1st Pages of the book

“It’s quite surprising when people talk about how difficult it is for them to meet other people. My friends have tried speed dating, and organized “meet a friend” parties. Know what? That’s a lot of work. Why can’t they just meet people in normal places? Why can’t they just meet people while stuck in traffic on the 405, on their way home to Santa Monica?”

She laughs as I talk on, and on about my friends and I. Her laugh is soothing, makes me almost forget about the traffic and the unusual cold weather that we’re experiencing. As we sit in my car sharing laughs while getting to know each other, I can’t help but wonder how it was that we got to this place. I guess that’s the main problem with people. We can never live in the present, we’re always thinking about what we just did, or what we want to do. But seriously, what I just did, was freaking awesome.

You’d think that at 10:00pm in the evening on a Wednesday night that the streets would be empty and everyone would be at home with their families, settling in to watch television and talk about their day at work, unfortunately people in LA don’t love their families. That must explain why at this time of night, the freeway is packed full of cars. That also seems like the likely explanation of why some guy, about one mile ahead of me, decided to fall asleep at the wheel and cause a major accident, adding to the normal congestion of LA traffic…idiots…shouldn’t the government be doing something about them?

So now I’m surrounded by cars, and its freezing cold outside. Traffic is at a complete stop, and not one car has moved an inch in the last fifteen minutes. YAY! To the right of me, is a grey car that is in desperate need of a wash. I’d look inside to see who’s driving, but why? Cute girls drive cute cars…this car is old and busted, time to move on. Behind me? Can’t tell, their lights are blinding me. Same for the car in front of me, except it’s my lights that are doing the blinding. Well that, and the fact that their back is turned to me. To the left of me is a yellow Jetta…do cars come any cuter? Can’t see much of the driver besides her long dark hair, and the glint of blue in her eyes. She’s on the phone…probably talking to her boyfriend. The cute ones are always taken….sad.

Even before I act, I start to question myself. Is it wrong that even in stopped traffic, I’m looking for someone to chat up? Probably, but the knowledge of this obviously isn’t going to stop me. She’s off the phone, and looking incredibly bored. One should always be aware of their surroundings and use it to their advantage. I breathe on my window so that it fogs up and I can write on it. So I write, so that she can read, “I’m missing Lost”. I wait…She noticed and smiles. She writes back, “CSI, much better”. I smile back, showing of my dimples so that she can see. “What’re you up to?” I ask. ‘Stuck in traffic, you?” she responds. “Me? Window shopping.” She laughs out loud. Yeah…I know.

She rolls down her window and we start chatting, ignoring all the lights and cruddy weather that surrounds us. Most people would ask the basic questions, about work and hobbies, which would surely bore not only the asker, but also the asked. I on the other hand, unplug my ipod from my car, load up Phil Collins, and toss it over to her.

“That’s my traffic music”, I say.

She listens and starts laughing again. Questions, my taste in music, and decides to come over to my car to share her taste in music. Is she really doing this? Getting in a car with a complete stranger, just to listen to music? Well...I do have a certain charm about me, and it’s not like the cars will be moving anytime soon. But still…odd…maybe I should be the one that’s scared. She comes over and I open the door. She sits down and we do the regular name sharing introductions. As she plays her favorite 80’s songs and we laugh about the various one hit wonders that we used to idolize, I do the required reconnaissance, and find out that she has no boyfriend, and is a make-up artist for a department store. As we continue to talk, I can tell that she’s into me. All girls do the same thing when they like a guy: twist their hair, laugh at your dumb jokes, and glance at your lips from time to time. She asks what I do, and I tell her. She has the same reaction that all others do when I tell them that I work in computers. Shock.

“But you’re so….un-nerdy”, she says.

“Yeah, I’m breaking stereotypes”, I respond. “What about you? A make-up artist with an abundance of natural beauty?”

She smiles and blushes. Even in the dark, being lit only by the dull lights of my car, I can see her cheeks turn red. Yeah, I can’t believe she fell for that nonsense either.

“I bet you say-“, she started.

Before she could finish her sentence, we were kissing. Now kissing many random girls isn’t a bad thing…as long as they’re hot, but this is LA, so just make sure that the girl you’re kissing doesn’t have a penis. As we start to fog up the windows she pulls away…well this is a first. She’s looking at me...no, like looking into my eyes as if she’s searching for something.

“Um…this is a bit odd…you have a strange look in your eyes”

“Well,” she starts, “I usually don’t make out with guys I just met on the freeway. We should go out on a proper date…but I need to know…are you a nice guy?”

I smile, showing of my weapon of choice, my dimples.

“Yeah…yeah I am…”

“Oh…and..um…I forgot your name”

“…Fabian Donovan….nice to meet you…”

She smiles back, kisses me and heads back to her car. She fogs up her window and writes her number on the glass, with a little heart over the number ‘1’….yeah…cute. As the congestion dissipates and the cars start to move, my mind couldn’t help but linger on her question. “Am I a nice guy?” I certainly used to be. Used to be the guy that was so shy around girls that I would literally stutter and sweat when asked what my name was. But now I’m…well…not. So the question I found I kept asking myself was, “Do I like my new self more than my old self?”…I didn’t know.

I’m home. Car in the garage, shoes off, keys on the counter, and I quickly find the couch. I’m exhausted. Before I met the beautiful Miranda on the freeway, I’d been at the hospital. Maybe that’s why I’m questioning myself. Am I who I want to be? I’ll answer that question in the morning.