Expiration Dates: A Novel (5 page)

Jake calls me the next day. Murphy is sitting upright by the coffee table, looking at the muted television as if he's willing the station to change. Fair enough,
House Hunters
is on.

The phone rings at three o'clock, right in the middle of the day.

“Hey,” he says when I answer. “How are you?”

“I'm good,” I say. “I'm at work.”

It's only partially true. I'm at home, but I'm going over a budget for Irina's next shoot. She's producing a foreign commercial, which she does occasionally as a cash grab. It's a low lift, but she'll want this back by the end of the day.

“Right, of course, sorry about that. I'll make it quick.”

“Not at all. I'm happy to hear from you.”

I mean it, too. His voice is warm through the phone.

“Excellent. Listen, the reason I'm calling is that I have tickets to this comedy show tonight. It's outside, in Hollywood. It'll be one of those things—whoever is in town comes and does a set.
You never know exactly who will be there. There's a rumor tonight that Seinfeld may show.”

I feel myself smile. “Really?”

“Do you want to come with me?”

“Yes,” I say. “Definitely.” I tentatively have plans with Kendra to go to dinner, but she'll be thrilled. Number one, I'm seeing Jake again. Number two, about two-thirds of the time she cancels our plans, anyway.

“I can pick you up,” Jake says. “If you'd like. Or we can meet there, whatever you prefer.”

“Let's drive together,” I say. “It will give me a chance to assess your road skills.”

He laughs. It's hearty. “All right, then. Shoot me a text with your address, and I'll pick you up at seven. Cool?”

“Cool,” I say.

He shows up at 6:55.

He knocks twice in rapid succession on the door. I'm still one leg out of a pair of jeans, swiping on my mascara. Murphy doesn't bother moving from the bed.

“Just a second!” I call.

Why is he early? Everyone knows you're supposed to show up on time to a restaurant and late to someone's house. I can feel the quick-fire drill under my chest. I take a moment to steady my breathing.

I button my jeans, yank on my cropped orange sweater, and pad to the door without shoes.

Jake is standing outside, wearing jeans and a navy-blue sweater.
His hands are tucked behind his back and he's wearing glasses—a new addition. He looks handsome, and older than he did at Gracias Madre. More weatherworn, maybe. In any event, it's attractive.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” he says. He pulls open the door farther. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you. Here, sorry, come on in.”

I hold the door open, and Jake steps around me. I let it swing shut behind us with a clang, a cool burst of air follows it.

“Just give me a second,” I say. “I'm almost ready.”

Jake looks around the place. It's tidy—I cleaned up a bit before in anticipation, but the amount of things I've accumulated over the years of living here make it hard for the place to appear completely orderly. There is just too much stuff for the space.

“I like it,” Jake says, unprompted. “It feels like you live here.”

I laugh. “That I do.”

I go into the bedroom and locate my shoes—brown leather platforms. The thing about LA is that it can feel like summer up until December. But tonight appears to be an oddly crisp evening. They're closed-toe.

“Can I get you anything?” I call back to him.

“I'm good,” he says. “We should probably get going, when you're ready.”

I throw a lip gloss, a credit card, and an ID into my clutch, walk back to the living room, snatch my keys off the counter, and gesture for him to follow me out.

We walk to his car. It's a black BMW that does not appear to have a single scratch on it.

“She looks like she's back in tip-top shape,” I say.

He smiles. “I left Marigold at home.”

“Marigold?”

“Unlike you, I'm a feminist. My cars are women.” He smiles at me. “I have a vintage Chevy, she breaks down a lot.”

“Ah.”

Jake opens the passenger door for me, and I slide inside. The car smells like pine cones, and I look up at the center mirror to see an air freshener tree hanging. I flick it with my finger as he settles into the driver's seat.

“I genuinely didn't know they made these anymore.”

“Hey now,” he says. “I'm a Pacific Northwest boy. I like to bring a little of the forest with me wherever I go.”

“Portland?” I ask.

“Seattle,” he says.

“I've never been,” I tell him. “All I know is what I saw in
Fifty Shades of Grey
.”

He looks at me dead-on. “The most accurate representation of our city I can think of. Great work.”

Jake starts the car, and we drive up to Sunset, and then over to Hollywood Boulevard.

Hollywood is, in my opinion, the worst part of Los Angeles. Each side of the street is lined with star plaques, it's normally crammed with tourists, and is home to such iconic locations as the Madame Tussauds exhibit and the Hard Rock Cafe. Tonight there are droves of teenagers, and a few families in matching oversize T-shirts that have things like
STEWART FAMILY VACATION
printed on them. A couple poses for a photo, crouching to the ground, pointing at a star, the name of which I can't make out. Dolly Parton is a major attraction. I say that to Jake now.

“Do you know she has two stars on the Walk of Fame?” he says. “Not many people do.”

“I did not,” I say. “All I know is that Hollywood is the Times Square of LA.”

“True,” he says. “Although I don't know a ton about New York. I've been only a handful of times, and the last few trips I never left Brooklyn.”

“I like Brooklyn,” I say. “I wanted to live there, but I just never made it.”

“We can't do it all, right?” He changes lanes. “How was growing up here?”

I consider the question. Some people tend to think growing up in Los Angeles is like growing up in Hawaii—or a constant episode of
90210
. Days spent shopping the palm-tree-lined streets of Beverly Hills, nights spent around bonfires at the beach. In truth, there were both of those things, but when you live here, Beverly Hills is just the suburbs, and the beach is just the place you were least likely to get in trouble for drinking.

“My parents live in the Palisades,” I say, gesturing with my hand behind us. “I went to school in Brentwood. It was normal, I guess. They worked hard to make it normal—my parents. But it was definitely still a town full of rich kids.”

“Were you a rich kid?” Jake looks over his shoulder, then makes a left onto Fountain.

I can tell the question isn't leading, and he's not attached to a particular answer.

“No, not at all. I mean we didn't struggle. My parents could always pay our bills, as far as I knew. But we went on road trips
for vacation, and I wasn't getting Prada bags if I got an A, if that's what you mean.”

Jake smiles but doesn't say anything.

“Not that they would have done that even if they were loaded. They're not super fancy people; I guess it rubbed off on me.”

“You're not a fancy person?”

“If I'm out of bodywash, I use dish soap in the shower.”

“I don't think that's not fancy,” Jake says. “I just think that means there is something seriously wrong with you.”

He glances at me, and I lean back against the headrest.

“How about you?” I ask.

“My dad was an engineer. He worked for Amazon for a period of time, as well as a bunch of start-ups. He did pretty well, and he retired a few years ago, actually. And my mom has a shop in Madison Park. She sells pottery and jewelry and a line of CBD products that fly off the shelves.”

“That's fun,” I say. “How long has she had the place for?”

“Twenty years, at least. It's been through many different iterations. At one point in time, it was a grocery store.”

Jake makes another left, and then we're pulling up to a parking lot. There is a line of cars to get in, and I crane around to see that the place is packed—girls in tight black jeans, tank tops, and beanies move in swarms. To the right, a man in a black T-shirt and cargo pants hands us a ticket and directs us to pull headfirst into a spot that looks like it could fit a motorcycle, maybe.

Miraculously Jake makes it.

“Alright, so,” I say. “You're an excellent driver.”

A comedy club has been set up in what appears to be a large alleyway between buildings. There is a stage in the center and tiered
circular seating surrounding it. There are brick walls on two sides, and overhead is a white silk tent on which stars are being projected.

“This is actually really cool,” I tell Jake. “I love it.”

He smiles. “I know, right? I haven't been before, but my colleagues all went over the holidays and have been telling me since how amazing it is. It's cool to see what they've done with the space.”

I'm reminded every time I go out somewhere I haven't been of how many hidden wonders there are in LA. How much unlikely culture is hiding just out of sight. Sometimes it feels like this town runs on billboards and Teslas, but, especially over the last decade, there is so much more diversity of business. Downtown is a haven of installation art and fusion food and, yeah, a layer of trash, too. It's real in a way Los Angeles never was, at least not in my lifetime—and New York used to be. And it's all here for the taking, if you just look.

We're seated at a two-top on the left-hand side of the room, and a waitress immediately comes over to take our drink order.

“Tequila soda,” I say.

Jake nods. “Same for me.”

“I thought you liked vodka.”

“I do, but I don't really care what I drink. And I like trying new things. I'm just not that choosy. At least, not about alcohol.”

I take a moment to survey the crowd. There is an older couple to our right—tourists, I intuit. The man keeps pointing up at the tented ceiling, and the woman leans into him, tugging on his T-shirt.

There is what can only be described as a bachelorette crew—loose, drunk, calling one another's names at an unnecessary loud volume.

I feel Jake touch my shoulder. “I think that's the owner,” he says.

An attractive man in a graphic T-shirt and jeans circles a few tables to the left. He shakes someone's hand.

“This is an interesting scene,” I say. “Are you into comedy?”

“Yes,” he says. He says it definitively, almost adamantly.

“When I first moved here, the other assistants and I would go to the Comedy Store every Wednesday night, after work. We'd score pizza on someone's work Amex, and then head over in a caravan. You can buy tickets for twenty bucks, sometimes our bosses had them anyway, and we got to see incredible comedians.”

I remember now that Seinfeld is rumored to be making an appearance here tonight. Given the fact that the place doesn't seem
packed
packed, that seems unlikely, if not still intriguing.

“All the greats,” he continues. “Part of the fun of the scene in LA—and New York, too, I'd imagine—is that even the big-timers have to test out new material. So before they film specials or go on tour they're working the local clubs. If you come weekly you can see the jokes develop until they're hard-boiled.”

When Jake gets animated, he talks with his hands. He gestures to me, to the stage, his palms opening and closing, his arms dancing.

“Do you work in comedy?” I ask.

“Ironically I'm in drama,” he says. “Honestly, I got a job on someone's desk early on who was a big exec in the drama department at Netflix, and then it just sort of went from there. I like it, though. There is so much drama in comedy, and so much comedy in drama. I don't think the two universes are as separate as they used to be, unless you're talking about sitcoms. It's all blending together.”

The waitress appears with our drinks.

“Oh, great,” Jake says. “Thank you.” He takes them out of her hands.

“Anything else I can get you?” she asks.

Jake looks to me.

“I think we're good,” I say. “Thank you.”

The mic glitches to life, and then I see a man onstage.

“Hi, everyone, welcome! Thank you for coming to our little corner of Hollywood. We have a great show for you tonight, as always. Some of the best of the best are here. We have a show every Saturday, and if you'd like to support our Wednesday night special, please go to the website. OK. First up I'd like you to welcome Vie Rosen!”

People start clapping and yelling.

I turn to Jake. “She's familiar.”

“She's amazing,” he says.

“Vie is a comedian, television host, and the winner of 2016's
Last Comic Standing
. She's filmed four Netflix specials and is about to go back on the road for her tour, ‘Can Buy Me Love.' Please welcome Vie Rosen!”

Jake leans over and whispers in my ear. “I was at Netflix when she made her first special. I love her comedy.”

Vie jogs onto the stage. I've seen her before. She hosted a show called
Bride Wars
. She was hysterical.

She's about five feet six, has a ponytail of wispy blond hair, and is wearing a white T-shirt with a black bra underneath. She looks cool. The kind of girl who declines a dinner of gossip for a second set on a Saturday night.

“Hello, everyone, welcome to your comedy tour de force tonight. Where are you all here from?”

Some people call out various cities, Vie has a bit for every single one. “Why are all fancy universities in small towns? The entire middle of the country is just filled with places where rich kids get shipped in to go to college and the kids who are from there stay and work at Walmart. Maybe if we invested a little more in education and a little less in the coke habits of lacrosse players we'd be better off.”