18. Everybody Knows Wes
The greatest currency someone could receive is earning someone’s favor. As a kid, when someone said, “I owe you one,” it was likely my father. It meant we were going to be spanked when we got home. Just as fast as light, our once-happy day plummeted into despair. We could have been told we won tickets to Disneyland and it still wouldn’t lift our spirits. Because to get to Disneyland, we had to endure a spanking with a paddle that had holes in it. Something like this:
How is a favor earned? By covering their double shift on a Saturday night? Watching their dog while they are traveling the Mediterranean Coast? For Greg, he called in a favor on the exchange of fair trade. He wanted to start his vacation a day early.
“I am getting a ride from Hudson up to Palm Springs.” He asked. “Can I stay in your hotel room for the night?”
Despite having an apartment to myself, I was looking forward to having my own hotel room. It’s not under someone else’s name. It was mine. For someone who came from very humble beginnings, having a hotel reservation under my own name meant luxury and independence. A sweet escape, just a diamond toss away from first-class private planes.
“I promise to move to my hotel room tomorrow morning," Greg pleaded. Since you're in LA and won’t arrive late, can I check in and spend the night in your hotel room?”
I softened up. He had a point. I did have to make a quick detour before Palm Springs. Why not try kindness, Pablo? Benny’s voice encouraged in my head. However, I didn’t think kindness was possible when it meant a possible surcharge from the hotel. “I can’t add you unless you were my boyfriend or spouse.” I explained.
“I can be.” Greg reasoned, laughing. “Lemme know either way. I’ll buy drinks tonight if you do.”
After my 6x6 work weeks, I called in favors of my own, asking my coworkers to cover my shifts so I could get four days off work. Four days in Palm Springs, two hanging by the hotel pool with Greg and Hudson before I moved into a private chic-bungalow hotel with Benny and Johnny.
I was invited to a writer’s screen debut party in LA. We were in the same MeetUp group. He was my first Client right before the ceiling started to rain. After his spec scripts were rejected, he was staffed on a show and recently earned a “Written By” credit. When this happens, a show will rent out a venue, like the Chapel at the Abbey in West Hollywood, to celebrate a new writer's screen credit.
Servers offered hors d'oeuvres and champagne to new arrivals, and the show’s producers greeted the guests. Some of the on-screen talent walked around, posing for pictures. My Client/friend, Vaughn, greeted me. He held a glass of fine scotch with actual rocks in it to keep the drink cold but not diluted.
“This is crazy, huh?” Vaughn beamed. “You sure you’re still happy with staying in Daygo?”
I shook his hand. “Very much so. But this isn’t about me. We are here to celebrate you! So what shots are we taking?”
“Hell, I don’t got work tomorrow. Why not?” Vaughn agreed.
If there is one benefit in a life of solitude, it is the opportunity to become an Observer. I watched Vaughn make his rounds, accepting everyone’s congratulations. This is his rite of passage. It’s your first writing credit! This only opens up doors for Vaughn’s career.
It’s not long before I daydream about the life I abandoned. Do I miss it? Sometimes. I imagined my own “Written By” party. The eight years of perseverance in LA would have been worth it. Still, what I don’t miss is the constant anxiety. When your show’s season ends, you are right back to unemployment, where your connections and your manager will be the keys to your next gig. I’ve watched my writer friends go from working on a TBS show back to tutoring math students while they wait for their show’s renewal.
Is it part of the human condition to feel like we are stuck “on repeat”? Where we find ourselves forever returning to life’s crossroads, the path not taken, the land of What-If? In moments like this, I remind myself of that song from Pocahontas, “Just Around the Riverbend.”
After venturing through rapids, she comes to an inlet. Two paths await her. To marry Kokoum (and all her dreams at an end) or to continue racing through rapids in the hopes of manifesting her dreams into a reality.
Between the tray-passed apps and cocktails, I crossed paths with other writers from my MeetUp group. “I never see you around the writing groups anymore. Where have you been?”
I tell them. Some of them nod, pleasantly. “I thought, out of all of us in the group, a celebration like this would have been for you first.”
Even if I stayed, would this path make me happier? In some ways, yes. I’d still have my best friends, though I wouldn’t have Benny or Damien. Would I be closer to actually putting my degree to some use? Only Cher knows. Then again, What-If I left Home, like I had planned? Would I have avoided the affair? Would I end up like Vaughn and eventually have my moment?
“Good for you.” Another writer-friend said, smiling. “Honestly, if I don’t get this gig with my managers, I just may sell feet or hole pics.”
Like Pocahontas, I venture down the path to the right, traversing into the What’s-Next rapids. I’m much happier in San Diego. Even as I write to assure myself of this, I cannot help but shake a familiar feeling I’m still trying to bury:
So why not leave it all behind, once and for all? Why entertain these negative thoughts? All it does is make the sadness return. Why not just sneak out the back door? Technically, I made my appearance. People will forget all about me once they debut the episode. Why not lie to your friends and feign a smoke break? Staying here can be hazardous to my health and sanity, much like this newly-acquired pretend-smoking habit.
I exited the bar and checked the travel time to Palm Springs, a 90-minute drive. I hoped my little fib worked. I thought. I’m leaving quite a breadcrumb trail of lies everywhere I go.
Earlier that afternoon, eighty-four miles away, the Hard Rock Hotel got a call. It was Mister Room 212, reservation under Diablo. The front-desk clerk rolled his eyes reading the last name.
C’mon, he thought, altering the reso, a name like that only calls for trouble.
Trouble came in the form of this phone call. “So, it seems my partner’s flight got canceled.” Diablo explained. “Is it possible that I can add his name to my reservation? He’s leaving in the morning and needed an extra night here. I had to go back to LA for a meeting.”
“Absolutely. What is his name, sir?” The clerk nodded. As Diablo said the first name, Greg, he paused. Greg did mention that he would be in town. He’s got a man? “You said you worked at Home Bar, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Is the last name, Murray?”
“Yeah, how did you know?”
The clerk continued. “I used to get drinks with one of the bartenders there with someone by that last name.”
“That’s him!” Diablo chirped.
The clerk rolled his eyes once again. In their last text conversation, Greg never mentioned he had a partner. Or maybe he overlooked that text somewhere? Who knows, it has been a busy couple of weeks in Palm Springs. One week, it’s Beef Dip, men and pups dressed in leather and lycra; the next, it’s Modernism Week, or when old ladies and gay men dress up as Endora or Miss Roper while they hop on double-decker busses and tour the Frank Sinatra house.
Among Wes’ cherished memories at this hotel was the collision of events, such as the AVN awards show coinciding with a Christian Cheerleaders Convention. Another amusing moment was discovering that deceivers like Pablo Diablo had a fake partner sharing his friend's name, Greg Murray.
When he hung up, he texted Greg: You didn’t tell me you had a boyfriend.
I don’t. Greg wrote back. Pablo was worried he couldn’t add anyone unless we were dating.
So I should give him shit when he gets here? Wes asked.
Hudson said he would buy you a shot if you did it. Greg wrote.
That little smart-ass needs to pay. Hudson added in a different text thread.
I arrived at the Hard Rock Hotel in desperate need of a drink. Thankfully, all I needed to do was throw my bag into the room and meet Greg and Hudson at the Eagle. The hotel was around the corner from Arenas, the gay strip of gay bars and leather stores. No need to call a ride-share when it was just around the corner.
For the first time today, I felt accomplished. When I visited LA, I could feel the anxiety creeping in. The need to play a certain part for the sake of the “next job.” I could feel the nebulous invites out to lunch, to “catch up,” just within grasp. When I arrived in Palm Springs, I felt like I made it. I have a hotel reservation in my name! Your inner-unsupervised 8-year-old feels like he’s finally grown up. An accomplished career girl.
I left my car in the driveway while I entered the lobby. Gold armoires and red wallpaper invited the new arrivals to the sitting room. Everything felt both old and new simultaneously. That’s the beauty of this town. We cling to art-deco, to tiki rooms, where Golden-Era movie stars once trod. In Palm Springs, art is a timeless artifact, especially in the form of rattan and pin-up couture.
I approached the front desk and saw a clerk busy at the computer. “Good evening, sir, " the familiar voice greeted, multitasking. Are you checking in?”
It always tickles me to hear someone address me as ‘sir.’ I know, it’s a means of formality. Even in the twilight of my years, I hardly identify as one, even in this button-up shirt and slacks who drives some beat-up lesbian-mobile named Katilyn fucking Jenner.
“Yes, I have a reservation under Diablo.” I replied. “Did Greg…”
“I got your boyfriend all checked in.” The clerk assured, before chuckling, “you little liar.”
“What?”
“If there’s one thing you need to know about Palm Springs,” Wes continued, “it’s a Venn Diagram. People from Daygo and LA come here, the gay mecca of SoCal, to get away and to get into trouble. Like you.”
I froze.
“Greg told me the whole thing. We still text, you know? You aren’t boyfriends. You deserve better.” Wes winked before switching back to his professional front-desk voice. “Because of that, I moved you to a spot overlooking the pool and took care of your resort fee. Would that work for you?”
All I could do was nod my head.
“Great. Sign here. Room 212.” Wes continued. “You boys are still going to the Eagle, right?”
“Yes. I owe you a drink.”
“Psh, please. Hudson’s got you beat. He told me to do this.”
I pursed my lips. I was set up? I never knew Greg and Hudson had the brain capacity to devise a plan, especially together. I had to give them credit. Five minutes after dropping off my bag at the hotel, I was at the Eagle, on my knees in front of a very uncomfortable Hudson.
“Get off of me!” Hudson whined. “Don’t get too close to my dick!”
“Oh, you think that’s uncomfortable? Have you ever been read to filth by a complete stranger?”
I leaned against his knees, inches away from Hudson’s crotch. Am I performing dramatics for the dramatic’s sake? Or was I trying to prove a point and thus make Hudson as uncomfortable as possible?
Wes was entertained, at least.
“I’m not the only one to blame!” Hudson said. “Greg was also on that thread.”
“Yeah, but he’s buying my drinks.” I explained. “He’s exempt.”
Greg smiled, content with himself.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get you tomorrow.” I warned, catching his small victory.
“Wes is an old friend of ours. I’d say most of the bartenders in San Diego know Wes. If we want a room, we text him.”
Benny and Johnny would confirm this later when I saw them. “Yeah, he reserved a set of bungalows for our wedding party.” He told me.
“It was all in good fun.” Hudson nodded. “You always prank us, so it was nice to return the favor.”
Hudson bought another round of shots to help ease his embarrassment. Wes shared his phone number with me for my next trip to Palm Springs.
“I owe you for this one. I used to work at a hotel….” I apologized.
“…no need! I know you were just looking out for a friend.”
A friend who would later downplay his sleeping habits. “I may snore.” Greg warned. “But I’ve been told it’s light.”
As of this writing, there has only been one person who has kept me up all night. It’s Greg fucking Murray. Sleeping next to him was like trying to start a REM cycle at a miter saw demonstration. When we finally woke up to get breakfast, he boasted the best sleep of his life. I, on the other hand:
Greg’s friends arrived shortly after we left Sherman’s. I knew them; they were the bartenders from Charley’s, Reese, Hendrix, and Wren. I was eager to help Greg move his luggage into their hotel room.
“Do you want to keep him?” Reese offered. “We kinda have a full house.”
It was like dropping kids off with the sitter on your way to Señor Frog’s for a night out with the girls. I was happy to be rid of him so I could actually get some sleep.
“Nope. He’s your problem now.”
“See you at the pool in five? With shots?” Greg and Reese offered.
“Lemme go back and slip into something more comfortable,” I suggested.
To finally having a room all to myself. If I wasn’t too careful and being so close to a slew of gay bars, I imagined I would find myself in a world of trouble. Or, perhaps, it would find me. Maybe Wes was right.