Candle Gay

Exactly one week ago today, I advocated for myself by applying for a part-time position at Diptyque at The Grove. I don’t think I got it. In a semi-fugue I drove to the fortified city-state. I love the Grove because when you’re there, a civil war could start in the world outside and you wouldn’t know it was happening for at least an hour. I crab-walked into the store, which is really just a fancy ATM vestibule, and trembled while the gays who work there looked at me like I’d walked there all the way from the East Coast.

Professional Expensive Candle Gay Sales Associates are the ones to watch. Opening Ceremony Gays( RIP) made you feel like you were doing everything wrong. Nordstrom Gays coddle you. Nordstrom Rack Gays don’t bother. But Diptyque Gays are different. They are kind and aloof at once. They’ll show you mercy but keep you at bay. They pat you on the head. There, there. They sneak up on you a day later, when you realize they knew the whole time. What exactly they knew isn’t important, but you should know that they knew the whole time and you didn’t.

I asked if there were any part-time jobs available. One of them said “Possibly” then asked if I had any experience.

“Yes,” I said.

I do have experience. Not in a fancy scent store. But I have experience. I identity as a Candle Gay. A sommelier of ghastly-priced candles and signature scents. I can’t afford them but I buy them, anyway. I’ve replaced booze and drugs with candles and cologne. Rose and sandlewood and hotel lobbies. Minimal. Understated. Tomb-like. Vaguely sinister. Those are my requirements. I study them. I research. I feel my heart race when I talk to a sales associate about the candle’s throw, how I wait for it to crash over me like a cresting wave.

“I do have experience,” I said.

I’ve worked in restaurants, at a hotel, in catering, at Cold Stone. Never in a place like this, though. I could almost hear the tongue clicking of the associate who asked me. I should have lied. I should have told them I had worked at Le Labo, which is far too hetero, and also at Loewe, which I only recently learned to pronounce correctly. I should have mocked up a fake résumé, fake credentials and contacts. I’d done it before with restaurants, before I was hired at the Standard Hotel and wheeled bags of wet garbage through the line for Le Bain. A cousin who’d worked as a server in New York gave me names for my future employers to call if they needed references.

Instead, I told them the truth: I’m a writer on strike and need more money but more importantly routine. I’ve never worked at a store like Diptyque, but I love their product. You know your product? Well, I’m passionate about it! It would be a joy for me to work there. Or a total nightmare, it didn’t matter. The gays gave me grace. Totally. I wanted to cry and fall to my knees and thank them for playing along. Another gay, who I decided was the leader, handed me a card and told me to email the woman whose name was on it. I thanked them all and hurried out. Candle gays are always in a hurry.

“Don’t forget this!” one of the them yelled once I was out of the store. I turned to see him holding out my un-validated parking ticket I had dropped. I asked him for his name, as if to say, “As your future coworker, I should get your info…” He said it in a way that let me know he knew why I had asked.

Our secret! I could hear him saying.

Then I walked into the Grove’s palazzo of, where a fountain perma-geysers to Michael Bublé, and disappeared into the parking garage.

When I left the mall, I stopped on the side of Beverly and drafted my email to the Diptyque Manager, the President of the Candle Gays, and explained to her my current situation; I’m a team player and love Diptyque. I typed into a little Google doc, feeling my car tilt a little every time another one sped by me.

I didn’t tell her that my checking account is terrifying and I’m not sure if my industry will even be here in five years and that two weeks ago, when I solicited for any job tips on Instagram, someone I don’t know Venmoed me $50 with a note that said they felt bad for me and wanted to send a tip, not knowing I meant job leads. I thanked them and spent the fifty on a sample of rose cologne.

I told her I looked forward to hopefully chatting soon and sent the email. She never wrote back.

***

It’s the last week of summer, and LA is partially empty, like a Rapture that couldn’t commit. Everyone is out of town or out of work. I wouldn’t say the vibes in the city are bad right now. They’re worse, they don’t exist.

Sometimes at dusk, I see a drone hovering around my building and over to the hills to the west of us. I can’t decide if it’s a bored rich person or LAPD. There’s a big billboard of another new 100 minute long Gal Gadot action movie on Netflix that you can see from the strike picket, which feels astonishingly on the nose. I watched the movie recently but I can’t even remember what it’s about.

I stopped eating candy, and there was a Blue Moon last night that I had no interest in going outside to look at. Apparently it won’t be seen again till 2037. Maybe we’ll still be on strike then.