These are the Facts

One afternoon in Los Angeles, nothing made sense

His name is William and he says that when you stand at the bottom of a pyramid, in the catacombs, and you look up, you see the star of David. He says every symbol has manifested from a frequency. He says that there are 17 vortexes and some of them are in Nigeria; that’s why there are so many scammers.

He believes this. I call him an alien and he seems proud of it.

These are the facts.

I’m afraid of getting the facts wrong.

He says: They changed the frequency of the universe from 432 Hz to 440 Hz and this caused all sorts of ailments, discomfort, disease, ADHD, cancer, pollution, people popping pills. 432 Hz was the standard for millennia and everything was in harmony until they changed it.

I ask: Who is they?

I don’t get an answer.

Yesterday, I left my house at 11:11 to meet him at his place. The drive there was depressing. I left my safe oasis of Los Feliz with its mature trees and abundant flowers and headed to that vague area between downtown and Koreatown. Things got uglier, dirtier. Piles of trash, homeless drifting with vacant faces, nothing green, then the shock of McArthur Park and some kind of Christian demonstration going on with “Jesus Saves” signs in Spanish.

I hoped his apartment wouldn’t be one of those brick buildings with cockroaches. I used GPS to get there, made an illegal U-turn on Wilshire and parked right in front. I got out of my car, walked to the gate and stared at it. I realized I didn’t know his last name. There was a fountain in the courtyard, one thing that was alive, and I tried to focus on that. The flower beds were filled with weird white puffs. I couldn’t tell if they were organic or some packaging material.

I texted him that I had arrived and he ambled down looking a little bit like Yul Brynner and an aging club kid. Torn black jeans. A black designer top. There’s the issue that he’s bald, but his face is so beautiful, you quickly forget about it.

He opened the gate and kissed me like we’ve known each other for ages. I followed him down a drab hallway. The complex looked like an old and scary hotel, and later he told me that it was indeed a hotel in the past. I smelled his apartment before I saw it. Old and musty, like he never opens the windows.

I live like a CIA agent, he said.

I laughed to humor him. I tried to pay attention to the details of this place, someone’s home, his home, while at the same time blocking them out.

All windows closed, the shutters down, a murky twilight illuminated by some sad yellow ceiling lamps. Hardwood floors. Dark wood. A living room. A coffee table. The couch tattered and messy. On it: a laptop blaring techno music. Some peanut M&Ms, a big bottle of warm Mountain Dew, some St. Ives aloe vera body lotion, a strange little cube covered in sacred geometry symbols. A closet door open, a boogie board leaning against the wall, a guitar.

Sit down, he said.

I sat down awkwardly, tucking my hands under my thighs so they wouldn’t give me away.

Do you want some of this? he asked.

I’ve never had Mountain Dew, I said.

Try a little, he said, and poured me some.

We sat and looked at each other. I asked him several times if he could change the music. It was speeding up my heartbeat. He explained about crypto again, block chains and mining.

You are absolutely everything, he says and smiles.

When we get outside, I think I can finally breathe again but the sun is still hiding and it’s gray and humid. We take an endless walk along Wilshire Boulevard. It’s so ugly. I clasp my poncho tight. I don’t look at him. We walk in silence a lot. I have nothing to say to him. We walk forever and I’m regretting wearing really high heels.

We get to the place at long last: Tokyo Hamburg, an empty Korean restaurant with plastic tables. They serve the food on small Styrofoam plates. He wants oysters but they are out. We order a million things, a feast of sorts: prime rib, Hamachi, cheese katsu and soup, gyoza, and I forget what else. It’s all grease. I feel so uncomfortable, I could faint. I get us some chop sticks.

I just want to be home in my clean apartment, my clean bed, with my cat and the soothing scent of palo santo. I tell him I need to go home and sleep. I tell him I need a coffee. He says he has a bed and coffee.

I say: Sorry, I need to go.

We trek back along Wilshire, past Masonic temples and homeless tents, an eternity, until we are back at his apartment complex with the ambitious name “Westlake Gardens.”

He says: Can I at least walk you to your car?

It’s right there, I say, pointing at my VIP parking spot.

My perfect white car is dirty too, covered in city soil and sticky plant sap.