LA LIVE
EBONY HAYWOOD
After sunset— after parking meters doze to sleep, after attorneys in starched suits snap their suitcases shut, after happy hour at City Tavern and rush hour traffic on Broadway, after tired fathers in high-rise condos feed, bathe, and tuck their children into bed— there is energy: emerging from the warm concrete to electrify the air across Figueroa, Wilshire, and Olympic, the heart of Downtown Los Angeles. I feel this energy pulsing through the lights of The Staples Center, swarming with Kings Hockey fans donning oversized black and white jerseys. Outside the Regal Movie Theater, men in their blue jeans and women in their high heels, looking awkward, await their dates. I see their eyes brighten and then avert with acute embarrassment from the gazes of passersby who don’t wave and smile back.
Inside the theater, the smell of popcorn— hot and buttery— welcomes me. A man holding his cell phone in one hand and a tray of nachos in the other stands in the middle of the lobby, swiveling his head as his eyes search for his friend among the bustling crowd. Where could she have gone? Ah! There she is. A summery lady with bright eyes and a blond pixie cut flags him down with her large Icee. A small entourage of teenagers points at the show times on the marquee as they bicker and negotiate which film they will see. The boys refuse to watch a “chick-flick.” The girls pout their lips, cross their arms, and roll their eyes. Why do boys have to be so lame?
Meanwhile, in the courtyard of Microsoft Square, there is dancing. Couples jitterbug to the live music of a small jazz combo playing Django Reinhardt. Their limbs are agile as their feet kick, their torsos twist, and their hands release and unite. A crowd surrounds them with cell phones recording and flashing— the paparazzi of the next generation— under a purple light. A woman standing next to me holds her husband’s hand while she bounces subtly to the music. I feel the joy rising within her. She wants to dance. Radiant with Jubilee, she looks up at her husband and says, “That looks so fun!” Stoic and unmoved, he looks and forces a smile. They do not dance tonight.
A few feet away, two thirty-something-year-old women prepare for sad goodbyes.
“What time does your plane leave tomorrow?”
“Ten in the morning.”
“I can’t believe you’re leaving already.”
“I know. You’re so lucky to live out here. I talked to Dad this morning, said there’s already six inches of snow.”
“You should never have moved.”
“I know. But LA’s so expensive!”
They hook arms and roam the pavement, savoring these final hours of California love.
The aromatic essence of grilled onions and charbroiled meats, sautéed garlic, and basil swirl through the cool breeze from eateries: Live Basil Pizza, Wolfgang Puck Bar and Grill, Smashburger, Tom’s Urban. At Flemings, on the corner of Figueroa and Olympic, tea candles flicker on the tables, inviting cash to come and consume. A few yards down, plush sofas lounge under sterling silver heaters on the patio of Lawry’s Carvery. People whisk through the streets, pausing to consider their options, consulting their friends, wallets, and taste buds.
The hipsters gather at Lucky Strike. They are fluent in the language of arm swings and six packs. Abiding by a strict dress code (imposed by Lucky Strike to maintain propriety), they crowd the lanes in the hollow echoes of bowling balls and amid fluorescent hues of blue and gold bouncing off the walls.
“Strike!”
“Whoa!”
“Gutterball.”
“Aw.”
“It’s all good. I’m just warming up.”
“Sure you are.”
“No, for real. I’m gonna put you all to shame.”
They laugh. They share beers and French fries. They take selfies and post them on Facebook without the slightest bit of chagrin. They are, at this moment, happy to be alive. Should one of them go home and realize that she lost an earring or that he overspent his budget, it will be okay because tonight they lived.
The thick and rich Latin rhythms pulsate through the Conga Room’s walls. The sleek hardwood floor doesn’t mind the spiky stilettos that cha-cha across its surface. Multi-colored lights swarm the room, leaping and bounding from ceiling to floor to wall to wall. The heat is sticky and prophetic as it promises a happy night for those seeking love and companionship. At the bar, a young, virile man in a loose black buttoned-down shirt guides his hand to a woman’s lower back in a tight, strapless dress who looks even younger. She sips her mojito through a straw and leans toward him ever so slightly and carefully. Should she let him buy her another drink? Yes, she should. With his free hand, he signals the bartender.
Back outside, the air is fresh. A man stands idly near an ashtray and smokes his cigarette.A courtyard lamp casts a long shadow down his tall, lean figure. I pass a clan of young women who gather around a cell phone, giggling and pointing at the luminous screen. It is nearly eleven o’clock. The sidewalks are still bustling with people; the streets are still flooding with headlights. There is still movement. There is still energy.
The energy extends down Figueroa to Ninth Street at the Original Pantry Cafe, which serves breakfast from its original 1924 menu twenty-four hours a day. And, remaining true to its 1924 technology, it only accepts cash. Remarkably, it is always busy, and tonight is no exception. Young, old, and in-between people who are feeling nostalgic or who crave hash potatoes and pancakes greet the servers and place their orders with alacrity. Their smiles glow over their steamy plates and shiny forks and knives.
A homeless man shuffles by. He is old and speaks aloud in a strange tongue, an enchanted language that only he knows. Most passersby don’t mind him; the lights hypnotize them and smells and allurements mask the city’s mess— the poverty that festers in the dark alleys and the unholy streets of Skid Row. A few people notice him. They don’t stop and stare. They don’t point. They glance and try to forget, try to wash the unseemly stain from downtown’s frilly fabric. A little boy, however, is intrigued. He glares at the old man with a look of bewilderment.
“What’s wrong with him, mommy?”
His mother grabs his little hand and tugs him alongside her. “It’s not polite to stare.”
“But why— “
“Let’s go!”
So they go. And the old man continues to shuffle. I stand still and watch his worn silhouette disappear, fading into the brightness. Soon, he will emerge on the other side of the luminosity, into the squalor of downtown’s underbelly, where he will face another day— live in LA.
Ebony Haywood is a writer, teacher, and energy healer who helps people unblock their creative flow and generate solutions for their personal and professional lives. She lives in Southern California, where she enjoys cheese pizza, anything with avocado, and classic films.
