Transparent Tuesdays

Issue 178

You guys,

It was like any other night when I was riding my bike home after work. 

Riding my bike to the restaurant at 4pm I felt down, depressed, a sense of dread at the potential boredom of the next few hours of my life. But now, riding home on this beautiful, warm LA night, two glasses of wine deep, cash in my pocket, and the residue of good-willed snarky conversations with co-workers still in my mind, I felt better than great. I felt like anything was possible. 

Whenever I recall stories about riding my bike after drinking, I always like to say I had two glasses of wine. More likely, it was three or four glasses of “Charlie pours” which were equivalent to two glasses of wine each. And then of course 2-4 shots of Jameson. But the shots were spread out over the course of my entire 8-hour shift, so they barely counted. 

The point was, life was good. I was living in LA, pursuing acting, working at a bar that lit me up in more ways than one, and after every shift, I had a peaceful 10-minute bike ride from Santa Monica to my 500 sq. ft. apartment in Venice Beach, in which I would smile and look up at the sky and reflect on just how great my life was, and how great it was going to be. 

I was nearing home, entering the traffic circle directly in front of the famously bright Venice Beach boardwalk sign, when I saw a person standing on the back of a park bench. He looked to be in his 20s, friendly. We made eye contact, him looking down at me and me looking up at him. I slowed to a stop as he said hello. 

He was very chatty, I remember. He told me he was Tom Cruise’s stunt double. “Cool,” I said. He did sort of look like him: dark hair, dark eyes, short, thin. He asked if I’d seen the new Tom Cruise movie. I had not. He proceeded to tell me, anyway, about all the stunts he did for Tom Cruise. 

“Do you want me to flip off this park bench?” he asked. 

“I’d rather you didn’t,” I replied. 

I had no idea if this person was the stunt double for Tom Cruise or some lunatic, and I didn’t want to be around if he hurt himself. 

He jumped down from the park bench and it wasn’t until he entered my personal space that I thought of the time. It was 1am and the streets were deserted. And while he looked short and thin from further away, up close he looked much stronger, like stunt-double-strong. I always felt safe riding my bike along the well-lit Main Street, but I also never stopped along the way to talk to strangers. 

I put one foot on my bike pedal and tightened the grip on my handlebars. He had a lot to say, a little too seriously. I mustered the friendliest, un-scared tone I could and said, “Well, have a good night!” 

“Well, have a good night!” as if I weren’t abruptly cutting him off. As if the “Well” was enough of a transition to not appear rude. “Well, have a good night!” when inside I was screaming, “OMG I’m so scared please don’t come after me.” 

He did not say goodbye. I sped away, as fast as my clunky beach cruiser would allow.

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Happy Birthday

George turned 3 years old. 

We ate acai bowls and went stand-up paddle boarding. Later, his grandparents came over for spaghetti, meatballs, and cupcakes. All day long George kept saying, “This is so much fun.” 

“2 came off!” -George, on turning 3.

Each year, Sam and I write a letter to our kids on their birthdays. When they get older we’ll give them all the letters. 

Here’s an excerpt from this year’s:

I watch from afar as you and Layla play together. She follows you closely, as if attached by a leash. You direct her, give her the toy you’d like her to carry, and the two of you become a well-oiled machine. Until Layla grabs a toy you don’t want her to grab, or you rip something out of her hands and she starts to cry. 

You freeze when Layla cries. Sometimes you look around for help, as if asking, “Can someone please stop this noise?” Sometimes you keep a tight grip on that toy, because you want it, and you don’t want her to have it. But sometimes, when no one comes to intervene, and Layla continues to cry, you hand the toy back to her and say, “Here go, Le-le.” 

After dinner, if Layla cries more than usual, you announce, “Le-le is tired.” When we give you a snack, you say, “Le-le wants snack, too.” When she cries during a car ride and I ask her what’s wrong, you tell me, “Le-le wants to get out.” 

I’ve been so concerned with how I can foster a healthy sibling relationship between you and your sister. What I’ve learned this past year is that I can ease up. I can watch from afar and step in only when needed, because you, of your own accord, are already thinking of her, looking out for her, and showing empathy in a way I didn’t know was possible for a 3-year-old. 

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Until next week,

Charlie