The asphalt in Los Angeles is a mix of 80% concrete, 80% faith. To persist in this city, you have to believe in something worthwhile. You seat a stunning Leslie Mann at her regular table for an early dinner with daughters Maude and Iris. Her husband Judd Apatow will show up a little late but always makes it for the main course. They smile softly when someone comes to fill the water glasses. Cozy together on the restaurant’s turquoise mohair bench, it’s a casual family affair. For them, nothing exists outside the table’s polished walnut wood. I run a ticket to the kitchen: VIP APATOW, Table 24. Soon they will order the poached chicken salad and avocado hummus with nigella seeds. Chef Alex will scrutinize the food before it goes to our VIPs, ensuring the butter lettuce is crisp, the green hummus catches the light with just enough olive oil.
From my place at the host stand, Table 24 is directly in my eye line—but I don’t want to freak out the VIP family. I grip the coated plywood cabinet, tilting my gaze to trace its fabricated grain pattern. Let’s keep busy. Tonight, the restaurant’s Operational Director is running the floor. I avoid him at all costs, but as a hostess, I must stay by the phone. A truck of a man, he pounces on any hint of laziness, utilizing his muddy French accent to disarm and dismay. You are left in a cloud of his obvious disgust, desperately trying to make sense of his critique. Time to wipe down the iPad and telephone. Working this shift five nights a week, I need to believe the world of Table 24 is not so far from me. I spray windex across the window of the restaurant’s barn door. Maybe one day. Blue molecules fly into my face, a sour taste. I move the paper towel diagonal across the glass. It’s not that I want to be a famous actress, or even married with kids. I just want to live as an artist and enjoy a nice meal. I want to smile like they smile, a glowing aura of knowing whatever they know.
I have to believe, to have faith—even as a hostess making $7 in tips. Even when I’m not sure how to be an artist, searching for meaning in the mosh pit at garage punk shows. Looking for a bit of requited love from a guitar player who won’t hold eye contact. Everything I’ve gotten in this life stems from this faith, a form of optimism bordering on delusion. LA will teach you to squint and follow a mirage dancing off the oily asphalt.
Inchworm traffic becomes a holy pilgrimage whenever the sun dresses our sky in pink and purple clouds. An orange orb pierces your rearview, melting gold into the license plates and bouncing off that tan Camry’s metal accents, glaring straight into your eyes. LA can be distilled into this quality of light. We all eat faith for breakfast, even those who chafe at anything hinting spiritual. Hard edge skeptics will admit to their ambitions. They view legacy as a form of immortality.
Having faith in your ability to overcome the odds is still a form of faith.
When you walk into the cool coffee shop on Hillhurst or Montana or Silverlake Blvd or even that diner on Beverly, people turn to look. We deify ourselves. We are constantly assessing the other demigods in our midst. Even when it’s a neutral glance, it is a glance nonetheless. A head to toe check. False gods abound. Their devotees worship with a fervor usually reserved for religious fanatics.
Our self-mythology begins in these casual communal spaces. We’re on a hero’s journey, we’re the main character. Everyday offers a chance to shift our narrative, to even transcend. Leaps of faith are factored into LA’s cost of living. In the absence of seasons, we ride cycles of ecstasy and release. In between tranquility and depression: an all encompassing blue note. LA can be distilled into this ambient emotion.
Place your feet at the perfect angle while waiting for your iced matcha. Casual but aware. Will you stare at your phone, fix your posture or lock eyes with the middle distance? It’s a delicate calibration of being. What makes you special enough to occupy this space in this time?
LA might sprawl, but it’s the world’s smallest town. If you’re not here for a miracle, why take that coveted parking spot? Why hold up the line, if you’re not going to ride the ride?
Did your eyes stick a moment too long when you read the word miracle? Unlatch your concept of the term from the sparkling myths of Red Seas and Resurrections. The miracles I’ve seen are neatly bound to earthly laws of give and take. A miracle is a collapsing wormhole, swallowing any shadow along with any light. Yes, there is a dawn upon the bright blaze of uncharted horizon. Yes there is life beyond the absolute chaos that previously reigned supreme. But all this happens after a fissure rips across the earth’s crust and our oceans topple into the sky. The sun rests at the very bottom of the Marina Trench and one day is one week of fading light.
A true miracle is an act of divine reciprocity, a mystical give and take. We understood this way back when—to enter the tantalizing realm of human consciousness, Adam and Eve were expelled from Eden. Modern minds get real upset about this story, but I see a miracle. God gave them what they wanted: a wild opening to a world of choice. Every decision carries a consequence, the thrust of miracles takes no exception.
With that premise, it should come as no surprise that I prayed daily for a miracle. I found little ones all the time. Every synchronicity was plugged into my mental data base, clocking reasons for the infinite.
For my cult—the insulated unit of me and my parents—no miracle was too small to qualify. When mama found a pair of broken leather sandals suddenly repaired, she declared elves were responsible. The shoes were stashed in the back of our bedroom closet for years and then one day, the leather regenerated like a lizard’s tail. I looked no further for explanation.
You tell me.
We’d say this, throw up our hands with a smile tugging at our lips.
I studied the imprints of light floating behind my teachers and classmates. I gave attention to the gentle sensations of fingers running through my hair and resting on my shoulders. Sometimes it would catch me off guard. My hands swat the nape of my neck, before realizing there's nothing to shoo in the physical realm. I told no one, of course. I kept my data top secret. Listening, patient.
Later, I’d discover big miracles can’t be counted, only inhaled like paint fumes. I’d never try to convince another soul. It’s all personal. We experience the inexplicable, the speechless moments of wondering how. LA first taught me to believe. Miracles thrive in the dualistic grid of Los Angeles. There’s more room for miracles than you might want to admit. Such phenomena are naturally anonymous, comfortable hiding in the yawning expanse.
And every so often, they ache to be seen. To swirl the space in a coffee shop and give the patrons something to talk about.
Radical healing is not so different from piercing fame. A transformation of circumstance, leaving no stone unturned. My cult knew a lot of people who were famous, before they were chosen. It almost takes a suspension of disbelief, but I lived in a perpetual wave upward. I was Peter Pan, hoisted aloft by ropes and pulleys, unwilling to find the stage. The longer you can float, the more you inch toward total faith. Ok. So we keep going, searching for an answer in the blacked out audience, anonymous seat fillers.
Have you perfected your coffee shop pose yet?
It’s actually a joy to believe, to have faith. Whether you call it that or not. Do you wake up charting some quest with intangible steps? Do your plans ever follow a series of magnetic tendencies? You may be trafficking in miracles.
But honestly, chill, there’s no rush in this city. You can’t shake the feeling that yesterday is tomorrow. Time is a loose concept—anyone will tell you that, especially when Winter isn’t nipping at Summer’s gauzy nightgown and heat plays into the depth of November. And that’s good, miracles are nowhere close to linear. We can’t expect the unexpected to follow a predictable plot line. Until then, and after that, we’re eternal beings. Soft skipping across the city of angels. Anything more is a trick of light.
wow, this was epic! I couldn't stop reading. good luck on ur book writing journey <3
really loved this, made me miss LA and its paradoxes ᡣ𐭩 •｡