There is something that happens to me in LA that keeps happening to me in LA. Most recently, it was at the Beverly Center. Not my favorite mall but big enough to accidentally spend a day in. I was in Forever 21, which actually went bankrupt in 2019, closed 200 stores, and now goes by XXI Forever.

“Yo,” he said, thumbing a white belt that held up white jeans way below his ass. Way above his ears sat a beanie, all rolled up like a flattened condom. He was pretty like a lesbian but not one I wanted to talk to. Plus, I needed to go home and write my movie.

“Hey,” I offered, “Sup?” God. My sleeper impulse to be a chill girl had activated. 

“You got some fine ass…” he paused, rubbing his hands like a fly, “shoes.” 

“Oh,” I stammered. He shook his head devilishly, beanie barely holding on. “Thank you,” I smiled. “I like your… hat.” He laughed so I laughed. Then he stepped closer and I backed up to look at my watch. “Oh wow. I didn't know the time is *that*!” 

I started moving like a cartoon, pointing at my watch face, shrugging and aw-shucks-ing. “Sorry, oof, I gotta—” then finger-gunned toward the exit. 

“You really gonna leave without letting me get your number?” It's amazing when people actually talk like that. 

“Oh, well,” I blushed, “You know, I…have a boyfriend.” I did, at the time. For the most part. 

“Aight,” he muttered, adjusting his rimless shades. “I see you, I see you.” Not missing a beat, he rebounded, “Well, listen, I'm an artist. You should follow me on Instagram. My name's—” 

<span>****</span>

“Yo! Yo! Yo!” A middle-aged white man shouted outside a CVS in Hollywood. It was day 62 of a particularly long Adderall shortage. Without it, I have a hard time with time. The pharmacist had said something about the “supply chain.” On hold with insurance, I'd purchased two pairs of glasses on a BOGOHO sale. I really needed to go home, work on my movie. Maybe outline that script. But this guy was yelling at me across the lot. “What up chica!” He wore a wife beater and was blasting rap music. “Bet I can guess yo' favorite color!” Leaning against his car, he nodded at mine. Burnt orange like my sweatshirt, and also my hair. 

It was my boyfriend's car. He bought it off Craigslist after doing something with an NFT which, like the supply chain, is a thing I do not understand. I was fiddling with the keys. He had two, only one of which worked. Why have a key that doesn't work? I'd stopped questioning after all his recent success. Clearly he'd figured something out that I hadn't.

The CVS guy thought I hadn't heard him. “Bet I can guess your favorite color!” 

“Yup,” I half-shouted. “You got me there…” 

“Ayy!” he yelled, gesturing into his backseat, thrusting his hips. I quickly tried the other key. 

He was still yelling and thrusting when I finally unlocked the car. As I got in, he begged.

“Hey! Hey wait! I'm an artist!” I paused, door open. He pointed into his car. “This is me! This is my music!” He smiled so proudly. “You got Insta? You should follow me! Yooo, c'mon! My handle is—” 

I shut the door. That wasn't even the first time. 

The first time happened right after I moved to LA. My boyfriend and I had decided to go bowling in Highland Park. This was after he came to visit from Miami, developed a severe phobia of planes, and consequently moved in. He wanted to take me out that night, do something fun, an *activity*, but was blindsided by the lane rate. I assured him we didn't need to bowl, it was overrated. This was B.NFT. Pre-crypto cash out, after which he would move into a house in Silver Lake with central AC, a massive flat screen, and both his twenty-seven-year-old creative business partners. Lucky for us it was Sunday, which meant free karaoke at the bar next door. Inside, a short woman in bootcut jeans was finishing a boisterous rendition of “Lady Marmalade.” Everyone in the crowd, all seven of us, cheered like it was a real concert. Out of breath, she climbed off the stage and I leaned down to shout, “That was awesome!” She beamed and I felt good for complimenting her.

“I'm an artist! Singer/songwriter!” she said, pointing to my phone. “You can follow me!” I smiled like I couldn't hear her. But she got up on her tiptoes, “Here! I'll put my name in.” With that, she snatched my phone, opened Instagram, and typed her username. Jessica underscore music underscore a series of random numbers had way more followers than me. She wasn't *that* good at singing. Plus, I was prettier. I atoned for these thoughts as she smashed “Follow” on her profile from my phone.

“I just moved to LA! Nothing on the books yet, but you can come to my shows!” She waved at me like you would a fan, and left with her posse of three gays. The bar got quiet. She left before I could tell her that I'd also just moved to LA, I was also an artist, and I had this great idea for a movie I hadn't written yet, so yeah, she could follow me also. 

I imagined what it would be like. Saying that out loud. “Follow me.” You're not supposed to do that. You're supposed to *plant the seeds* of a seemingly chill relationship that can maybe, weather-permitting, *bloom* into a mutual respect that can then one day, hopefully, *blossom* into a “Follow.” 

Weeks later, script untouched, I was shopping again at a store I only go to alone. Brandy Melville. Just ‘cuz when I'm there, I have to act younger than I am. Otherwise I feel like a pedophile. All the shopgirls are in high school and the clients are middle schoolers. But they make a great basic tee. I was trying one on when a girl asked if I needed help. The dressing room was packed, so for the sake of time I'd thrown it on over my shirt. But it was tighter than expected; I couldn't quite get it off. I complimented the employee's makeup to distract from my situation. 

“Thanks!” she said, “I did it myself.” *Yeah*... I thought. 

“No way!” I exclaimed.

She nodded, “I'm an artist, actually.” The shirt was stuck at my neck. By the time I ripped it off, her phone was hovering in front of my face. “Most people follow my TikTok but I post more art stuff on Insta. You can follow me!” I gasped at the screen. 

“Oh my god, yeah! Totally.” I'd be one of hundreds of thousands of her followers. “So fun, I will.” I did not. 

Later that very same week I was avoiding my script at Daiso in Hollywood, when I heard a familiar voice. Through the sticker aisle, I saw her. Brandy girl. She was recording her friend. They looked super cute and I regretted not following her like I said I would. Maybe I should say something, I thought. Maybe they want someone else to film, so they could both be in it. I could shoot a little, I have some time. Not a lot of course, I still have to write my movie…but female filmmakers should uplift one another. 

Rounding the corner I waved. “Hey!” She turned. 

“Hiii!” I was about to ask how she'd been when she said, “Sorry, we're just finishing something for my TikTok. Is it ok if we film in here?” She batted her long fake eyelashes until I realized she was asking me for adult permission. 

I wasn't wearing a clerk apron. Did she not see my basket full of stationery? All the index cards I was going to pin to my wall to visualize my outline to write my script to make my movie? Did she not remember me at all? 

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “It's all good. You girls have fun.” They thanked me and I abandoned my cart. 

Fleeing next door, I consoled myself inside the chaos of Ross: Dress for Less. I don't usually buy anything there. They've got good deals but the line is always endless. More security guards than check-out clerks. Everyone on edge. Someone always yelling. But it can be soothing, I've found, to watch other people freak out. 

<span>****</span>

After promoting every single one of his social media pages, beanie boy smiled. 

“So you got the boyfriend. I gotchu…you on Insta then? Can I at least look from afar?”

I thought about my Instagram. My page isn't exactly what he'd be looking for. It was more for work, and I hadn't posted in a while. Too busy not writing. I really needed to write this script to make this movie so I could post about it. The storm cloud of every unfinished project hovered, and the mall darkened. 

“I don't really post that much,” I explained to the top of his head. 

He nodded, sliding his phone out of his pocket.  “That's ok. You an artist, huh.” 

Oh my god. I blushed. Yes! I wanted to scream. He continued. “Lemme get your @.” 

Hands shaking, I typed into his outstretched iPhone until my page came up. I turned the screen around. It was up to him. He didn't have to do anything with it. He looked at his screen for a long time. I watched my videos in the reflection of his glasses. It was hard, watching him watch them, without any volume on. He was silent for a long time. 

“You're sort of an underground artist. Quirked up vibe. I like that. That's dope.” I watched his demeanor shift away from flirting. 

I began to tell him that those were just silly videos. Nothing compared to this movie I wanted to make. “You know,” I began. But before I could get into it, he cut me off. 

“On God, when I was sixteen, I was in an accident that left me paralyzed. Couldn't move from the waist down for almost a year. Thought I'd never walk again. I flatlined for twenty seconds. So, I'm one of the rare people who can say they died and came back.” 

“Oh my gosh,” I said, “wow.” 

“Yeah. I rap but I also got a lot of stuff cooking, you know?” Sure, I thought. “We should collab. When I couldn't move my legs, the only thing I could control were my thoughts. So I became very emotionally in tune. I feel that's why my art connects. You might have that too. You know, since I got this following, all these people reach out. I usually don't respond. But there's this team, they really want me to make a movie. About my life and everything. For kids maybe, I dunno. But I could use a vibe like you.” 

“Wow,” I said again. I would do anything for somebody to want me to make a movie. Any movie. 

“I'll have my team reach out.” I nodded as he began drafting the DM. Holy crap. It was happening. Finally happening. This is why you go to the mall. This is why you move to LA. “Ima DM you - so we don't forget.”

“Totally,” was all I could say. And, “Thank you so much.” 

He smiled again, “Bet. Glad I met you. But I actually gotta dip. We'll be in touch!” I watched in awe as he did all these things I couldn't seem to, like exit the mall. 

Alone again at XXI Forever, I checked his page. 375k followers. A perfect grid layout. A checkerboard of motivational speech, black text on white background, motivational rap, black text on white background. They're his own quotes, the text. Watermarked. I clicked on one. Three days ago he'd posted: “Don't let yesterday use up today.” Woah. 2,971 likes. Ok. Another one: “Never run away from problems. Let problems run away from you.” I had to leave the mall. Face my problems! Or maybe I should DM him about the movie. Maybe he could help me, career-wise. He had all those followers. Then I noticed a fresh post on his feed from seven minutes ago. Hadn't we just been talking then? Black text on white background. 1,756 likes. “Girls with regular jobs and natural bodies still winning. Don't let this social media sh*t fool you.” 

I closed Instagram. Put my phone deep down in my purse. Finally walked toward the exit. What was it that I had to do again? Write more? Post more? I knew I had to go home. And so, I crossed the street to Old Navy. I heard they have some great new stuff.

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