12:00, time to wake up. If it’s 12 PM, I shower, pull on my worn-in black yoga pants and a sleeveless black cotton shirt (normally with some kind of 70s concert logo on it.) I drive my big black SUV to The Coffee Bean. The people sitting at the tables out front say hi when they see me. There’s Judy with her little white dog, Satre. There’s Mike with his laptop, working on a screenplay. Those two are here every day, like me. I saunter by them without stopping. I am aware that most people think it is the middle of the afternoon, but for me, the day is still nascent, and it moves in fits and starts.
“Large Red Eye over ice, coming up! Hi Marisa.” The barista gives me a nod. She knows my order — it’s the same thing every day. A large iced coffee with three espresso shots. A real bartender’s drink. When it’s ready, I take it and go outside with the regulars– put on my sunglasses, take my seat and let the sun do its thing.
It takes me two hours or so to down the Red Eye. Finally feeling alive, I hop back into my SUV and head over to Gold’s Gym on Gower. It feels like everyone there is famous, but in truth only some actually are. The guy from last year’s big holiday movie works out there, and the lady that starred as Tina Turner, and the guy who was really famous as a kid on that big TV show — he’s really nice. I like to go places where I’m “famous,” where everyone recognizes me and my attitude. I walk on the treadmill for half an hour, giving a cursory nod to the new girl who is running on the treadmill next to me. She is looking at me like I’m a rock star. Of course, I know who she is right away — we all know each other in this town — she works at the shop where I buy my 70s concert Ts. I make a quick decision to remain silent and maintain my allure until she leaves.
That’s my 12 PM routine.
If the alarm goes off and it says 12 AM, I get up and shower, put on other, cooler black clothing, put up my long, black white-girl dreadlocks in a cool way (unlike the messy ponytail I wear to The Coffee Bean and the gym,) and drive a couple miles to Akbar. I pour drinks, schmooze all night, and make a killing in tips. Everyone thinks they’re my best friend. The gays are good tippers — Akbar is a gay bar, but only for the youngest, hippest, and most alternative. You know what the boys like to say there: no tank tops allowed! If you like tank tops and Cher, go farther west, that’s what they’ll tell you. My bar is for the cool guys.