It’s another sunny day in Los Angeles, and the cars are honking. I ran my usual loop down to Costco, past the boxing gym, and back. Steven Tyler, my dog, pissed on everything, and I congratulated him. “Good job, Steven Tyler. Let’s go.” That’s our morning routine. That’s when I saw it: a tear in the fabric of reality. I know that sounds like bullshit. My memory’s kinda shot lately. But it was there. Like something out of a cheap sci-fi movie on Tubi.
The tear was near…
(JFC! The gardener downstairs has been leaf-blowing the same patch of sidewalk for an hour. I want to die.)
…The tear was near the McDonald’s off Victory and Burbank. Just a glitch in the sky. Like a failed render. A 404 error. I didn’t stop running. This is LA. Weirder things happen at brunch.
Back home, I drew a bath and got in. Steven flopped on the mat while I scrolled Instagram, covered in bubbles, numbing myself as usual. That’s when I saw Dawson. His profile said he lived out here now. Music producer at Disney Records. Filtered face, forced smile. 20k followers. I bet he still thinks I’m a liar.
I’m not.
We met in New York a decade ago doing an off-off-Broadway musical built around Panic! At The Disco songs. We were both in the ensemble. We were both douchebags. We clicked. He told me he had a music studio in New Jersey. He must’ve had money. He went to NYU. I could hardly afford City College.
One weekend, I took the train out to record with him. The whole ride, I kept thinking about Rachel. We’d hooked up a few nights earlier. Impulsive, 3AM thing. My girlfriend was out of town, so I threw a party at my place and Rachel showed up. I couldn’t believe it. She was the lead in the Panic! At the Disco musical. Completely out of my league. All these years as a theater kid finally paying off! We exchanged numbers, smoked seedy weed out of my glass elephant bowl, and danced like drunk kids all night. I thought I was floating. It was the best. And then, after everyone left, my phone lit up bright. It was her. Rachel. Asking if she could come back over. Just to be with me, alone. What a shock to the system. What a dream. I’ve never experienced anything like that. Maybe I was still a little high. But this was a different kind of drug. Felt like a scene from a Linklater movie. Some kind of rendezvous. I mean, we barely made it to the elevator before we were tearing each other’s clothes off.
There it is again. Tearing. The tear, I mean. I probably shouldn’t keep talking about it. I know how I sound. I’ve been 51-50’d before, and please don’t send me back. But still, I want to believe it meant something. That life’s not all just human-soupy bathwater and influencer content. I wish I took a picture. She was pretty. I mean, the tear was pretty. That glittering split in the sky. Riveting.
Rachel gave me strep throat that night. I hadn’t had strep since sixth grade. I didn’t mind.
At Dawson’s, we recorded a dumb, bouncy jingle I’d written. Sounded like a cereal commercial for kids raised on Happy Meals and algorithms. Of course, he loved it. I packed a six-pack and a little weed too, but dude was kinda judgey about it.
“Mickey’s? You steal this from a high schooler?”
“Haha. I know, right?”
So, in a desperate attempt to connect, I told him about Rachel. I guess I was trying to impress him. I don’t know. I really just wanted a friend. Music biz is rough. All six Mickey’s later, I could feel the carpet against my face. And right before I passed out, he leaned off the couch, looked me in the eye, and said, “You know, you’re the goose that lays the golden egg.” I had no idea what the hell he meant. But it felt really nice.
A few days later, I met up with Rachel again at this Alice in Wonderland-themed tea place in Midtown. Tiny cakes. Tiny kettles. That sort of thing.
“I saw Dawson at rehearsal this morning,” she said. “You told him we hooked up?”
“What? No…”
She paused. “Apparently I cried, called you daddy, and made a mess?”
I laughed. My ears got hot. I could see she wanted to kill me.
“You’re an asshole.”
Yeah, probably. I didn’t say anything. I just sat there eating a tiny cake off a tiny plate and felt like a fucking idiot.
Rehearsal that night blew. I didn’t want to see any of these people anymore. I should’ve called in sick. But I went. I needed to hear what they were saying about me. I really didn’t want to talk about it with anyone. I needed space. I stepped outside for some air, but there’s no getting away from these people. Christina ran after me. She was our stage manager, but more accurately Rachel’s best friend.
“Dawson says you’re a liar,” she said.
“Okay.” I lit my cigarette. “Want one?”
She didn’t.
The bubbles were gone. I looked like a prune. Steven Tyler was chasing something in his sleep on the bathmat. I couldn’t stop thinking about Dawson. How someone like him gets to rewrite the story and still seem like the good guy. I messaged him anyway. I know he won’t reply. But I really need money, and I assume Disney’s music division pays well. I doomscrolled his grid way too long, wondering if I really was the liar. If I’d ever stop trying to impress people who annoy me. If I even remember what actually happened correctly.
The next morning, Steven Tyler and I went on our run. Same loop. Same piss spots. That’s when I saw it again. The tear. Still there. A shimmer. A crack. A slip in the sky.
I’m not lying.
It was gorgeous. Maybe it’s always been there, waiting for someone dumb enough to notice. What was I supposed to do? Why wasn’t anyone else looking? So I yelled “Squirrel!” and Steven Tyler and I ran straight for it.