Chapter 2: Living the Life

18+ / Explicit content.

We were doing the rounds with Kian, looking for apartments. His parents were from Iran. It was important to them for their son to live in a safe area. I had met them several times. They lived in a small townhouse in Orange County. I had the feeling they didn’t like me much. Maybe because I wasn’t a lawyer and walked around wearing old t-shirts.

I’d brought them souvenirs from Finland. Two Iittala mugs and a candle. I was always polite around them. Thanks to my parents, I had good manners when I was sober.

Beverly Hills was too expensive for me, but we found a place there anyway. It had two bedrooms, a small study and a living room area. I suggested I take the smaller bedroom and pay eight hundred bucks for it. Kian could have the study and the larger bedroom for $990 a month. He refused.

“And anyway, I don’t wanna live in the only ugly house in the neighborhood.”

I thought the place was lovely. A light blue wooden house along a quiet cross street. Most apartments were close to $2,500. Kian’s old schoolmate Ryan called him to say that a large two-bedroom apartment downstairs from him was becoming available. $1,600 a month, behind Urth Caffe, right by Melrose Avenue. A hipster location.  Within walking distance from all the trendy little boutiques. It’s just that the place was in pretty poor condition. Kian agreed to take it anyway. 

My name didn’t go on the rental agreement. The landlord only wanted Kian on it. I’m not sure if it was because of my Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt or my long keychain. Kian had insisted I wear a button-up shirt. I’d refused. I wanted to be good enough as myself. In hindsight, I guess Kian was right. The landlord said it was because I didn’t have credit history in the US. Which was true, of course.  

When we finally moved in, the place was covered in dust. The landlord hadn’t bothered to hire a cleaner before his new tenants moved in. The apartment was in total disarray.

“I didn’t know we were renting a storage unit.”

There, I finally managed to wring a smile out of Kian’s parents. They’d come over to help us clean. Later I complained about the place to a neighbor in the hallway. He laughed.

“That guy owns five apartments in this building. He’s a cheap asshole. He won’t fix anything until someone threatens to leave.”

Ryan’s place had a different owner. His apartment was done up to the nines.

Mom and I had talked about me buying her a car. She’d get it a year after I bought it. That’s because cars are half the price in the US, thanks to Finland’s insane car tax. I guess it’s fine to poison the environment with old cars in Finland. Few people can afford a new one. Still, the taxation of electric cars has helped things move in the right direction. Mom wanted a big SUV so that she could transport stuff to our summer cottage. She’d send me the money once I found the car.

I had spent years sitting in the passenger seat trying not to feel nauseous. Usually I just wanted a ride from location A to location B. Now I was getting my own driver’s seat. Still, the money was coming from my mom, so I continued to feel like a flea, burrowing under people’s skin to suck their blood.

The Ikea in Burbank had everything we needed. I’d bought a new shirt and sneakers earlier, so I lied to my mom and told her the bed cost $150 more than it did. I felt sick, tying my new shoelaces. I convinced myself I’d pay all my “debts” back with interest once I started working. Kian found us a couch. We agreed I’d pay him forty-five dollars a month until I’d covered my share of it. After shopping, we had Swedish meatballs. I asked Kian for his opinion.

“Should I call Zane and ask for a job?”

“I thought you were working for your friend?”

“It’s quiet over there right now.”

“Zane will yell at you if you don’t do a good job. He’s kinda crazy.”

“I need to get the car first.”

“My dad’s friend owns a car dealership, maybe he could help.”

“Do they have used cars?”

“I think so.”

“A used Jeep.”

“I’ll call him.”

I was sitting in my room, barefoot. The mattress had gone bust within a week. The bottom sheet was lying forgotten in a plastic bag. I was paralyzed, imprisoned in the apartment. It was hard to move around in LA without a car. I walked one and a half miles to the gym every day. Apart from that, I sat in cafés, watching all the busy people. They had schedules and friends. 

Depression was starting to creep in more and more every day. It wasn’t my friend’s fault he wasn’t drowning in job offers. I was sending out multiple job applications a day with zero responses. Most people seemed to land their first industry jobs through their personal connections. There were more movie industry employees in LA than residents in the city of Espoo in Finland. Competition over jobs was ruthless and cruel. I didn’t want to become a disillusioned quitter. 

The Hollywood sign was glowing over the Hills. The sign is pretty ugly and unremarkable in real life, actually. To me it symbolized the meaning of life, glamor, money, fame and fortune. I think, in my subconscious, it meant stitches for my bleeding wounds.

I walked over to the gas station to buy a used-car magazine. There were dozens of used Jeeps in there. Where would I start? The first person I met was selling a red Jeep for $23,000. The black leather seats from the ad had turned into black canvas ones on the way over. I stared at the seller in confusion.

“Here’s the car. It’s great.”

The guy was in his sixties and wouldn’t even let me test drive the car. I’m 98.7 percent sure he was a Donald Trump supporter. I rolled my eyes and told him I’d think about it on the way back home. How hard could it be to buy a car?

The next morning, I browsed my car magazine at Starbucks. I always got drip coffee because it was cheaper. It tasted amazing. I could see almost everyone else was drinking a specialty brew. To this day, I can’t understand why people buy drinks that expensive. Drip coffee has more caffeine in it, too. An ad caught my eye. Limited edition, brown leather seats, last year’s model. The car looked great in the photos. We agreed to meet near my place.

The Spanish man looked laid-back in broken Vans and an old t-shirt. His first sentence confused me.

“My wife cheated on me.”

“Sorry, what?”

“That’s why I’m selling the car. My wife used to drive it. It reminds me of her.”

He lit a cigarette, nervous.

“You smoke?”

“No.”

He threw me the car keys. I caught them, but only just.

“Well, try it.”

“Does this still have a warranty on it?”

“I think so. There’s nothing wrong with the car.”

I liked him immediately. There was something honest and fun about him, something I hadn’t encountered in a long while. He told me he worked as a plumber. We had a long conversation about his ex. I told him I had a thing for a girl, but didn’t know what to do about it. Or more to the point, didn’t have the guts to do anything about it.

“When a lady gives you her number, you don’t call her for three days. You act like you’re not into it.”

“Yeah.”

“They don’t want a man who’s easy. If you call them immediately, they think you’re pathetic. What’s your star sign?”

“Aquarius.”

“So you’d do well with a…”

“How about a Gemini?”

I knew Jessica was a Gemini.

“Actually, a Gemini is your soulmate. How did you know?”

“She’s a Gemini. Sometimes I feel like there’s two people inside her head.”

“That’s the way Geminis are.”

Was Jessica my soulmate after all?

I woke up to reality. I had forgotten I was here to buy a car. After an hour of talking, we’d discussed everything except the SUV. By the end, we were sitting on a park bench smoking pot. I promised to call him that same night and tell him my decision.

My mom was excited. The car was exactly what she wanted. It cost $22,000. I told her it was $23,000. I felt sick about lying to her, but I thought the extra thousand would cover next month’s rent. I’d pay her back when I could. I don’t know if I even believed myself. The job situation wasn’t looking great. I had this strong feeling in the pit of my stomach that my troubles hadn’t even begun. In the end, I even haggled the actual price down by 250 bucks.

“Don’t rob me. My wife already took me to the cleaners.” Laughing.

We drove to Venice Beach. Small quirky neighborhoods, single-story houses, romantic water canals. The area was going the same way as Kallio in Finland. Prices through the roof due to all the hipsters. Until the homeless people took over the beaches after Covid. So sad. Where were they supposed to go? They had nowhere else. 

We’d reached an agreement on the car. The Spanish guy asked if he could smoke in the car. I said yes, aware that this couldn’t be the first time. Strangely enough, the car didn’t smell of cigarettes. Could the green Little Tree hanging from the mirror actually work? Sitting behind the wheel felt strange. I felt important as I turned on the blinker. I turned left down a narrow alleyway. I’d only driven in Los Angeles three times before now. We arrived at a small car dealership.

“I’m gonna jump off here.”

“Buying a new car?”

“A used Range Rover.”

“You want me to wait? In case you can’t find anything?”

“I’ll buy something, as long as it works.”

He was actually walking into a dealership to buy a car without any idea what they had in stock. I wished I had even a third of his carefree attitude. My eczema would be a distant memory.

“Gimme a call if you wanna have a drink sometime”, he said.

“Sure.”

His wife lost a real one in him. She was still messaging him. Apologizing. I watched him getting smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. I was certain we would never meet again. I turned on the radio. Felt something undefinable in my stomach.

I parked in front of a small gray house on Ocean Drive. Searched my jeans for my bong. Inhaled deeply. In that moment, I felt like a part of something. Maybe it was the car, maybe it was Bob Marley’s music. I spent the day listening to music and driving. Malibu, Santa Monica, the Hollywood Hills, West Hollywood. Eventually I ran low on gas. I regretted my joyride in the morning. Not that gas was crazy expensive or anything.

I shaved my beard and my head. I’d been looking forward to tonight. I’d be driving my very own, freshly waxed car to the nightclub. Maybe Jessica would look at me differently. Kian was putting gel in his hair. He used to mold it into spikes. During the day, he wore a tie and glasses.

I could hardly contain myself. I’d picked out a HIM album for the drive. One steep climb up La Cienega Boulevard, and we’d be on Sunset Boulevard. The new nightclub was on the first floor of the W hotel. 

We got out of the car. Walked to the short queue outside the restaurant. We had gotten there early to make sure we got in. Linda nodded, come on in boys. I glanced at Jessica. She gave us a cool hi. 

We went over to the bar. The moment I had been waiting for felt empty. I decided to order a vodka shot. Kian made sure we didn’t run out of drinks.

“Don’t worry about the car, Samantha can drive it back.”

I looked at the blonde girl standing next to us in confusion. So she was to be our designated driver.

“Drink up. Let’s have fun.”

The more I drank, the worse I felt. Shot glass in hand, I tried to figure out how to find a job as quickly as possible. I’d emailed an old teacher yesterday to ask for work. I was feeling down. He hadn’t replied. We’d had lunches together, seen arthouse movies at the ArcLight together, maybe I shouldn’t have asked for a job. I was ashamed of myself. Or maybe he hadn’t even opened his inbox yet? I was lost in thought. The blonde girl’s friend tapped me on the shoulder.

“So, you guys promised to take me to Santa Monica first.”

“OK.”

“I’m not coming to any after-parties. I’m a good girl.”

“Right.”

“And I don’t even know your name.”

“Emil.”

“Nice name.”

“Believe it or not, I didn’t come up with it myself.”

“Haha…”

So I drank iced water for the rest of the night. I was in a foul mood. I didn’t even know if I had enough gas to drive to Santa Monica and back. Two hours later, the same girl insisted on filling my tank and paying for it. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. She’d noticed the yellow fuel light. I tried to pretend I was stopping at a gas station to buy Coca-Cola. The plan was to fuel up when she wasn’t looking. She had done it herself while I was inside picking a soda. She even thanked me for the ride politely. She was so sweet. Different from all the hoes I had met. Forgive the blunt choice of words. 

Samantha looked deep into my eyes as she was getting out of the car. I think she expected me to ask for her number. I had a blunt conversation with myself inside my head. I have zero shot with this girl. I wanted to ask her out. But I didn’t have the nerve. 

She turned around right as she was stepping inside the small house. Spread her hands and smiled. For the life of me, I can’t understand why I couldn’t just get out of the car. It’s been haunting me. It still stings as I write this now. If I ever see her again I’ll open my mouth. It’s never too late. Never. Right?

Oh, you think sometimes the moment’s just gone? And then it’s too late? No. No, it’s not! There will be another chance! Believe me. But you can’t fuck that one up. You have to learn from your mistakes.

I’d spoken to Niklas on the phone. We were meeting up at Fantasy Island, a titty bar in West LA.

I walked in, looked for my friend, but he wasn’t there. The clientele seemed kind of hillbilly. The place was a dump. Even the strippers were pretty unimpressive. I ordered a beer and sat at the bar. After two beers my friend arrived. He sat down next to me.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“No worries.”

“Whatcha been up to?”

“Shooting a student project thing.” I felt bad about lying. “Like a mystery lottery win, family feud kind of thing.”

I couldn’t come up with a better story in the moment. I was just too embarrassed to admit how badly I needed a job. Before the second beer, all I’d been feeling was anxiety. I’d been looking for work every day, but there were thousands of applicants for every job out there. And I struggled to write in English because of my dyslexia. Who knows, maybe that was the reason I was never even called for an interview? 

I know Kian would have helped me with the emails. People had been giving me shit about my dyslexia since elementary school. If you ask me, people who worry about one misplaced word in a sentence are small-minded snobs with nothing real to say.

“What did you shoot it on?”

“16 mil.”

“I’m probably doing an Elton John video in Vancouver in three weeks.”

“Good song?”

“Eh.”

Two young dancers came up to us. One of them started giving Niklas a hard time.

“You never called!”

“I lost my phone.”

Niklas dug a phone out of his jeans pocket and took the girl’s number down again. I tried to be cool and went for a private show with the other girl. When she took off her bra, I was thinking about the last of my dollars deep in my pocket. Why didn’t I say no? This was a lot of lunches vanishing into thin air.

We rounded out the night with a party in Venice Beach. There were about fifty people in the house. I kissed a dark-skinned girl on the couch. Everything was turning into a haze again. I saw Niklas in the kitchen. He was pouring Finlandia vodka into a glass. I don’t know how the bottle turned up at the party. We didn’t bring it. I went in to fill my glass.

“I’ve never kissed anyone as dark as that before.”

Niklas chuckled.

“That’s funny, but kinda racist.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. You got me wrong!” I poured myself a big glass of vodka. “Did you hear me? You got me all wrong.”

Even though I was three sheets to the wind, my friend’s harmless dig about racism bothered me. I had always been of the opinion that racists were people who project their own misery by judging others. Real fucking losers.

“Have you ever seen a little kid who’s racist? No, you haven’t. Imbeciles are racist. Incels.”

“Hey, Zátopek, just drink up and shut up for a second.”

I took a swig straight from the vodka bottle. I guess I was so drunk that even my friend was tired of listening to me. I wanted to ask Niklas if he had any jobs I could get in on. The party was starting to get to me. I knew they couldn’t very well fly me to Vancouver, but I wanted some kind of consolation anyway. I poured vodka and cranberry juice into my glass. Looked around at the party-goers. Whose party even was this? 

I walked back to the couch. I had to sit down for a second. The room was spinning. I took a big gulp of water from a glass on the table. Spit it right back out. Some nutter had filled the glass with liquor. A fat man in a Lakers cap gave me a sip from his Coke bottle.

“No water in there, huh?”

“No. Right when I was hoping for just water.”

“I didn’t put it there. Drink this Coke.”

“Thanks.”

The fat guy started rolling two joints.

“You can have the smaller one.”

I didn’t have the heart to say no, even though I wanted to. He told me he produced and directed porn movies. Bragged about being the biggest producer in town. He seemed like a fun dude after a short conversation. I told him I was looking for assistant work. He gave me his business card. 

I was drunkenly admiring a Sitting Bull poster on the wall. The Indian had a rugged face. I was wondering about the strange dimple on his cheek. It made him look kind of friendly. 

We had a brief philosophical conversation about all sorts of life stuff. I was surprised to realize I liked the guy. How had he gotten into the business? Maybe he had a hunch that the industry would soon be worth tens of billions of dollars? My eyes drifted shut. The cushion felt soft, and I slowly fell asleep. The porn director hit me on the shoulder.

“Wake up. Here’s Jesse, she’s one of my girls.”

A blonde woman was looking at me doubtfully.

“This boy is from Finland. Finland, Nokia phone.”

I had fallen asleep on the couch. The beautiful woman smiled at me as I opened my eyes.

“Go on, get something to eat from the kitchen.”

The girl looked me in the eye.

“Don’t be shy.”

The director laughed. The girl and I went to get some chips from the kitchen. Then she led me to the bathtub. I don’t know, maybe something had already happened and I’d missed it. But I jumped in the tub. You never get this lucky.

“Don’t get water on my Hermès bag. It can’t get wet!”

The girl filled the tub with soap bubbles. I thought the porn star liked me. But in reality, I guess I’d told the porn director about my life. I couldn’t remember exactly what. I never spill my guts to strangers when I’m drunk. I don’t even tell my friends about my problems. Way too much booze and drugs. But it was clear he wanted to cheer me up. He’d made some kind of deal with the girl. 

Several hours later, I bumped into the director in the kitchen again. I was getting pizza and water. A couple more drinks and I’d have passed out. He asked me to join him on the balcony. He was admiring the ocean view from upstairs. I stared at the palm trees. They’d always fascinated me somehow. The director didn’t ask about the porn star at all. He tapped me on my upper arm.

“You’re a real one. Not many of those around.”

I was starting to remember more of our previous conversation. I felt dizzy and ashamed. He quickly changed the subject to basketball. The pornstar found her way onto the balcony. She had a plateful of carrots and pretzel sticks. She cuddled up to me sweetly. 

“I don’t know what you’re so anxious about. You’re wild.”

The director made a hand gesture. Shut up. My gaze shifted down to the wooden floor of the balcony. The polish was very worn. The railings needed touching up.

“Have you ever been fucked properly?” 

Who said that? I turned around, recognized the guy. A famous singer. The pornstar was offended. Turned her back to him. I couldn’t wrap my head around how a man who sang such deep love songs could be such a jerk. 

“Well, go fuck that tall guy then. He’s handsome if I’m not good enough.” 

The producer smoothed things over with him.

I was sitting in a café on Sunset Boulevard again. My car was in The Coffee Bean parking lot. I didn’t care about the car anymore. There were men playing chess at the next table. Two girls were comparing headshots behind me. I watched them in a daze. Then I gathered my courage and called Zane.

“I need a job. And I’m broke.”

“Well shit, come to work in the morning.”

He texted me the address. I promised to be there at 9 a.m. The drip coffee was starting to warm my throat. I felt relieved.

I was wearing old, torn sweatpants and a worn Mickey Mouse t-shirt. I knocked on the door nervously. The area looked nice. Lots of palm trees, small cozy houses. Zane’s house was the exception to the rule. Straight out of a horror movie, an abandoned house with a basement to imprison people in. Zane opened the door in his boxers.

“Wait out here. I’ll be right back.”

I sat down. The house was missing half its roof. The downstairs floor was partly gone. The building was an eyesore in the neighborhood. A lady across the street was trimming her hedges. Her yard could have been straight out of a gardening magazine. Zane reappeared about fifteen minutes later. 

“These illegal Mexicans used to live here. I evicted the fuck out of them. It’s gonna have three one-bedroom apartments with hot tubs and everything.”

I struggled to understand how this run-down hovel had found its way into such a fancy neighborhood.

“How many guys do you have working for you?”

“There was this homeless guy. I paid him fifteen bucks an hour. That fucking asshole kept whining that the work was too hard. I’ll never fucking help a homeless person again. They’re just too lazy to work.”

“That’s weird. You’d think they’d want the job.”

“Let’s go inside.”

I looked around at the rusty pipes. The sand on the ground. The backyard looked like a landfill. The large green dumpsters were full of lumber.

“Tear all these old pipes the fuck out. You like The Police?”

“The police?”

“Sting. The band?”

“Yeah.”

“Good!”

Zane put on “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” by The Police on full blast. 

I started tearing out the rusty pipes. They came off surprisingly easily. I actually enjoyed the work. It was hard. Sweating soothed my mind. I thought Zane was a stand-up guy. I could tell he was living in this ruin of a house. I don’t even think there was running water. But I played dumb, pretended not to assume he was living in a run-down compost heap. There was a big Cadillac Escalade out in the yard, and a new SL 63 AMG convertible Mercedes. I didn’t get it, but hey, it wasn’t my business.

“OK, break time. Let’s have a joint.”

“Oh, already.”

We’d been working for two hours. Zane lit up a joint. For the next two hours, we sat on the floor listening to music and smoking pot. I realized we wouldn’t be doing any more building that day. But hey, I needed the “job”. If someone was willing to pay me even a little, then that was good enough for me. Zane paid me at the end of the day, including for the three hours we spent smoking pot and shooting the shit. The sun had gone down hours ago.

“Let’s pick this up tomorrow at 9:30.”

I folded the notes into my wallet. It felt good, even though I wasn’t sure whether I had actually helped Zane or unwittingly featured on an episode of Candid Camera.

We were having a barbecue on Isaac and Peter’s rooftop terrace. Peter’s sweater touched the grill.

“And I just showered, damn it.”

I tried not to laugh. The steaks looked great. Isaac brought cold margaritas from the kitchen. We sat in the chairs on the terrace. I was in a quiet mood, listening to Peter and Isaac talk about some new supermodel reality show. They’d asked a good friend of Peter’s to host it, but he’d refused. I felt incredibly relaxed, watching the steaks sizzle on the grill and the narrow, winding roads below. 

After sunset, we went inside and sat on the brown leather couches in the living room. We smoked pot and browsed through different TV channels. There was a huge painting of an angry King Kong on the wall. I’d always stare at it while high, wondering why that particular one had been chosen to hang in the biggest corner of the living room. I felt kind of awkward after chilling on the couches for several hours. I didn’t want to go home, but I also didn’t feel like I could spend the night. Eventually Isaac said he had an early start in the morning. I thanked them for a lovely day. 

Once I got to the SUV, I realized I had no idea how to get home. The leaves on the palm trees looked sharp. You could cut your fingers on them. I stared at a red brick house. I had left the car in their yard with Peter’s “permission”. Peter and Isaac’s neighbor was a famous B-list actor. His life looked perfect. Except Peter had told me about his partner crying, running to escape the violent actor on the weekends. Peter had gotten an extra parking space in their yard with the woman’s permission. I guess it made her feel a little safer. 

I tried to bring myself back to the present moment. Everything looked like a video game. If you get shot, just hit Enter and Start Over. I turned on the car. Drove slowly down the Hills.

I’d called dozens of places about a job again. Checked my emails every morning. All spam. Kian’s old schoolmate Ryan and I had become close friends. He lived above us in the same building. We smoked a lot of pot and watched South Park. Ate junk food. Ryan was short and kind of stocky. He was four years older than me. Sometimes he complained about his job. Being a lawyer sucked, apparently. He smoked pot to forget about his job. I smoked to forget I didn’t have one. 

I felt good on Ryan’s couch. Sometimes I slept on it, even though I lived downstairs. I was sure Ryan could tell I was depressed. We only ever argued a few times, and always over women. At after-parties, I just wanted a cozy spot to curl up and sleep. Ryan didn’t like that. He wanted me to stay up and entertain the ladies all night.

Ryan was looking for his future wife in every girl. That surprised me, since none of his women ever seemed like the future mothers of any children to me. I mentioned it once or twice. He was offended, so I resolved to bite my tongue next time.

Crunch was a gym in West Hollywood. I went there almost every day. You could see Sunset Boulevard from the gym floor, fifty yards below. It was a lovely view, as if the sky was bowing down to touch the ground. 

The gay clientele would often give me significant looks. Once every couple of weeks, someone would slip me a crumpled piece of paper with a phone number on it. I knew they were only interested in my looks. I did call one guy, an older man with his own production company. He’d produced several horror movies. I thought I’d be bold and ask him for a job. He started the call by asking about my ab workout. I told him I was naturally thin. I very quickly realized there was no point asking him about a job. He was trying to turn me gay with his money.

Work with Zane had been drying up lately. He’d taught me the basics of construction work. Sometimes I wondered if this was it. I had flown twelve hours on a plane to hammer nails into a wall. I was removing old parquet flooring with a claw hammer. Sweat was pouring down my face. I let my mind drift away. Zane interrupted my daydreaming.

“Let’s have a break.”

We walked inside. I sat on the worn leather couch. Zane sat on the floor. He was showing off his new computer.

“This cost me nearly two thousand bucks.”

“Nice.”

“You should see the image quality when you watch movies on it.”

Zane dug out a huge sack of marijuana. Lately, we’d only been working while high. Everything we were doing seemed to be getting slower by the day. Zane was an even bigger pothead than me. I was impatiently waiting for him to roll our joints when he said the words I didn’t want to hear:

“I’mma have to pay you in pot. This bag’s worth 200 bucks.”

“OK.”

I was pissed off but didn’t dare argue. Zane took an orange t-shirt out of the closet. It was silk, apparently. He put it on and twirled. All I could think about was how to find someone to sell this huge bag of pot to.

Even though there was no light on the horizon, I guess I still believed in a miracle, a lottery win. Maybe the drugs made me lose touch with reality. Why didn’t I just pack my bags and head for Helsinki Airport? Somehow, I was convinced a miracle would turn up. I’d get the chance to prove myself. Succeed. Show my bullies what’s what. I wish I had known how to look inward. All my dreams of success were starting to poison my soul.

I was stuck in a traffic jam on Wilshire Boulevard. I kept switching channels on the radio. Couldn’t find the right song. I contemplated the other cars stopped at the traffic lights. Once I got to West Hollywood, I kept going toward the Hills. Driving soothed my mind. 

All those fancy houses with mood lighting glowing through their windows. I imagined what it might feel like to own a key to one of them. To open the door to a house where someone might be waiting for me. Sunday morning, barbecue in the backyard. 

My daydreaming was interrupted by a long-haired man in a wheelchair on Sunset Boulevard. He was holding a piece of cardboard that said: “Vietnam vet. Please help. I’m hungry.”

I walked into the kitchen in my boxers. The coffee was out. I took a cold Coke and an egg roll out of the fridge. I microwaved the roll for way too long. Then I opened my laptop on the glass table. I noticed the glass was covered in food stains and wiped it down with a damp rag. There was an email from Niklas’ assistant. Niklas would be directing a music video. It was for one of my favorite female artists. This was a nice surprise. My presence would be required at 6:30 a.m. that Sunday. I took a deep breath. Finally, a gig.

I decided to get a large latte from The Coffee Bean. I texted my mom to tell her I’d gotten a job. Mom responded with a long message telling me how glad she was. The latte tasted great. I wrapped my fingers around the paper cup.

I didn’t get more than two hours of sleep the night before Sunday. I was afraid I’d accidentally oversleep, which kept me awake. I left the house at four in the morning. I didn’t want to be even a minute late. I swigged coffee from a huge thermos while driving. I’d found a radio station that played old rock albums. There was something about Nirvana songs that always stopped me in my tracks. You could hear in the color of Kurt’s voice that he was in Hell. The boy from under the bridge was singing “Come as You Are.” He found his answer in a shotgun. The bullet went straight into his brain. No detour through his heart. I arrived downtown at 5:20 a.m. The freeways were empty in the morning.

The first crew members and their trucks got there at 5:30. The producer shook my hand and asked if I was the director’s friend. I said yes. He wondered why I was there so early. The spotlights and tripods weighed more than I remembered. I carried them with a couple of guys who were a bit older than me. One of them was giving us directions. I knew I’d be paid about $250 for the day. 

Around nine o’clock, Niklas and the rest of the production crew arrived. I exchanged a few quick words with Niklas. During the shoot, my job was to spray the asphalt with a large water hose. On the break, Niklas drank coffee.

“Is that why you went to film school?”

“What?”

“To spray water and clean up.”

“Haha, no I did not.”

I gave him a wink. I knew he was just giving me shit as a joke. Still, after all my setbacks in recent weeks, it didn’t feel good. I’d planned to ask the producer if there was any more work available. But I didn’t have the nerve. I just forced myself to laugh it off and act cheerful. I didn’t mind carrying shit around. It was the condescending looks from the two cameramen that bothered me. Niklas came to get me at lunch.

“Come eat with me.”

During lunch, we talked about everything except the production. At the end of the day, the producer came to shake my hand.

“Damn, you worked hard today.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re friends with the director, I mean, you could have just sat around and collected the money.”

My grin must have been visible from miles away.

“A great fucking attitude.” He gave me a pat on the shoulder. “If you want…” 

The female artist turned up before he could finish. She shook my hand politely, looked me in the eye, and said hi. Her manager yelled from a distance.

“We’re gonna be late. The magazine photographer’s waiting!”

“Wait up, I’m coming!” 

The producer left with her.

“See ya!”

The producer looked back at me, waved. I waved back. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t roll a joint at the end of the day.

Ryan and I were walking down Hollywood Boulevard. The fairy lights wrapped around the palm trees looked amazing while high. Ryan had insisted on going for a beer. He’d knocked on my door an hour earlier. He had an early start in the morning, but he needed a cold beer right now. 

The doorman wouldn’t let Ryan in. He was OK with me, though, since I was a familiar face. We turned to go. 

“You shoulda brought three girls with you.”

“We’re here to pick up girls. You don’t come to a bar with them, do you?”

The doorman didn’t find this funny. Ryan turned to me.

“You go, it’s OK.”

“Let’s go somewhere else.”

“I have an early start.”

“You’re the one who wanted to go.”

“Nah, you go. Look at all these girls going in.”

“I don’t know…”

“I’ll call you tomorrow. Go!”

Ryan walked back to his car. I went straight to the counter and ordered a Heineken. I loved the fact that you could smoke “freely” in LA bars. Sean Paul was playing in the background. The place was full of beautiful women. I took my bong out of my pocket and hit the dance floor. A girl with plastic titties was groping my ass. I turned around and grabbed her tight butt. I could feel the music vibrate inside me. Sean Paul, “Gimme the Light”, palm trees, waterfall, red colors. A bridge that separated the dance floor from the bar. The scary black night.

“Why are you wearing a beanie?”

“I have a hole in my brain.”

“I can see that…”

“What do you mean?”

She looked deep into my eyes. I took her into my arms. Gave her a cuddle.

“You like AC/DC?”

I looked at my t-shirt. I’d forgotten what it says.

“Nah, I’m just trying to be cool.”

“Haha, I can see that.”

I kissed her neck.

“You’re crazy.”

“According to recent studies, yeah…”

“Haha…”

She introduced me to her friend. I shook hands with a charismatic-looking guy in his fifties. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to buy drinks for her. We headed to the bar.

“My friend says I should go home with you?”

“I agree.”

“You’re trouble.”

“No I’m not. Let’s get out of here.”

“Is your car outside?”

“No.”

“I have a two-seater.”

“Let’s ditch your guy.”

“He’s my best friend.”

“Let’s find him someone to fuck.”

“He likes men.”

Eight minutes later, the man was driving the girl’s lilac Corvette. She was sitting in my lap. I barely fit in the car. I grabbed her tits in my arms.

“Sorry, I’m just so scared of car rides.”

“You seriously have a screw loose. I knew it.”

“You have a screwdriver?”

“No, but we could find a doctor and get you one.”

We arrived at a small house. I didn’t know where we were exactly. Probably in Brentwood. I vaguely remembered seeing the sign. We had a beer while the man showed off album covers he’d designed. Justin Timberlake, Bon Jovi. I praised his pics, even though I’d forgotten every single one as soon as I saw them. He gave me a blanket. I walked to the red couch in the living room. Rolled a joint. 

The girl came and sat in my lap. She took off my shirt. Started kissing my body. I took off her red bra. Explored her plump silicones. The man left the room politely.

“How are these so soft?”

“Saline solution.”

“What?”

She took off my jeans. Slipped my cock into her mouth. I pulled her hair back. I wanted to see her beautiful face. Sex only felt good when I was high. I held onto my cock, I didn’t want to cum too early. She removed my hand despite my objections.

“Does your friend have a condom?”

“I can’t ask him… I’m definitely not asking him.”

“Yeah, he probably doesn’t realize what we’re up to.”

I tried to take off her panties. She pushed my hand away. Crawled into my arms.

“Are you always that carefree?”

“I dunno.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No. Do you?”

“Hey, be serious for a second! Do you like LA?”

“I love how honest and straightforward people are.”

“Haha… Are you happy?”

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m high. When I’m sober I wanna die.” I flashed a stupid smile.

“That’s what I thought.”

My cock was still hard after an hour’s conversation. The sun was coming up. I gave Angelina my phone number. I had already decided not to answer if she called, though. Out on the street, I realized I had no idea which direction to take. I was in Brentwood. That’s right. My coke baggie had disappeared during the night. For a moment, I considered whether I might have actually used it all. I hadn’t offered any to Angelina. There were a few flakes left in my pocket. I wet my lips with them. I had a headache. 

I solved my direction problem by walking into the breakfast place across the street. I immediately walked out again after hearing the following sentence:

“We don’t serve beer.”

“Not even with food?”

“No, we don’t have beer to go with pancakes. Believe it or not, you’re the first person to ever even ask.”

My old schoolmate Shinya worked at a sushi place in the evenings. During the day, he was an intern at an editing company. He was a shy boy from Tokyo. We were having coffee at the Beverly Center. Our friendship was unusual. We were total opposites. During our chats, I’d complain about the lack of jobs. He’d tell me he was looking for a wife. He complained that it was hard to find one in this city as a Japanese guy. If not impossible. 

He had a little crush on a Japanese waitress he worked with. Shinya had broken up with his first girlfriend after being together for eight years. He didn’t know how to be alone. I told him about Jessica.

“Why don’t you just ask her out for coffee?”

“What if she says no?”

“Well, then you know.”

“Yeah. Maybe I should. No. I don’t know how to do it sober.”

“Well, you’re not gonna ask her drunk, are you? I just don’t get you.”

I never told Shinya about the one-night stands, the cocaine. Though I do believe he had his suspicions. My phone would often ring when I was hanging out with him. I never answered. I knew I was Shinya’s only friend. Our friendship meant a lot to him. Sometimes I told Shinya I wasn’t doing well. I needed more stability in my life. Shinya needed more adventures. 

Sometimes he’d bring me Japanese food from work. I felt weirdly humiliated by it. I couldn’t just appreciate the sincerity of the gesture, even though I more than needed the food. I’m so ashamed of the idiot I used to be.

I sat in the living room watching South Park and smoking pot. I was feeling sad. I’d just found out that I didn’t get a job I’d applied for the week before. At least they had gotten in touch and told me. Even that was progress. I didn’t want Kian to see that I was depressed. He came home from work and asked me to come play basketball at the West LA gym.

“So your folks are coming over this Sunday?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I put my new clothes in your wardrobe?”

“Of course.”

Kian’s family had lost a fortune in the gas station business. A bigger gas station turned up next to theirs and drove them into bankruptcy. He gave his father seven hundred dollars every month. I wondered whether I’d ever be able to do the same for my parents. I didn’t want to think too hard about it, it made me feel ill. 

What had my parents given me? Visits to the psychologist when I was thirteen years old. Monopoly games with the therapist while my mom had coffee at Hakaniemi Market. No one knew why I was having night terrors. I found it impossible to concentrate at school. The other kids could sense I was weak. They started bullying me relentlessly, and not a single teacher intervened. 

My parents had made it possible for me to study in the United States. How many Finns could do that without a scholarship? I always saw things the way it suited me to see them at any given moment. 

Kian insisted on going to play basketball.

“I’ve never played basketball while high.”

“It feels amazing.”

Kian brought a white baggie out of his room.

“Let’s do a quick line.”

“That’s not smart. It’s bad for your heart right before exercise.”

“Just a little.”

I had my threadbare Nike basketball shoes in my left hand. My house key in my right hand. I knew this was a very bad idea. I just couldn’t bring myself to care. I guess I also thought I was immortal. The key was up my nose quicker than my thoughts were racing through my brain. And the next thought was about the next line, of course.

We listened to Kid Rock’s “Lonely Road of Faith” in the car. I wanted to hear it again and again. I also loved Kid Rock’s “Picture.” I put it on despite Kian’s objections. Kian didn’t like to listen to it because it reminded him of an ex-girlfriend.

“Not that one.”

“Well, it’s on now.”

“Did I tell you they asked Kathy to pose in Playboy but she turned them down?”

“Yeah, you did.”

I’d seen dozens of pictures of her. All the pictures were unflattering, apparently. “She’s a thousand times more beautiful in real life.” Maybe she was, I didn’t care. 

Going to play basketball was slowly starting to feel like a big deal. Men come home after work, change their clothes. Go and play sports. Bring home sushi for their girlfriends, maybe a blockbuster movie. A normal, stable life. It didn’t quite occur to me that playing basketball while coked-up wasn’t usually part of a normal, stable life. Or being driven by a friend who, well, let’s just not even go there…

The basketball court at the gym was chaos. Nearly thirty people wanted to play in the first game. Half of them didn’t even seem to know the basic rules. I was too fucked up to focus.

“I’mma go lift weights, pick me up when you’re ready.”

“C’mon, play a couple of games at least!”

The games looked like a mixture of floorball, basketball and soccer.

“Yeah, no.”

I went to have a lie-down on the stretching mats. That’s where Kian woke me up.

“I could do with a good burger… There’s a nice spot near here.”

“What time is it?”

“Dude’s been sleeping!”

We went for a burger.

I’d been spending more and more time on Ryan’s couch, watching cartoons. I’d never listened to Dave Matthews Band before. Not much Pearl Jam, either. You can often tell more about someone’s personality and depth by their taste in music than a half-hour conversation. Ryan and I clicked on that level. South Park, Ben & Jerry’s, frozen pizzas, smoking pot. Ryan would often warn me about the dangers of cocaine. Kian’s habit was getting out of hand. I tried to downplay mine as much as I could.

“Kian won’t be able to keep working for long. Always out partying somewhere.”

“Yeah.”

I didn’t know what else to say. I was complicit in Kian’s nightly adventures. Ryan went to the bathroom. I sat alone with the bong. There was a Lakers-Pacers game on in the background. Suddenly, a mass brawl broke out. I was too high to notice how the scuffle had started. I just suddenly saw players and spectators beating the crap out of each other.

“Come quick!”

“Did someone score?”

“Run!”

Ryan ran into the living room. Looked at the TV. Then at me. Took off his round glasses. 

“What! I’m so stoned. What happened?”

Confused, Ryan kept looking at the TV, then at me, then back at the TV.

“I don’t know. Look, he’s hitting someone in the audience.”

“This is sick!”

Ryan bit into a pizza and lit up the bong. We watched the fight on the edge of our seats, like a FIFA World Cup game that’s gone to penalties. Entertainment at its best. Afterward, we moved to the balcony. We sat in the chairs in silence, watching the leaves on the palm trees. We were too stoned. Neither of us felt up to talking. We admired the neighbor’s bright blue 1967 Mustang. Freshly waxed. My dream car. Ryan came to.

“Uh-oh, I have work in six hours. Being a lawyer sucks.”

“I’m stressed out ‘cause I don’t have enough work.”

“I have a feeling we’ll be working together one day.”

I looked at Ryan in amazement.

“How’s that possible?”

“I don’t know, maybe I’ll help you with contracts or something.”

“Ryan, there’s no need for lawyers in my line of work.”

“Time will tell.”

I looked Ryan in the eye. How high was he? His eyes were already closed.

It was a rainy, stormy night. I was sitting on a wooden toilet lid in a nightclub. The club was half empty. Women don’t go out when it rains. It’s about the only thing I’d learned in my last few months in this city. I had the biggest cocaine baggie I’d ever bought in my pocket. I’d planned my outfit carefully. Harley-Davidson t-shirt, hat, clean Adidas sneakers. I opened the door, washed my hands. My throat was dry. I took a quick sip from the dirty tap. Jessica was sitting in a booth. I walked right up to her, put my hand on her thigh. She looked at me cautiously.

“You always look so beautiful.”

“Thanks.”

“Let’s finally have that beer?”

“No thanks.” Jessica turned her back to me.

“Just the one. I’m not a serial killer.”

“And I’m not just a good-looking chick.”

“Well, this is harder than it needs to be.”

“You know what, it’s really not.”

“Let’s go to the bar, c’mon.”

“I’m not drinking, and you shouldn’t either. You look like you’ve been in a fight!”

I didn’t get what she meant about the fight. I hadn’t been in a fight with anyone since junior high. Even then, I was the one getting my ass kicked. I’d never hit anyone. Jessica walked sternly away.

I headed straight to the dance floor downstairs. I couldn’t see Kian anywhere. I was feeling frustrated and down, so I didn’t stay to look for my friend. I picked up my car from the parking lot. Checked myself out in the rearview mirror. My nose was bleeding. The coke had irritated the lining of my nose. I wiped my face with a Starbucks tissue and stuck a Metallica album in the CD player. I stopped by In-N-Out Burger on the way. My heart was beating scary hard. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. No point in going to bed. I switched from Metallica to the radio. “The Crying Game” by Boy George was on.

An old colleague of my dad’s had given me a contact at a local ad agency. They’d be shooting a Heineken commercial that Sunday. We’d agreed that my first gig with them would be unpaid. It was the city’s way of recycling students. Do the first gig for free, there won’t be another one. It had happened to me eight times already in the last two months. Maybe this one would be the exception. 

We were filming in an old theater downtown. I carried spotlights around, sweating myself silly. Between takes, the producer complained that his coffee didn’t have enough milk. He’d asked me to bring it over two minutes earlier. I walked back downstairs to get more milk. When I got back up, he asked me to get a plastic lid for the cup. Apparently, there were lids downstairs. So I walked down the two flights of stairs for the third time to look for his fucking plastic lid. I wanted to spit in his coffee. But I didn’t.

During lunch, I found a gossip rag lying on a theater seat. It had a two-page spread about Jessica. Interview with the hottest promoter in LA. I read the article. Her answers annoyed me enormously. She gave the wrong impression of herself, a foolish one. She was on my mind for the rest of the shoot. 

At the end of the day, I was praised for my contribution. Promised more work, paid this time. That never materialized. Surprise, surprise. Just another case of ruthless exploitation of young ex-students. My friend Shinya had actually edited two whole TV commercials for free. I couldn’t see how that was even possible. He was sad occasionally, but never upset about it.

We were sitting on Sienna’s balcony, smoking pot. I’d met Sienna while I was at school. We’d become good friends. She lived in a high-rise across the street from Tower Records in West Hollywood. I knew Sienna was very lonely. All her friends were in romantic relationships. Expecting babies. Her brown cat Tim was her emotional support animal. We’d never kissed. She did want to. But she was nice, a real friend, and I didn’t want to ruin it. 

Sienna was obsessed with becoming an actress. It kind of annoyed me. She did commercials. She was undeniably talented. Tony Kaye had asked her to be in his next project. I remember visiting her once while she was preparing for an audition. She’d be portraying a suicidal woman. I got scared when she acted the part for me. I didn’t know who I was seeing in that moment. I asked her to stop reading the lines.

“I thought we were making Spanish omelettes.”

I poured the contents of the grocery bag onto the table. Drew Sienna back into our world. 

Her habit of reading Tarot annoyed me, too. I kept drawing a card that said “Hidden creativity”. I didn’t want it. Sienna explained that it was the card I was meant to draw.

“And I knew it anyway.”

“What?”

“That you’re creative.”

“I wanted a card that says everything’s gonna be OK, you’re getting a job!”

“Haha…”

I told Sienna all about my hoes, my drugs, my money troubles. I hoped it might dampen her crush on me. Unfortunately, it did the opposite. She wanted to save me. She knew I was extremely sweet and sensitive deep down. I didn’t even realize myself that I was putting on a front all the time. Acting like the “tough guy”. In hindsight it was pretty ridiculous, really. I just couldn’t quite connect the dots. 

I never told her about Jessica. I don’t know why. Maybe I didn’t want to hurt Sienna by letting her know I already had a crush on someone. Or whatever passes for a crush when you’re constantly high, as opposed to genuinely caring about someone. 

We decided to go get ice cream. A beautiful brunette was sitting in a convertible at a traffic light on Santa Monica Boulevard. She looked at us and smiled. I smiled back.

“That’s the kind of woman you want. She’s smiling at you.”

“No, I don’t.”

I looked away. I immediately regretted what I’d said, as well as avoiding eye contact. We weren’t a couple. A blonde, muscular guy with make-up on was walking his tiny dog next to us. Sienna and I shared an amused look. All these gay guys on the prowl on Santa Monica Boulevard, using their pets as bait. Then I gave Sienna a serious look.

“I don’t know what to do. My friend doesn’t have any work for me.”

“So tell him straight.”

“I kinda just don’t wanna be one of those assholes begging for a job.”

“But you need a job.”

“Would your restaurant have anything?”

“I can ask.”

“Thanks. What about my English?”

“Not a problem.”

“Yeah, and I can always speak Spanish.”

Sienna gave me a shove.

“I want a milkshake.”

“How about a movie?”

“Sure.”

We rented Owen Wilson’s latest comedy. We both wanted to smoke some wacky tobaccy and have a laugh together. But we never put on the Blu-ray. We just fell asleep on the plump couch in each other’s arms. Sienna nudged me.

“Let’s go to the bedroom.”

We slept in the bedroom next to each other like a bored married couple. I should mention that Sienna was a very attractive, fit blonde woman. She never really understood how I could just sleep next to her. The following month she cut off all contact with me.

I hope your life is going great, Sienna. Maybe it was the right Tarot card after all, huh? Hey, made you laugh. First time for everything!