Friday afternoon, David calls me at work and asks if I’m free that night. “I have a surprise that has landed in my lap, and I’d love to take you,” he says.
“Oh?” I’m intrigued.
“The Lakers are playing the Clippers in the playoffs,” he says, excited.
“Oh, interesting,” I say. Dammit. He wants to go to a basketball game? “I didn’t know you were into basketball.”
“I’m not, really. But Lakers versus Clippers? Two L.A. teams against each other on their way to the finals? That seems epic. And not the way people use that word now. I mean, an actual epic struggle for the heart of Los Angeles sports fans. Plus, these are great seats.”
“OK,” I say. “Cool. Go, Lakers!”
“Or Clippers,” David says. “We’ll have to decide.”
I laugh. “I suppose we should be on the same team for this.”
“Might make things easier,” he says. “So I’ll pick you up at your place around six?”
“Sounds good.”
When he shows up at my door at ten of six, the sun is out and is only now considering the idea of setting. The heat, which in only a month or two will become as oppressive as a straitjacket, is merely mild and soothing, like a sweatshirt.
We get into the car, and David starts careening through the streets. He navigates with confidence. I am tempted, when he turns onto Pico, to suggest he take Olympic. I stop myself. It’s not polite.
And yet Pico gets us there much, much more slowly than Olympic would have. The traffic is aggressive and bumper-to-bumper. People are cutting people off, sneaking into lanes they aren’t supposed to, and in general acting like jerks. By the time we are downtown, circling around the Staples Center, I am remembering why I don’t go to the Staples Center. I hate crowds of people. I hate congested parking lots. I don’t really care about sports.
David pulls into a private lot charging twenty-five dollars to park.
“Are you serious?” I ask. I can’t believe it. “Twenty-five dollars?”
“Well, I’m certainly not dealing with the bullshit of trying to get into one of those lots.” He points down the street to men with bright flashing batons and flags, offering parking for fifteen. Cars are backed up for blocks to get in.
I nod my head.
We get out of the car. It takes us ten minutes just to cross the street to get to the Staples Center. A sea of people, some in yellow and purple jerseys, some in red and blue, swarms past us.
David takes my hand, which is good, because I have no idea where I am. We make our way into the stadium, entering through what look like the main doors. We hand over our tickets.
The ticket taker, a humorless forty-something man, frowns at us and tells us we are at the wrong door. He says we need to go to the left, around the building.
David is losing his patience now, too. “We can’t get in this way?”
“Left and around the building,” the man says.
So we go.
We finally find the right door.
We walk in. We are told that our seats are in section 119, which is nowhere near the door we came in. By the time we find our seats, they are inhabited by two teenage boys in Clippers jerseys. We have to ask them to leave, which makes me feel like pretty much the worst person in this stadium, since these boys actually care about this game and I don’t care in the slightest.
But regardless, we sit down.
We watch the ball go back and forth.
David turns to me, the stress finally leaving his face. “OK,” he says. “Let’s root for the Clippers.”
“Sounds good. Why Clippers?”
David shrugs. “They seem like the underdog.”
It’s as good a reason as any. When they score, David and I jump up. When a foul is called against them, we boo. We cheer for the guy trying to make the halftime shot. We pretend to be impressed by the Laker Girls. We stomp our feet in rapid-fire motion when the announcer tells us to make some noise. But my heart is not in it. I don’t care.
The Clippers lose, 107 to 102.
David and I leave with the flow of the rest of the stands. We are pushed into the people in front of us. I trip on a stair. We break away from the crowd. We leave the stadium.
The sun set some time ago. I should have brought a sweater.
“Do you remember which way we came in?” David says. “It was this way, right? After we came around the building?”
“Oh, I thought you were paying attention.”
“No,” he says, his voice strained. “I thought you were.”
I realize then that between parking in a random lot and walking all around the stadium to get in, neither of us has any idea where we parked.
And that’s when I think, Jesus Christ. I’ve done all of this, I’ve spent all of this time, done all of this work, just to end up back here?
Because while it may not look the same as trying to find your car in Lot C of Dodger Stadium, it sure as hell feels exactly like it.
And then I look at David, and I think that if all roads eventually lead here anyway, I’d rather it was with Ryan.