Waiting for Gaydot

I just made eye contact with the trainer working the front desk Equinox while slurping up a single chunk of lemon-zest chicken breast in the lobby of the gym. He looked challenged by the sight. He faced this horror dead on. I imagined I looked like a pelican on a dock in Florida, arching its head back to swallow a crab.

Last week at a group dinner with several gays, one of them —a very nice, very fit daddy-type—watched the server set a standing tray of pepperoni pizza down beside me. I realized too late that every other person there had ordered a salad, and when the Daddy gay saw my pizza he said “Good for you.” Good for me! Yes! Good for you!!!!!!! I had a vision of a plane suddenly appearing overhead, skywriting “Good for you.” The Hollywood sign became “Good for you.” Elon’s Starlink satellites moved into formation: “Good for you.” Every phone in Los Angeles was sent a FEMA alert with the message “Good for you.”   

I wanted to crawl onto the table and begin rolling across it in a fetal position while the men at the table threw rice at me. Instead I said “Ha” and ate all but two pieces. I made a show of asking the server to box those up. Oh he’s boxing the rest of the pizza up, I hoped everyone was thinking. It’s simply too hard for him to eat the whole thing. I left the box at the table later. No one noticed.

Then a few nights ago, out to dinner with my in-laws, I was the only person to order a dessert. When the food runner brought it out, he said to me “I can tell it’s for you, you look excited.” Gay men in LA must be stopped. Maybe I should to begin to wear disguises when I go out to eat. You need to go into witness protection after being seen eating in public in Los Angeles.

I ate a salad for lunch yesterday, and a salad for dinner.

***

I’m waiting for a big earthquake. The first noticeable one of the year happened last week. I watched my dog, unfazed and jiggling on my chest as our apartment crested into a wave. I’ll never get used to the feeling. Everything undulating, rolling up and then unfurling again. A rug being shaken out.

There have been many little ones since then. I need to get our earthquake bag upgraded. I’ve never lived anywhere where it’s suggested you have a duffle bag filled with sundries to thwart death during a cataclysmic natural disaster. I’ve learned that some days, the sky just looks like an earthquake sky. I can’t explain it. The sunlight looks like a sconce with a gossamer cloth over it. Angelenos develop a sense for it. Even transplants like me. There are times you just feel one is coming, and then it does.

Like the time I was at the West Hollywood sublet I lived in during my first two years here. There had been a big earthquake the day before, on the Fourth of July; the first time an earthquake made me feel compelled to flee where I was. We were at my husband’s old apartment, and when it happened, we almost wordlessly left and walked out to the street, where other neighbors were already standing. The next evening, I returned to my place and sat down on my bed and texted him “So far no earthquake!” and within a minute, an even bigger one struck. This time, I ran into my shitty little bathroom and grabbed my PrEP and Lexapro; within moments I was power-walking over to my husband-then-boyfriend’s place — only a block away at the time- —without my shoes on.

Later I saw him quietly Googling crossbows for purchase. It made me love him even more. He is truly the best person to be with in the apocalypse. I lucked out. I’d be dead in days. I ate most of our to-go bag in the first week of COVID.

In a post-Big One LA, I’ll hide behind my husband and his crossbow, clutching our cavalier as we move through the lawless streets. Right when we reach Sunset and Fairfax, and there’s a crater where the Rite Aid used to be— the only thing left of it will be an anti-theft glass case of deodorants. I’ll turn and come face-to-face with the Daddy Gay from dinner last week. Before I can even gasp, he’ll lean in and say “Good for you.”