And the women. Jeez. Every pair of knockers in the place would win the blue ribbon where I come from. There’s just a bunch of beautiful people in this room, and what I’m realizing now is that’s what it takes not to be lonely out here. You must have the right clothes, body, hair, smell, accessories, and personality. Oh, but when I say personality, I don’t mean you have to be genuinely interesting or original. Personality in the LA sense means you must be able to maintain a conversation which suggests you’re worth hooking up with because you possess all of the required embellishments.

I saw a television program once about the whole dilemma of attracting a mate. And there were these pitifully normal-looking people who kept saying things like, “eventually, beauty gets old and people are going to want someone who’s actually intelligent and unique and has more to offer than a hard body and nice boobs.” I hear those lonely people talking while I watch this crowd of vibrant people, and I’m thinking yeah, hold your breath. People may tolerate friendship with plain, interesting people, but they certainly don’t want to fuck them, and believe me, fucking is the end result of all this light and makeup and music and alcohol and drugs and dancing. This is all about finding someone to fuck. It has to be. I mean, the group at the table beside me is only a few millimeters of fabric away from doing it. And the dancing—grinding, rather—is pretty much dry humping. I really feel sorry for those bland people, sitting at home, angry and jilted, waiting for all these beauties to come around and realize how interesting they are.

After I finish my drink, I walk into the crowd. I am in no way a dancer. Not even remotely. I reach the center of the dance floor. It’s ridiculously loud and hot. People move together all around me—sexually, robotically, gracefully, all uninhibited. There are  several columns six or seven feet high, and people dance solo on top of these. I stand at the base of one and look up at this Asian woman who is “lost in the music,” as they say. I can see up her dress. She’s not a big fan of underwear.

This enormous, beefy black man bumps into me. He holds glow sticks and dances with his eyes closed. Another woman, very tall, is garbed in a wedding dress. She just stands in one place, nothing moving but her head, side to side with the beat.

The disco balls come to life and spit their bursting light all over the walls.

I plow on through the crowd to the other side of the room where a beer bar and more tables line the wall.

I sit down beside a table of five lovely women, and after listening to them gab, I discover they’re a bachelorette party. All late twenty-somethings. You can tell they don’t come out to places like this very often. I wonder how they got into La Casa anyway. They’re all drinking highly colorful drinks garnished with slices of tropical fruit. I imagine that once they’re sufficiently liquored up, they’ll be stumbling out onto the dance floor with everyone else.

One of them catches me staring.

“Hello.” I smile that winning smile.

“Hi.”

The other four women now look at me.

“Let me guess,” I say, very charmingly, “bachelorette party?”

They smile politely, let out some nervous laughter, and confirm that I’m correct.

“Who’s the bride-to-be? No. Let me guess.”

I lean back and squint and take them in.

Facing me, they occupy one half of a circular table.

From left to right: (i) a redhead, oldest of the bunch, cute, but the glitter on her cheeks is a little disturbing;

(ii) one of those tiny little blonds that probably have to shop for clothes in the children’s department. Short hair and twinkly eyes that shine with something none of her friends possess (hope she’s not the bride);

(iii) another blond, more regular-size, who’s athlete-pretty but might be stronger than me (yikes);

(iv) a factory-issue brunette who looks as though she’s been smiling since Christmas;

(v) another brunette, who, because of the disinterested way she’s staring back at me, I surmise is a lesbian. Quite beautiful though.

I point at the smiley brunette.

“I’ve got to go with you. You look very bridey.”

Incomprehensibly, her smile widens, until I think her face is going to split apart.

“Yep. It’s me.” They all laugh, and I laugh, too.

“Well, good luck to you and your fiancé. I wish you all the best.”

A waitress passes near our tables, and I lift my hand, snag her attention.

“Another round for the ladies please, and an Absolut for me, one ice cube, no lime.”

“Certainly.”

The ladies all thank me and make excuses about how they’d better not drink too much since their partying days are long since gone. But boy when their fruity drinks are replenished, and I’ve suavely toasted the bride-to-be, they suck them down like you wouldn’t believe.

The glittery redhead suddenly lights up and exclaims how rude we all are because we don’t even know each other’s names.

“This is…” She proceeds to name all five women in about three nanoseconds. I’m awful with names, so the only one I remember is the marvelous blond. Kara.

“I’m Jim,” I say and I reach across and shake everyone’s hand very delicately.

The lesbian cocks her head.

“What’s your last name?” she asks.

I can’t tell you how happy that makes me, but I play it very cool. Hesitating. Like I don’t want to say.

“Jansen,” I say, extremely understated-like.

The athletic blonde says, “Down From the Sleeping Trees Jansen?” Her eyes are about to pop out of her head. I’m serious.

But I just nod and look away like they’re making me feel uncomfortable. They’re not, incidentally. I’m loving every minute of it.

One of them says holy shit. I hear more nervous giggling.

I kind of don’t know what to say to them now. I mean, unless they start asking me questions, I’ve got nothing.

When I turn back to face them, you wouldn’t believe the shock on their faces. All except for Kara. She’s just staring at me with her calm, sweet eyes.

A hand squeezes my shoulder.

“Jim?”

Richard Haneline is standing above me. He’s a Star. A medium Star. Very recognizable. He isn’t handsome in the Hollywood sense. Just distinctive-looking. A long, pointy nose and piercing eyes. He always stars in these Vietnam flicks, playing the renegade solider or the bad guy. Some people just look like the bad guy, I guess. He’s always blowing shit up and going off the deep end.

I stand up and smile and shake his hand, wondering if I call him Rich or Richard or some nickname. I didn’t even know I knew the guy.

“Great to see you out, Jim. You get my message?”

“No, my voicemail’s been fucked up.”

I’m taller than Richard Haneline and much better-looking. I focus on these little things to keep from fainting.

“Look, I’m having a party next Tuesday after the premiere. Feel up to coming?”

“Absolutely.”

A woman calls out “Rich!” from the dance floor.

He waves to this perfect brunette.

“Jim, if I don’t see you again tonight, I’ll call you.” He starts to walk back onto the dance floor.

I grab his arm. “My phone’s going to be out of commission for a few days. Here.” I take a cash receipt, tear off a section, and scribble my new cell number down. “Use this number. Just call me tomorrow or Monday with details.”

“Sounds good. Hey, guy, I’m so happy to finally see you out. I think it’s terrific.”

He seems to want to say more, but instead he slaps my shoulder and backpedals into the tangle of dancers.

When I turn around, I see that the five ladies of bachelorette party fame have not moved. To tell you the truth, I think they’re fairly star-struck. And between seeing me and Haneline, that’s understandable.

I go ahead and take a seat across from them. The blonde and I lock eyes.