Lost chance on us
We were waiting for the train to come in the metro. The one across from the Pantages Theater in LA. I could tell you weren’t used to taking the subway by the way you held your bags so close to your chest and kept looking around hurriedly and anxiously.
I felt for you and wanted to come over, hopefully to give you some sort of comfort with a simple conversation. But I didn’t know how to go about it without you thinking I was just trying to hit on you, or worse, rob you. I decided to play it cool and act like I was just trying to read the arrival schedule that was on the wall beside you. I noticed you were carrying an Amoeba Records bag. “Any good finds?” I asked. “Excuse me?” you replied. So I pointed to your bag and repeated my previous question.
“Oh.” You seemed relieved as you began to tell me about your purchases. “I actually found a vinyl version of Basement on a Hill by Elliott Smith. I lost my cd version somehow and figured I might as well replace it with an LP.” I tried to contain my excitement about this because not only did I love Elliott Smith, but that particular record held a permanent place in my life. I helped me get through some major heartaches in my early twenties. It was actually one of my all-time favorite albums.
You won me over as we continued to talk about how you just moved to LA looking for work as a multimedia artist after dropping out from being an anthropology major in some midwest school. Something about the fact that you were just following your heart made me happy to be talking to you. I was struggling as a writer, not knowing whether I should continue to pursue it or choose a profession with more stability. You said you understood entirely, but offered some sage advice with a song lyric, “Dreamers never live. They only dream of it. What can you do in life, but give in to the passion that wakes you up every morning?” We kept talking and I even jokingly asked you to do the artwork for the cover of my future novel. But I left the part out about me not even having a publisher yet.
We rode the train together up until 40th Street when you had to get out. Even though I had an urge to get out too, I knew it was a desperate act to get even just a few more minutes with you. I didn’t know what to do next. I panicked and simply said it was nice to meet you, fully prepared to let you walk out of my life. As you were gathering your things, you turned and said, “Thanks for talking to me. I’m still a little nervous around this city, even though it’s so beautiful, there’s still something overwhelming about it.” And although I had alread guessed that, when you said it, it still made my heart melt a little. “I’m Mark by the way. It was really great talking to you. And I would actually like to do it again sometime.”
You genuinely smiled when you told me your name and said I could find you listed in Silver Lake. I shook your hand and said goodbye to you for the night even though I felt I could kiss you then and there. I got off some exits later and walked the few blocks back to my apartment, the entire time replaying each moment back in my head.
As I laid down to sleep that night, I remembered the directory and went to look up your name. But crushingly I realized that I never bothered to commit it to memory. I was too exited just knowing that I would be seeing you again. I hated myself for that oversite. For weeks afterward, I kept taking the metro even though I had my car back, hoping I would run into you again. I even made a few trips into Amoeba just in case. I eventually realized that I shouldn’t get so caught up and finally decided to give up on finding you. I gave up on the possibility of us.
I still think about it til this day though. And for the life of me, as hard as I try, I still can’t remember your name. Sam? Steve?…
