. Kian poked me on my arm.

“This is Lisa.”

“Hey.”

“Oh, and this is Eva.”

“Hiya.”

“Where are you from?”

“Finland.”

“Europe?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you live here?”

“Here in this bar?”

“Haha…”

Kian dug a minigrip bag out of his jeans pocket.

“You girls wanna party?”

“Of course.”

The four of us headed to the downstairs restroom. We all knelt around the wooden toilet lid. Smashed a hardened lump with Kian’s credit card. Poured coke along the edge of the card. Each of us snorted in turn. Women always got horny on coke. But I didn’t have the patience for these skanks. I was feeling surprisingly calm. But not quite brave enough. I asked Kian for more cocaine. I’d psych myself up with more white powder. Kian closed the bag.

“Fuck no, you’re already high.”

“Just a little.”

“Look in the mirror, no one’s gonna talk to you looking like that.”

I stormed angrily out of the stall.

“Hey, don’t open the door yet.” One of the girls, mumbling.

I pretended not to hear. I walked straight upstairs and to the bar. Marco Jarec, a Clippers player, was sitting on the couch with two Playboy models. I checked out the women casually. Ordered a Heineken. Someone grabbed my ass. One of the girls had come up to me.

“What’s your name?”

“Emil.”

“I have a kid.”

“Girl or boy?”

“Boy.”

“Where’s the father?”

“We just broke up. John’s one of the best commercial directors in the city. He’s shooting a Nike ad in Europe right now. Where do you live, handsome?”

She talked like a robot. I’m pretty sure she had her own secret baggie hidden in her Chanel purse.

“Westwood.”

“Rent or own?”

“Rent.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Drinking beer. I might even order another one.”

“I meant LA?” Completely serious. The girl clearly had a great sense of humor.

“I studied directing. In film school. Now I’m doing an internship.”

“Where?”

“At a music video company.”

“What do you do over there?”

“Carry heavy things, probably. Try to figure out my next move. Assistant shit.”

“I think my friends are waiting for me. Really nice meeting you.”

I was left to hang out with my Corona bottle. She had realized I’d only pay for her next drink at best. I turned toward the dark, solid wooden bar. Stared at the bartender’s breasts. She smiled and handed me a piece of paper. I inspected it. It was an invite to some party. I secretly counted my dollars under the bar, twice. Eleven bucks. I wanted a beer, but ordered bottled water. It cost three times less. The bartender wouldn’t take my money. I thanked her politely.

I had been lounging at the pool for five days. Gone to the gym. Bought a rock ‘n’ roll style t-shirt on Melrose Avenue. I still hadn’t called Niklas to tell him I was back in town. In a weird way, I was scared that the job wouldn’t be there anymore. I decided to dodge responsibility for a couple more days before picking up the phone. Loitering in cafés let me keep on dreaming. Imagining what it would feel like to wake up carefree. Happy.

We sat in front of the TV later that night. Kian was showing off his new clothes and asking for my opinion. I witnessed at least five different blazers with ever more intricate designs on the back. Kian’s after-work look included a pair of jeans, a hipster blazer from Melrose Avenue and a t-shirt. Zane was coming over. I had never met him before. Kian had only met him recently. He’d told me about Zane’s successful real estate business. The doorbell rang. Kian turned on the intercom.

I sat on the couch wearing a pink Dolce & Gabbana t-shirt. My best t-shirt. Zane walked in. He was carrying a see-through plastic bag. I’ve never seen that much marijuana in my life. Loads of orange flowers in there. They give you the best hallucinations. 

I listened to Kian and Zane talk. The words Escalade, Fargo, Miami real estate. The best way to get rich apparently. The stock market, that stuck with me too. I felt shy and stayed quiet. I was quickly starting to feel insignificant. I switched channels.

“Lakers-Denver, don’t switch dude!” Zane roared. “It’s the last period. I didn’t know this was on. Hey look, it’s tight, 93-93.”

Zane had a long bin Laden beard and a rugged face full of scars. Somehow he came across as honest and genuine even so. I was kind of startled when he started talking to me.

“Europeans piss me off. Coming over here in Gucci shirts, thinking they’re better than us.”

Kian’s face blushed. He watched how I’d react.

“I guess”, I blurted out nervously.

I should have changed into a worn t-shirt. Kian had bought me dinner in a fancy Mexican restaurant two hours ago. That’s why my best t-shirt was still on. I felt awkward.

“Sorry, you can’t come along. I only have two people on the list for Pearl. Next time.”

“That’s OK. I’ll just play PlayStation.”

“Where do you work?”

“At my friend’s company. I haven’t started yet though.”

“I do up apartments by the 405. Come work for me if you need extra dough?”

“He doesn’t have a car”, Kian chimed in. In a friendly way though.

“I can walk. Or take the bus.”

I could feel in my bones how badly I needed the money.

“Call me on Monday.”

“Thanks.”

Zane threw me a humongous bag of pot.

“Get zoinked on that. I’ll dock your pay for it.”

I saved Zane’s number into my new cell before the guys left me alone. I lay on the couch. Squinted. Goddamn, Jaws is a scary movie when you’re high. Even though you don’t even see the whole shark before the last scene. Or maybe because of that. 

After three joints, I was craving chocolate. I put on my shower sandals and headed to the supermarket across the street. I strolled down the aisles slowly. Browsed the newspapers. After twenty minutes, I woke up and realized I was still in the supermarket. The young cashier was laughing at me.

“The candy aisle’s that way.”

Should I have worn shades? I remembered I didn’t even own a pair. Noticed a selection of thirteen-dollar shades on the shelf. Picked out a pair of big yellow aviators. Checked myself out in the mirror to see if they were cool or fucking awful. I couldn’t decide. 

There was Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer. I put the chocolates and the bag of candy back on the shelf. There were too many flavors, white chocolate, peanut, strawberry, cheese. I bought my trusty old banana chocolate.

The apartment door opened. I woke up on the couch, still wearing my sandals. And the yellow shades. Kian walked in with two women. For a moment, I wondered if I was awake or still asleep. I perked up at the sight of two tiny leather skirts. 

“Fuck, man. Didn’t cross your mind to open a window? And what are these fucking glasses?”

Kian and the girls burst out laughing.

“I bought shades.”

They laughed even more.

“Aren’t they cool?”

“Yeah, really cool.” 

One of the girls tried to fight back laughter but couldn’t.

“I guess I bought fugly shades.”

The laughter just wouldn’t end.

“Should I go exchange these for a couple of tubs of ice cream? This Ben & Jerry’s is pretty good.”

“Yeah, do that.”

Everybody else seemed to be having a great time.

“This is my friend Emil.”

“Hi, sorry, I’m kinda high. But it’s my first time.”

“Really? We couldn’t tell.”

“So you have a pothead living in your house.”

“Temporarily.”

“I like it here. There’s a bong, a PlayStation and a big TV.”

“And Ben & Jerry’s.” The girl looked at me flirtatiously.

“Sorry, I already ate it all.”

“We’re watching our figures anyway.”

The girl lifted up her top. Kian poured cocaine onto the glass table. The credit card cut it into seven equal lines. I took the bong, stuffed it full of ganja. One inhale, second inhale, third inhale. The girls’ faces got prettier at each one. One of them threw herself on the couch next to me. I rubbed her butt with my foot as if by accident. The girl gave me a sharp look. I laid my head on the checkered couch cushion. 

The conversation turns into a haze. The laughter is ringing in my ears. It’s the leather skirt’s turn to kick me awake.

“You like giving head?”

I stare at her in confusion. Did I hear that right? What’s everyone talking about? Kian pours me a Red Bull in a red disposable cup.

“Don’t ruin the night, man.”

The girl lifts up her skirt, shows off her bikini wax. I try to wake myself up into the present moment. My eyes lock onto the Snickers bar in the kitchen, even though the girl’s skirt is up around her ears. Kian disappears into the bedroom with the other girl. I don’t know how exactly, but I find myself in the middle of a passionate make-out session. The couch cushions fly to the floor, next to the leather skirt.

I woke up feeling sick. The girls had gone in the morning. I vaguely remembered one of them being in a bad mood, complaining she was late for work. There was a note on the kitchen table with a name and phone number written on it. I had no idea which of the girls had left it. Lisa, which one was Lisa? I’d talked for hours after sex. But I guess I hadn’t asked her name. Or had I? I couldn’t remember. 

I took a can of Coke out of the fridge. I had this habit of drinking Kian’s drinks as if by accident. Smoking his pot. Snorting his cocaine. Sitting in his convertible. I had to pull myself together. I decided to call Niklas and ask about work. I took an ice cold shower, brewed three large cups of coffee. Looked for my phone all over the apartment. Eventually I found it between the couch cushions. Niklas’ voice was warm.

“Emil Zátopek.”

“I just got here.”

“Fuck, if only you’d been back a week ago. I just shot a music video.”

Niklas dropped the artist’s name. One of the top twenty artists in the world. I won’t share the name here, as there’s only a handful of music video directors in the world.

Why had I been too chicken to call before? I mumbled to myself.

“Next time.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Here in Westwood?”

“Dinner tomorrow?”

“Where?”

“Katana, 7 p.m.”

I was always nervous around Niklas. We had similar, sporty backgrounds. I was younger than him. He was born in Sweden. Spoke Finnish with an accent. I’d sent him one of my student works. A short film about a paralyzed man who left his wife because he felt like a burden to her. Even though she loved him and begged him not to. The film had a sad ending. Two yearning, heartbroken lovers. Niklas had liked the idea. 

I loved movies. I don’t really know how or where it started. Escaping into stories felt safe. My work always depicted my fears. And I guess I naively believed that good stories could have a positive impact on people’s lives. Stories, a crying actor, running around with a toy gun. Learning lines, expressing fake feelings in a made-up scene. Is that art? In a hospital people cry for real. That’s where the real heroes are. Not that I thought about it that deeply back then. On the contrary, I admired everything Hollywood stood for.

I arrived at Katana. It’s a trendy sushi spot on Sunset Boulevard. Right across from the Skybar. Lit candles gave the place a romantic atmosphere. I felt anxious walking up the stone stairs. The restaurant architecture seemed old. The waterfall in the middle caught my eye. I hadn’t dared to smoke pot before meeting up. I was dressed cleaner than usual. Tidy shorts, a button-up shirt. 

Our table had a great view of the streets below. Niklas was talking to someone from the William Morris Agency. I mainly just listened. The agent asked Niklas a question.

“Would you have made 8 Mile if they’d offered?”

“Yeah. The story was good.”

I thought about Eminem’s performance in it. He’d been great. I had always liked his songs.

The agent turned to me politely.

“Emil. What are you here to do?”

“He’s gonna work for me”, Niklas said in a friendly tone.

“I could introduce you to another director as well, if you want? You might get more assistant gigs.”

“We’ll have to talk about that.” Niklas picked up his vodka glass from the table.

I gathered my courage.

“If there are any jobs going, I’d be happy to make coffee runs, anything at all.”

“That’s the spirit. Where did you study?”

“LA Film School.”

“Is that the place that advertises on Variety?”

“Yeah.”

“Was it any good?”

“Sure. It was mostly up to you if you did well over there. No one pushed you to do anything.”

“That’s the way it should be.”

“We did have Brett Ratner as a lecturer.”

“He has a bit of a reputation for being an asshole in this town.” The agent.

We talked about movies all evening. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten so well. I felt kind of ashamed for eating even after the others were full. The restaurant was a place for people who were content with their lives. A stress-free atmosphere. I didn’t really fit in. 

After several bottles of wine and shots of vodka, we headed to a rock bar. Played darts in the corner with AC/DC blasting in the background. I was so drunk I had to actually concentrate on not hitting the other customers. This one guy in a denim jacket was standing way too close and the dartboard was way too fucking far. “I gotta go to the restroom.” Unsurprisingly, I lost the game.

Next, a strip club. Then, an after-party at the agent’s home in Bel Air. We sat on the floor eating burgers and watching movies. I’d have preferred to sit on a couch, but there were only three big beds and a barbecue in the whole place. It was pretty funny, since the house was huge. A bachelor pad for three guys. I wondered if they had blown all their money on the house. Or maybe they had just moved in? 

In the small hours of the morning, the coked-up agent started giving me shit. I went over the evening in my mind. Had I done something stupid? In the strip club I had opened the pack of cards on the table. Thrown one of them between the girl’s legs on stage. It couldn’t be that, could it? I just tried to play it cool.

The agent kept fucking with me. I guess it made him feel important, being able to mess with a student twenty-five years his junior. Niklas didn’t stand up for me, just grinned in the background. How is it that drugs always bring out the best in people? I was afraid I’d burst into tears, make a complete fool out of myself.