Five days with no human contact, unless you count that one late afternoon when I drove into Maricopa—hardly even a town—and eavesdropped on a bored, drawling conversation about the gays, and paid for my snacks without uttering but a word of have a nice day to the cashier at the mini-mart. Five days of waking up when it was light and going to bed when the sun went down, of working around the weather, of driving on roads empty of people but full of ground squirrels. Five days of conversations with cottontails.
I’m angry, driving down Ventura Boulevard at 10:05 pm. There are too many people, too many cars. I thought briefly about pulling off into the parking lot of the Encino Laemmle Theaters, catching a 10 o’clock movie. No one at home, after all. No one to call. No one expecting me. I make a bet with myself: If there is a parking space out front, I go. I can make it before the trailers end. It is 10:01. There are, of course, no spots. If not, home again, home again. I go back the way I came. It’s so bright, all the neon, and crowds of well-dressed people stand outside of bars on a Saturday night. Beckoning. Mocking.
I’m lonely, driving down Ventura Boulevard. How strange, being surrounded by so many people, being so lonely. In five days I never once felt lonely. The irony nearly leaves a mark when it slaps me in the face.
