I was sitting at that nifty fountain at the Grove last weekend…
[Ed Note: The Grove is a pastiche looking outdoor shopping place, fake town looking thing that has a movie theatre, restaurants, chain stores (Gap, Forever 21, Banana Republic, Bath and Body Works, etc. And this lame little trolley that just goes around the Grove which is not even 1/2 mile around.]
Anyway, I’m sitting on the rail of the fountain watching the awesome (come on, it’s cool!) water dancing to Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me To the Moon”. I’m looking at all the people, the children, their fat parents, skinny teenage girls, awkward teenaged boys, elderly people and more. I think, “Wow. We are all human. We’re all going to die. We were all born without choosing to be. We all come from two parents. We all come from sperm and egg. No matter what. That is true. That is one thing that I know as fact. There is no other answer.”
And then I sit there and then I start obsessively and compulsively fucking with myself. “Well, maybe someone here is immortal. What do I know? What if someone here died and came back and didn’t say anything? What if someone here was NOT born by sperm and egg. What if someone here just walked into town, through some tunnel that only they can see. And they can’t find the portal to the tunnel anywhere and they wander around the Grove thinking, “It was here somewhere.” What if? How can I prove that everyone was really born? I don’t know.
Okay so who is it? Which one of these people is the alien? Or the tunnel person? Who is the immortal? Do they know they’re immortal? What if it’s the little girl here who looks like she’s about to fall head first into the fountain if her mother doesn’t grab her arm….right now. Okay, she’s fine. But what if she is immortal and her mother has to protect her daughter’s identity so she pretends to freak out and break her daughter’s falls?”
I almost gave myself a panic attack as I waited for a friend to see the Devil Wears Prada. Good thing the movie was sold out so we had time to go get a glass of wine at the Farmer’s Market area. I ordered a chardonnay with ice on the side. I joked to the bartender, “Did you not card me because I’m clearly 70 years old with an order like that?”
Ten minutes later as I’m chatting with my friend, I look and there in the corner is a 70 year old woman that I did not see come in. She’s sitting there with a chardonney and ice. Using her vein-ey hands to put the ice into her drink. Just like me. We’re even wearing similar orange cotton pants.
I looked at the bartender and mouthed to him, “That’s me.” He looked at her and then sort of looked at me and walked away. Not joking back.
Then I sat there and the wheels started turning again. “What if this woman is not actually there? What if that is me, right now, and somehow I did a weird time dash at the fountain?”
I finished up my wine and my panic attack and ran to the movies to distract myself from the inevitable fact that I am the one who walked here through a tunnel and I am both 31 and 70 years old and constantly orbiting around myself.