“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 tieredcircular 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 seempackedpacked, 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.
