Rohan looked up from the book but the audience remained quiet, expectant. He wanted to end the awkward silence so he thought of something else to say.
“Uhm, well that’s all folks.”
A polite laugh or two were let out and Rohan gave a pleading look to the manager, who was herself caught off guard by the abrupt finish. She was accustomed to authors saying a few words to gracefully bring the talk to a close. It became apparent the reading was over and there were low whispers and a shuffle of bodies, finally relieving Rohan from his position. He exchanged words with some of the audience members, fulfilling his duties impatiently, until the long awaited moment when he could walk over to a pretty blonde that remained seated.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
“Just wanted to make sure they didn’t put mannequins out here to make the turnout look good. The show’s over you know.”
“I know, I was waiting for you to come over here. You kept looking up at me during the reading, so I figured you would.”
He admired her candor, which he rarely found in adult life.
“Have you read the book?”
“I skimmed through it. It’s good, though it doesn’t even come close to passing the Bechdel Test.”
Rohan gave a short laugh, before noticing she was serious.
“I thought that only applied to fiction.”
“A lot of what you wrote read like fiction.”
“Touché.”
They continued to banter for a few more minutes before Austin came over with Cynthia to congratulate Rohan on the well-received reading. Introductions were made and Rohan invited his new friend to come out for drinks with them. As they left for the car, he thought about the days when he had to carry conversation, be charming, go the extra mile and strangely, he longed for them.
The next morning, Rohan awoke with a mean hangover. Feeling a dull pain, he moved his tongue over the inside of his cheek and felt a shallow cut. He recalled the four of them sitting at Stark Bar early in the night. Cocktails flowed and at some point the exchange had become heated. It was the pretty girl from the reading, going on about gender roles or some such. He didn’t remember what he said but it was bad enough that she slapped him and stormed off, leaving him stunned and Austin crying with laughter. He was overcome by the absurdity of it. Perversely, the fact that he retained the ability to screw up a sure thing reassured him. There was yet work to be done.
Half an hour later Rohan stood in the lobby, freshly showered, dressed and ready to take on the day. He didn’t have anywhere to go, but he felt like he would think better on the move. Rohan pulled out his phone and called for a car with a few taps on the screen.
When the car arrived, Rohan got in and told the driver to head up Sunset without giving any specific destination. He mapped out a route in his head, sat back and relaxed. They barely made it past The Standard when Rohan caught sight of the tower of Chateau Marmont up on the hill ahead.
Remembering that Andy from the publishing house had told him he could get him past the lobby bar’s doorman anytime he wanted, he decided to give the chap a call. Keeping the pleasantries brief, he quickly got around to business.
"Hey, by the way, you think you can call up the Marmont to get me in? Was thinking about heading up there right now."
“Rohan, it’s 11 in the morning, just walk in like a normal person.”
Rohan was amused by his oversight, a frequent occurrence of late. He hoped his absent-mindedness was borne of a conscious detachment and not fading memory.
“Oh, right… What do you reckon I should get? It’s my first time there,” he tried to maneuver out of his faux pas with grace.
“They’ve got an excellent boulevardier. Basically a Negroni with bourbon instead of gin. Oh, and you should check out the bungalow where Jim Belushi died. It’s a good reminder to any young artist to be wary of excess.”
Rohan couldn’t think of a clever response so he curtly finished the conversation and directed his driver up the hill to palatial hotel.
“I should only be in there for 15, maybe 20 minutes. Feel free to drive around.”
“It’s fine man, I’ll wait here. Take your time.”
Akbar didn’t mind, the meter was running and he’d get a chance to say the Dhuhr midday prayer for a change. It was the first time in weeks he’d gotten the time. Being one of LA’s growing fleet of part-time actor, part-time waiter, part-time Uber drivers wasn’t always easy. He finished the prayer and waited for his eccentric fare. What sort of heathen begins drinking at this hour? He resolved to find out.
Rohan returned to the car buzzed, having indulged in a second boulevardier after the first, and a Manhattan for good measure. He apologized for taking so long and got settled in, instructing Akbar down Hollywood Boulevard. Rohan decided he wanted to go up to Griffith Park so they hung a left on Western. Parked at the observatory, they both got out of the car to stretch their legs. Rohan walked down towards the trees and pulled out a joint from his pocket, motioning to Akbar to join him. Akbar didn’t drink, but he enjoyed a good smoke now and again. Having said his prayers earlier, he decided he would indulge.
“Thanks for the smoke, man,” Akbar said as he reached out for the joint.
“No worries, it’s my pleasure. Thanks for driving me around.”
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s up with that? You don’t have anywhere to be?”
“Nope, not really.”
They looked at each other in silence as Rohan took back the lit joint. Akbar began once again.
“I’ve been practicing with a Sufi teacher lately, do you know what that is?”
Rohan was surprised by the change of direction, but searched for an answer in his clouded state.
“It’s an Islamic mysticism, right? Like Kaballah is for Jews.”
“Yeah. Basically. Anyway, the Sufi I’m working with is trying an experiment. He asked me to participate. Normally, meditation is done silently, retreating from the material world and into your own consciousness, right? It’s contemplative. Well, my Sufi teacher wants me to try outward meditation and report to him on the results. What that means is, basically directing as many of your conversations towards spiritual topics. He wants to know if it’s possible under the right circumstances for a conversation to become a spiritual experience, a sort of social spirituality.”
Letting out a puff of smoke Rohan wheezed, “Or joint meditation?”
Akbar laughed, “Yeah, I suppose you could call it that.”
“I did have a mystical experience once. Want to hear about it?”
“My Sufi teacher told me it isn’t wise to talk about your own mystical experience. It invites competitiveness and egotism. At least you shouldn’t speak about it in specifics.”
“Ha, well I failed miserably at that one. I wrote about mine in a book.”
“Ah, so you’re a writer. That explains a lot.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nevermind.”
Rohan dropped the joint and crushed it beneath his loafers.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here, shall we?”
As they wound their way back into the city, their camaraderie grew, and with a newfound appetite, they searched for a good lunch option. They were on the 101 near Dodger Stadium when Rohan decided on Phillippe’s. It was a perfect day for the city’s best French Dip sandwiches.
“Thanks for getting these, man.”
“Don’t mention it Akbar, don’t mention it.”
“So, what did you do before you began writing?”
“I was in finance, but after the real estate bubble burst I got into tech.”
“Guess you’re just hopping from one bubble to the next, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess so," Rohan said with a grin, "Luckily I don’t plan to write any more books, so if there’s a bubble in that, well… who gives a shit?”
“So you were in finance, any good investment advice?”
“Yeah: don’t. The market’s a joke. Even calling it that seems absurd these days. Prices are fixed by lunatics and then these financial mystics claim to read the lines on a chart and predict which way prices will move. If it’s two humps and a diagonal it means this or three little bumps down means that. It’s as absurd as predicting the weather by looking at chicken entrails, but that’s the world we live in.”
“Why doesn’t anyone say something about it?”
“Cause everyone’s making money! The saddest part is that when you look at a chart and see, like a double top reversal or something, it’s that you have to respect it. Simply because everyone else does.
You don’t chop wood against the grain. If everyone thinks a certain shape means a stock is going higher, you don’t want to get caught short.”
“So it works because people think it’s supposed to work?”
“Pretty much. It’s called the common knowledge game.”
“Sounds like a game about something not a lot of people have,” Akbar chomped down on the famously soggy bun.
“No, that’s common sense. The common knowledge game, well, the best way to explain it is with this contest they used to have. Back when people used to read the newspaper. They’d publish pictures of a bunch of hot girls and the readers would mail in their choice for the prettiest. The people who voted for the girl who got the most votes would get into a raffle or something. But the point is, you play this game a bunch of times, sending who you think is the prettiest, and it doesn’t take long to realize that you’ve got it all wrong. Who you think is prettiest never wins, so you have to start thinking who everyone else thinks is the prettiest. Maybe you like brunettes, but the damn blondes always win the competition, you follow? So you start thinking what do people in my town like?”
Akbar nodded, “Yeah, I get it. You outsmart everyone by deciding a level above them. Observe what they’re going to do and try to predict it.”
“Bingo! But there’s a problem with that too. It works great when you’re the only one smart enough to have figured out the trick. As soon as everyone else figures out that they have to make second-level decisions, you’re sunk. Then you have to move to the third-level of decision making to have any advantage. What the finance guys call alpha. You pick who you think everyone thinks that everyone else thinks will be the winner.”
“So, that’s how you become a good investor?”
“I don’t know that there are any good investors anymore, not in the truest sense of the word anyway.
We’re all speculators these days. We read charts like tea leaves and try to guess who everyone else thinks is the prettiest. Some of us are just better at it than others.”
“Interesting… So, what’s next?”
“That’s just what I’ve been wondering Akbar. Exactly, what I’ve been wondering. I can’t fathom writing another book. I don’t want to play with shares and bonds and options. What do you suggest?”
“I meant where you wanted to go next, but, I dunno, you seem to like to drink a lot. Why don’t you open a bar?”
Rohan liked the sound of it, being the proprietor of a bar.
“You know, I’ve always wanted to own a bar. But licenses out here cost an arm and a leg.”
“There are places outside of LA too you know.”
A pause.
“You’re right Akbar. Plenty of places outside of LA.”
Once again ensconced in the back seat, Rohan’s mind began racing. Why not get out of the country for a few years? Austin had secured him a hell of a contract, so he didn’t have to worry about money. He had saved most of the low-six figure advance, and even with the haircut on royalties, he’d have financial freedom for a while. Was it really that crazy? To hell with it. He made up his mind and asked Akbar to take him back to the hotel. He needed a laptop and internet.