Car Land, PT. 1
I met Theo at the Hollywood DMV on the first of the month, when I set my alarm for four AM to wait in line in hopes of applying to lease a car. I did this every month. There was a lottery to skip the line and apply directly, but the chances of winning were as low as they could get, so I’d since given up magical thinking and resigned to skipping work when I had to and wait for hours—sometimes late into the night. People slept there, often a week in advance, to try and better their odds. Only once did I try this, arriving the evening before to an already impossible line. I brought a folding chair you watch fireworks in, and snorted Adderall to keep myself awake. It didn’t make a difference.
After several attempts for clean automotive energy legislation were blocked, most states had no choice but to limit the amount of gasoline cars on the road, as the weather became more extreme with each season. I always assumed electric cars would one be as plain and overlooked as Dasani water. Instead, most of the population of Los Angeles walked, biked, or took crammed buses, which had to be modified to fit everyone. Only the rich drove electric.
One of the first things Theo told me, standing in line directly behind me that day, was that he had driven electric until three months before, when his car was set on fire downtown. I told him that was what he got for driving an electric car downtown. Theo said he didn’t want to be there, but he had to fill out paperwork. He was in the middle of a divorce from his husband. It had seemed like he had gay face, but I wasn’t sure till now.
“Amicable,” he added.
Then he said something about a green card. I didn’t ask.
I liked Theo’s gay face. He had been in the sun, but still had dark circles. His hair was buzzed but he hadn’t shaved in at least a week. I decided he never went more than two days without a razor, but something had happened to make him lazy. Maybe the divorce. Maybe he’d been laid off. Everyone was getting laid off these days. I got hard thinking about having melancholy, unemployed sex with him. I wasn’t unemployed yet. I still had a job. I had a paycheck and health insurance. I wanted to tell him this. He’d bragged about his dumb car. It was my turn.
Before I said anything, though, I looked down at Theo’s hands. They were big and his fingernails needed to be clipped, but they weren’t freakish yet. He was taller than me, but thin and wispy. Skinny with a fat cock, I thought. His ears were big and his eyes were brown. His lips were chapped, dehydrated. I decided I was going to ignore him for five minutes. I would make him wonder. I would make him grove and beg for me. I would spit in his mouth.
“What’s your name?” Theo asked.
“David,” I lied.
I didn’t turn around.
“Do you live in Hollywood?” Theo asked.
I looked back and saw him waiting for me to answer, earnest and kind. It made me want to cry.
“West Hollywood,” I lied, again.
I didn’t want to tell him my real name, or where I lived yet. I wanted to be a little twat, but I also wanted to be safe. I’d deleted Grindr and Scruff and Tinder and Hinge six months prior. A lot of us did. There’d been an increase in assaults and killings linked to apps. Initially, it was assumed to be drug crimes. PnP hysteria. Conservative pundits soon claimed it was the snake eating its own tail—a crescendo effect of an amoral lifestyle collapsing on itself in the age of technology. There was an outcry after a popular right wing podcaster and self-described philosopher made a guest appearance on Ben Shapiro’s network talk show, and theorized that LGBTQ people would be all but extinct by their own hands by 2100.
Rumors on social media and pieces in fairly credible news outlets, however, began circulating that this seemingly disjointed horror was actually organized hate crimes— a network of bigots using fake profiles on apps to locate and hunt queers. I remembered reading that similar tactics were used in Russia and Chechnya during the late 2010s. There was supposedly financial evidence that tied actual people to the conspiracy, but it never surfaced. There were two attempts by Congress to launch an investigation. The news covered it for three weeks or so. Rachel Maddow had an entire episode devoted to it. Democratic politicians and candidates used it as talking points in debates and TV interviews. The White House said nothing. Eventually, no one talked about it anymore. Any conversations or theories were shared in person. Never over the phone. People still used Grindr. People still fucked. The violence continued like background TV.
***
“You’re fancy,” Theo said. “I’m in Koreatown.”
“Not really,” I said. “You’re the one with a firebombed Tesla.”
In the hour that Theo had spoken his first word to me, we moved up another block. The DMV was in view. It was nearly magic hour, but I was closer to it than I’d ever had been. As painful as this ritual was, I believed it was necessary. Two years prior, it had rained for a cumulative eight months. Roads split in half from the flooding. Buildings collapsed. Justin and Hailey Bieber lost their home in a mudslide while they were out of the country for a televised baptism of their second child in the River Jordan.
But one year and ten months later, it hadn’t rained a single day, minute, or second in the whole state. Nowhere felt it worse than Southern California. Celebrities in ads across social media and on TV touted the benefits of showering only once or twice a week.
A billboard near the Chateau Marmont–which was being partially rebuilt after a mudslide collided into it and buried hotel guests alive–showed a smiling Brie Larson with her (presumed) golden retriever in a sun-drenched meadow. Next to her, in bold lettering, it said “Save water. Save LA.” The PSA was panned at first for its barely-cloaked privilege and overall vagueness, but soon became a campy albeit ghoulish landmark for tourists and gays, posing for photos with the Oscar-winning actress looming in the background. The LA Times called it a perfect illustration of Angelenos’ wry embrace of the celebrity-infused doom hanging heavy over the city.
“Fuck,” Theo said, looking past me.
Before I turned to see what he saw, I could hear the sudden roar of a low-flying police helicopter overhead. Dozens of people sauntered away from the DMZ, as casual as a movie theater after a screening. Police, including a SWAT truck, pulled up to the dread building with little urgency; officers and SWAT members stepped out of their respective tanks, stretching and mingling.
I watched a glum-looking woman in her forties walk past with her tween daughter in tow; her daughter maneuvered almost supernaturally around people without looking up from her phone. The woman looked up at me and smiled like she was sorry.
“What happened?” I asked her.
“Bomb threat,” she said.
Groans and swears rippled around me, as I looked at Theo who stared at me with something between a smirk and blankness.
“What?’ I asked.
“Do you want to do something?” Theo asked.
I want you to cum on my forehead, I thought. Anoint me.
“Like what?” I asked.
Theo shrugged, and picked up a liter of water he’d been keeping between his legs, taking a swig. After he was done, he wiped his mouth and held it out for me to take. I shook my hand. We just stood there, watching police directing people out of the area. Another helicopter had joined up above, shouting something indecipherable from a microphone.
“We could get a drink or something,” I said.
Theo nodded and then we were walking together.
****