Thursday, March 07, 2013

The Heart of Beverly Hills

Lunchtime.  The sun shines, though a bit breezy, but it isn't stopping anyone.  Even at work, they are dressed differently...dressed to make deals because of the location.  Dressed to make you notice how they're dressed.  Everyone except me, of course.  But don't let that distract you (or them)...I'm a tourist from Sacramento for all they know.  Just walking around.

"...was some show they're trying sell internationally, and..."
"...you have to send me that when you get back to work so I can look..."
"...did you hear that cab driver?  He said "hope to see you again."  Uh...no."

These aren't the grinders at the office park, heading en masse to Quiznos with coupons, wearing the same shirts.  There are Bentleys, Rolls Royces, and even an old Camero.  This is where deals are made, and they arrive each day in force.  As an epicenter, it is an enjoyable show.  What makes it even better is the attempts by everyone at making it look effortless.  Hey, this is just our life.  This is normal.

"OK...this is totally top secret; I shouldn't let this out.  So, the script they're..."
"I've got one date at 7, and then another at 9:30...I know, I'm so bad."

Could these quotes happen anywhere?  Maybe, though it would be a different setting.  A backlot, or swanky restaurant.  But the people (for the most part)?  Yeah, they don't make these people where I grew up.  That woman with the skirt that ends juuuuust below her rump?  Of course she got out of that Maserati.  The next table over?  Don't question their tactics.  They wouldn't be there by accident. 

And then there's a roughed up Saturn.  A wide collar, shades, and unmanageable hair.  A laugh that, when spontaneous, is likely a bit too loud.  The conversation can be about deals, but it can also be about Foosball.  This dish cost $30?  Fuck this place...we'll go the other Italian place.  No, the other one...next to that one. 

The conversation stopped when I sat down.  Not because I don't belong, but that they were surprised to see that I do belong.  What does it matter?  There's a place at the table now.  As I look at the freaks, the gems, the models, the dunces, and the gold?  I fit in there somewhere.  I could step up some material things, but the bell-bottoms?  Sorry, they stay.

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