The House on Mulholland
A house party in LA — people watching and tolerance
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The party is in a house that has more rooms than I will visit. I know this because I am the kind of person who finds a good spot early and stays there, watching.
My spot tonight is a corner of the kitchen, near the fruit bowl, which nobody touches because this is Los Angeles and the fruit bowl is decorative. From here I can see three rooms and the garden. This is an excellent position.
The man in the orange shirt has been telling the same story for twenty-five minutes. I know because I have watched him tell it to four different people. He does a voice at a specific point. Everyone laughs in the same place. He doesn't seem to notice he has done this. The story must be very important to him.
Near the door, two women are talking so seriously that the party seems to bend around them. They have been talking for an hour. I don't know what they are saying. Something real, I think.
The DJ — someone's flatmate, apparently — is playing music that belongs to three different decades simultaneously. Somehow it works. The people on the small area of clear floor that has become the dancing area don't seem confused by this.
I get a drink. I talk to a man named Todd who makes documentaries about birds. I know everything I will ever need to know about albatrosses now. Todd is genuinely fascinating and I don't think he knows it, which is the most interesting thing about him.
Outside in the garden, a group of people are sitting on the grass even though there are chairs. Someone has a guitar but is politely not playing it yet, waiting for the right moment, the slight downshift in noise that means people are ready to listen.
A hundred people, more or less. A hundred different reasons for being here, a hundred different versions of the evening happening at once. The man with the orange shirt finds a new listener. The women by the door are still talking. The guitar comes out.
I think about how strange it is, this human thing — gathering in a room because we don't want to be alone, not quite talking to each other but somehow still together.
Todd finds me again. He has more information about albatrosses.
I am, genuinely, glad.