I’m sitting at Prism Coffee in K-Town, killing time before my flight back to Nashville. An angry bluetooth headphone guy sits across from me, a stereotypical thirty-something tech start-up kinda dude clearly Adderalled to the gils.
“Ok fine, so I guess I’m on blast for everything. I GUESS I’M ON BLAST FOR EVERYTHING.” He abruptly shifts gears, pleading, “YOU STAY RIGHT THERE! RIGHT THERE, YOU HEAR ME!”
I don't know this guy's deal, but I do know that innocent men rarely wear sunglasses indoors, or that much cologne. This exchange would be exponentially more alarming in say, Des Moines, but this is LA, the land of the Adderall Douchebag, and as I’m bouncing in a Lyft towards the Worst Airport in America, my attention shifts to not vomiting all over myself and I forget about the angry bluetooth headphone guy.
My Lyft driver’s also classic LA, which is to say he’s hyper-aggressive while having no idea where he’s going, so by the time we arrive at LAX’s Terminal 4 we’ve explored every Inglewood backroad at ludicrous speeds and I’ve found and lost faith in God probably a dozen times. I collapse out of the Ford Focus unconvinced of the afterlife but overjoyed I’ll soon revive my beleagured corpus at the California Pizza Kitchen.
Medicore pizza on my mind, I’m walking and doing dumb phone stuff, which means I bump into a couple embracing and whispering sweet nothings. I look up to apologize and, holy shit, it’s the angry bluetooth headphone guy! No lie, it’s the same dude from the coffeeshop, and the woman in his arms presumably is the one putting him on blast. Did he actually race to the airport to catch her before her flight? Are they reconciling, like, right now? Am I witnessing an LA miracle?
I feel myself wanting to chant “L-A-X! L-A-X!” but I’m informed by a helpful business traveler that, “hey asshole, the line’s moving.” As I’m shuffling closer towards my guitar being mishandled, I’m thinking there’s hope in even the most broken of places. Here’s to you, angry bluetooth headphone guy. You're alright, I guess.