Mr Gordon

I love Saturday mornings here at the beach. The birds are chirping, the sun is shining, and some girl is always aimlessly walking down the streets of Venice, lost, on her cell phone, desperately trying to remember where she parked her car the night before, all while doing the 8am walk of shame, ruining another peaceful Saturday morning for whoever is on the receiving end of her frantic phone call. Personally, I would have hung up on her.

"I don't know where I am! I'm in Venice! I'm lost! And I lost Briana, at the bar!"

How do you lose a friend at the bar? I've never "lost" friends at the bar. I didn't "lose" Anna, I know exactly where she went, she's with some guy she met at the tequila station and is now "making out" with him in the parking lot.

I explain (around here somewhere) how I came up with the name I use for this blog, Simone Gordon.

Briefly...

Simone, was a young woman I met shortly after arriving to Los Angeles. She was (among other things) a calligrapher, a pencil artist, a writer, and a makeup artist. We worked together. She and I swapped written short stories, letters, artworks, animation, etc. I still have them. She was the only woman I ever had this beautiful creative relationship with until that terrible day she hung herself. Simone, that was her middle name. Though she was older than I, we were both young and stupid, doing what young and stupid people do in Los Angeles. When I think of it, the chain of events leading to her suicide, I get angry at myself for not having seen it...

Gordon, is the last name of a boy I knew when I was a young teenager. We had something, he and I, though even now I know not what. Not a day goes by, or at least not many days go by when I don't think about him... and Simone.

I miss her. I miss them both. We were all so young. I miss them in a unique and awful heart wrenching way. It just seems our relationships were meant to mature, go much further than they did, but sadly did not. I miss all the things that never were. And who's to say they would have ever been. But maybe.

And so... Simone Gordon.

I miss my dad, who died of throat and lung cancer. I miss my childhood friend Rick, who died of brain cancer. Rick was barely in his 40's. And as much as I miss them... we knew.

We prepared. We had time to say goodbye.

Artists who sell millions of copies, are different from artists who sell the (one and only) original piece to just one buyer. It's a different kind of relationship. A million people might have your CD, but only one (one) person still has the paper you wrote the lyrics on, and that's what it's like selling the original piece. And if you think things like hand written lyrics on a napkin don't matter, then you've clearly never been to the Grammy Museum, and you've clearly never been in love, or loved.

He comes to my work at least once a week, once every two weeks. I learned his last name is also Gordon. The second (male) Gordon, I've now met which, obviously, got my attention. Mr Gordon and I struck up a conversation about golf. I had just acquired some golf clubs. I don't know how to play golf but I've casually been on the green a number of times with friends just messing around.

"I have a friend who loves golf." Mr Gordon says. "You should meet him. Funniest most charming guy ever."

Huh. Disappointing. I was kind of hoping you might want to spend an afternoon on the green pretending to play golf with me. Anyway, here's my phone number if your friend wants to make a legit golfer out of me.

A week goes by. Never heard from the friend.

In walks Mr Gordon.

"Did my friend ever contact you?"

No.

"That's strange. I told him I know this really cute girl who wants to learn how to play golf, and gave him your phone number."

We talk a little about "the weather" type stuff, Mr Gordon and I, and he says, "What time are you out of here tonight. Can I give you a lift home?"

Sure. Great. Thanks.

The teenage boy E. Gordon, I once knew had every shade of blonde hair tangled into shoulder length loose curls, brilliant clear water blue eyes, and the best laugh I had ever heard. He was quiet, unassuming, a total mystery to me, but he would look at me in such way, direct eye contact, unwavering, still, calm, certain...

Enter Mr R. Gordon, 2014-to present date. He has crystal clear blue eyes as well, only his are behind thin rim glasses. His full head of hair is almost entirely platinum white. He looks like a 47 year old Tom Brokaw, and hand to god, sounds exactly like him too. But Mr Gordon, much to my surprise, I recently learned, is actually 64 years old. Amazing. Some of us just age incredibly well.

Mr Gordon, drives an old beat up pickup truck, and he still uses the Club Steering Wheel Lock, which I find completely endearing.

During the entire 15 minute drive home, Mr Gordon, kept asking me, "What perfume are you wearing?"

I'm not wearing perfume.

"Nothing?" He asks again in case I lied to him the first time.

No. Nothing. Just deodorant. That's it.

"Well it's SOMETHING you're wearing." He insists. "It's like instant Viagra."

Wow. Really? If any other man said that cheesy line to me I would think he's a giant fucking creep, but I'm oddly bewitched by Mr Gordon, and so I find his Viagra comment rather charming.

In the course of weeks that followed after driving me home from work that night, I learned Mr Gordon, is a film set and stage crewman, a union electrical engineer, which bodes well for me since my dad was a union man. Dad was a union delegate, and then local president for many, many years.

Point, Simone Gordon!

At least once a week, or once every two weeks, Mr Gordon, would walk into my work station and ask, "Where's that pretty girl I come here to look at?" Meaning me, which I find absolutely lovable. I'm interested in Mr Gordon, so presently he can do no wrong.

I know he's 64 years old but EVERYONE who sees him thinks he's in his late 40's or early 50's tops. Even my young male coworkers are impressed. Both Mr Gordon and I look very, very young for our ages. Seems like a perfect match. Two freaks who don't age.

And after Mr Gordon made the "Something on you is definitely Viagra"comment for the second, or perhaps it was the third time, I suggested we hang out for coffee one Saturday.

"Ok" he says.

Here's my number (again). Call me.

A week goes by, no Mr Gordon. Then one day soon after, he walks into my work station and asks, "Is that coffee invite still any good?"

No. It's been over a week. Now you have to take me to the Grammy Museum.

"Great. I love the Grammy Museum. I'm a member. I'm also a long standing member of the Getty, LACMA, and MOCA." He says.

Points, many of them, Mr Gordon!

"What exhibit am I taking you to see?" Mr Gordon, asks.

The Ramones, exhibit.

"Good. I actually knew those guys." He says. "I've been meaning to go but I've been distracted with work, and now I have this pretty girl on my mind."

It's like hearing Tom Brokaw, call me a pretty girl. Kinda dope.

Mr Gordon, doesn't own a cell phone. Amazing. He earns in the middle to upper six figures a year and he has a Club Steering Wheel Lock, no cell phone, and he looks and sounds like a handsome young Tom Brokaw. --I am completely fascinated by him.

Oh, and one other thing...

Sadly

Mr Gordon, is also a widower. How recent I do not know.

The next day on the phone Mr Gordon, says, "10am, kid. I'm going to pick you up at 10am Saturday."

Kind of early, eh?

"10am."

But...

"10 am."

Seriously, why so early?

"10am. I'll be at your door to pick you up at 10am, sharp." He says.

Ok. 10am. And that's how it's done when you don't have a cell phone. No texting. You actually talk on the phone. No being late. No canceling. No nothing. 10am. Sharp.

At precisely 10am that Saturday morning, Mr Gordon, was waiting for me outside my apartment standing next to his truck.

Why didn't you come in? I told you I was going to keep my door open for you.

"It's 9:58." He says, "I still had two minutes.

Yeah but...

"I still had two minutes."

Yeah but...

I didn't want to be rude." He says

Yeah but...

"I said 10am sharp."

Ok then

Mr Gordon, opens the passenger side door for me and I climb in his truck. On the dashboard are directions and maps he printed off his computer.

Ha. You do believe in electronics. Just not cell phones.

"I mapped out the best route to the Grammy Museum, from here."

Um. My phone has GPS.

"Well don't just sit there looking pretty, kid. Turn it on." He says.

So we get to the Grammy Museum, $30 for parking. Glad to see LA LIVE is now (almost) as popular as a day at the beach. I think parking at the beach is like $50 a day. Mr Gordon, goes to the ticket window and buys my $13. ticket. I wish he hadn't done that. I can buy my own ticket. He just paid $30 for parking and wouldn't let me contribute.

"C'mon kid. Don't bruise my ego. I can afford it." He says.

Throughout the exhibit Mr Gordon, was a wealth of information. We would see a piece on display from a foot away and he would say, "That was Dee Dee Ramone's. I'd recognize that anywhere. That's when they were at..."

And sure enough, written on the plaque next to the exhibit described exactly what Mr Gordon said it was.  

The time estimated for the Ramones exhibit was an hour and a half. And that's precisely how long it took us.

Want to grab some lunch?

"Yes. What are you hungry for? I'll follow a pretty girl anywhere."

We tried finding this Chinese restaurant Google maps said was nearby but after a few minutes with no success locating the restaurant, I suggested Mr Gordon, pick a place. Anywhere.

"Let's go to Woflgang Puck." He said.

I didn't say anything.

"What? You don't like Wolfgang Puck?" He asked.

I ate there once. Not this one. The one in Hollywood. Years ago. Got really sick afterwards. Not saying I got sick from the food, could have been coincidental, but you know, once bitten twice shy. Haven't eaten there since.

"Gotcha." Mr Gordon said nodding his head. "I totally understand. C'mon kid, that's where we're eating lunch."

But... But...

"That's where we're eating lunch. You said I could pick any place."

But... But...

"Do you really think they would be in business this long with all their success if they were giving people food poisoning?"

Well... No

So Wolfgang Puck it was AND I had the most amazing salmon burger. It was fantastic. Our server was super cool. Left him a fat tip. I was really enjoying the company and having a great afternoon.

I accidentally dropped my fork. Smooth. The nice waiter rushed over to see if I was ok.

"I'd rush over too if a pretty girl dropped her fork." Mr Gordon, said.

I asked Mr Gordon if he'd like to go or stay and have a glass of wine.

"I don't drink." He said rather sternly.

Oh

Ok

Well

We can go?

"I don't drink because I tend to drink too much and I say stupid things to pretty girls. I quit drinking back in 1992." He explains.

You don't drink because you tend to say stupid things? You mean like, "You smell like I just took a dose of Viagra." That kind of stupid thing? --I didn't actually say that of course.

And this is where it gets weird for me with sober people. I drink. I like drinking. It's a big part of my social world. I don't like hanging out with sober people. I don't like hanging out with stupid ass drunks either, but I'm very uncomfortable around sober people. I feel weird drinking in front of them if we're alone, and I hate that feeling of being quietly judged because I like a nice glass of wine or two --and Mr Gordon, here, is sober.

"But I'm happy to buy a pretty girl a glass of wine if that's what she desires." He says after a moment of thought. "Maybe then it'll loosen your tongue and you'll tell me all your secrets."

Well then...

So I order a glass of wine, a Malbec, and we continue talking. FYI, it takes more than ONE glass of wine to loosen my tongue, Mr Gordon.

Mr Gordon, starts talking about his wife that passed away and rather suddenly he gets emotional, visibly shaken and upset. I touch his arm and gently say, "Maybe we should talk about other things." He quickly composes himself but doesn't touch my hand in return.

"It's still... kind of new." He says quietly.

I understand. You're getting out of the house. Being social. Not being alone. Not letting the grief consume you. It's admirable. But sometimes it requires baby steps. Do you want to call it a day?

"No." He says, "I want to grab coffee with a pretty girl. Finish your wine, kid."

I have a personal "first date" rule. If we actually make it this far (museum, lunch, coffee) without trying to murder each other, I like to financially contribute, and with parking, my ticket, and lunch at Wolfgang Puck, plus now coffee, I wasn't going to let Mr Gordon, pay for everything so I paid my lunch. He paid his. I paid my own coffee. He paid his. I insisted.

When I finished my glass of wine Mr Gordon, and I strolled up the street to Starbucks.

While having coffee I learned Mr Gordon likes classical music, jazz, and punk rock. His parents were farmers, he's a history buff, an astronomy junkie, hangs at the Griffith Observatory, AND Mr Gordon likes to go hiking and camping.

I love hiking and camping!

"Anytime, kid. I've got a closet full of camping gear."

Do I understand this potential budding friendship with Mr Gordon? No. Not at all. But in trying to narrow things down a little I tell him I have a request.

"Anything." He says.

May I please have one of the ticket stubs from the Ramones exhibit, as a memento of our first... date.

"Yes. Of course." Mr Gordon, says, and hands me the ticket stub.

By the time we finished our coffee it was 3:30pm. Mr Gordon, picked me up at 10am. 5 1/2 hours went by and we didn't try killing each other, not even once. I consider this date a success.

"Ever been to the LA Convention Center?" Mr Gordon, asks me.

Yes. A number of times. Have you?

"Yes. My wife liked to go to this sex erotic convention." He tells me.

I asked Mr Gordon if he enjoyed the adult convention too.

"Yes. We went every year." He confirms.

Adultcon. Cool. I'll file that piece of information away for potential further use.

Parked in front of my apartment I didn't except Mr Gordon to kiss me or anything. He didn't touch me all day. Not a hug. Not a kiss on the cheek. Not a tug on my sleeve. Not an arm tap. Nothing. Still, I didn't know how to officially end the date.

"Listen kid," Mr Gordon says, "I'll take you anywhere you want to go. The Getty. The Huntington Library. Camping. I'll take a pretty girl anywhere she wants. Whatever you want to do, we'll do it. You just say when. Okay?"

Ok.

"Ok." Mr Gordon, said affectionately. "Now get out of my truck."

Did Tom Brokaw, just kick me out of his truck? Sweet!

Mr Gordon, waited for me to open the doors to my apartment before driving away. Prior to stepping inside my apartment I turned to wave goodbye to him but Mr Gordon had already drove off.

Ok, yes, agreed, there is a considerable age difference between Mr Gordon and I, but unlike my poor old mentally ill landlord who's twice my age and looks like hell, I'm interested in Mr Gordon who I find incredibly handsome, refreshing and... magnetic.

Indeed, IF my potential budding friendship with Mr Gordon ever blossoms into something lasting, at least I won't have to change my fake last name. They say if you do a thing over and over, like sign your name 'Simone Gordon', it may just one day become who you are. Mr Gordon has the ability to make an honest "Gordon" out of me. I'd be lying if I said that didn't conspicuously hook me a little.