Another Hipster Boy
at Deja Vu – w4m – 26 (Downtown L.A.)
You: Stock indie dude in blue vintage SLIP N’ SLIDE T-shirt and brown houndstooth cap, early 30s. Entered with matching indie-minded sidekick who looked uncomfortable and quickly bailed, leaving you alone sipping your free Pepsi, which I watched you spike with a mini-bottle of Jim Beam.
Me: Shy, beautiful (so I’m told), skinny dancer with purple hair and nose-ring, tattoo of Venezuelan flag on right shoulder, though I grew up in Palm Desert, have only left Cali 4 times, and have never been out of the country. Magnet, apparently, for boys like you. Stage name “Trish” is also my real name—that’s how I roll.
We: talked for a while. You gave me a little smile and I came over and knelt beside you and asked if you wanted a dance in the back room. You demurred, but pulled a chair up for me and started asking me about my life—where I was from, my interests, my hopes, my dreams. As Holly (the manager) says, “Give ‘em 3 minutes. If they don’t want a dance in 3 minutes, they’re not gonna get one.” But it was slow enough, I gave you 15, hoping you’d give in. You didn’t.
You: rested your hand on my arm. Told me about your art and writing. Asked me to be in one of your DIY movies. Asked me where I’d want to go if I could go anywhere in the world. I told you Rome. You said you’d take me there, and Sharpied your email and website on a coaster, gave me a long, meaningful hug, and walked out. Thanks. I’m sure I can pay rent, tuition, and my credit card bill with that coaster the same as I could with the $20 bill you would’ve paid for a lap dance.
You know, I speak hipster boy—picked it up from the natives (a few drift through every week, thinking they’re the first to notice me). Yeah, your eyes, body language, and tone of concern said you wanted to save me. But I know the truth. You wanted me to save you.
Thing is, I’m happy to. For a few minutes, at least, in the back room. But it costs 20 bucks, you cheap fuck. Also, your website is down.