Suppine

 The Tinder date went fine. Well enough…

Kyle's date told him about a play she'd seen where the audience sat in an abandoned boxcar in the middle of the woods.

She'd bought the tickets online through an app, which had accepted her money and then gave her the address to a parking lot: a small dirt patch off a driveway in the Hills. She parked and found a scattering of confused-but-excited “theater-explorers" who followed poorly lit signs to a moss-covered boxcar in the middle of the woods.

She used the term “theater-explorers.” Those were the exact words, practiced. This wasn’t the first time she’d said it. The phrase seemed cheesy to Kyle. He shook it off. He could be too judgmental sometimes. He was working on that.

The play had been overwhelming. Actors in animal masks ran around outside. The story was enigmatic, key components of the plot always seemed to develop out of sight, in the woods, or on another side of the boxcar. Chunks of the audience crammed into windows, doing their best to gather small narrative clues, blocking others from seeing. The climax was a choreographed, simulated earthquake -- the actors had swarmed the boxcar and rocked it back and forth while a woman in a full Victorian gown lit bonfires and sang.

The audience was thrilled. Kyle's date-- Gloria-- had sobbed gently. They all left the boxcar feeling a strange bond, like neighbors in a thunderstorm.

Kyle loved the story, but admitted he would have puked when they started shaking the boxcar.

"I get motion sickness."

Gloria lived near the restaurant, so they walked to her apartment. Her roommate would be out for the night.

They sparked the second half of a joint from a clay ashtray on her short IKEA table. The two of them leaned back into a soft, sinking couch. And began to make out.

But Gloria had cats, and Kyle was allergic. So before things got hot and heavy, Kyle found himself in Gloria's bathroom struggling to suck in breath with overwhelming dread washing over him. His throat swollen and his immune system battling the dangerous, foreign.... cat dander.

God. He felt like an idiot. Terrible.

So Kyle excused himself. Gloria said she understood.

But she had already been put off. Finding out he had “motion sickness” was especially disappointing. Kyle would never be a "theater-explorer" with her. It had been her new year's resolution, after all, to experience more weird “out there” art.

Gloria let her mind wander. Let herself wish she could be that woman in a full Victorian gown lighting fires at the climax of an experimental play... and here was this guy who wasn't gonna help actualize that. So fuck him.

When Kyle left, Gloria kicked back on her couch and opened Tinder back up.

And Kyle found himself wandering around Echo Park Lake. The park’s dark water reflected an empty sky. He found a cold metal bench, sat down.

A parade of people streamed by. They were on their way to church from a large imposing halfway house near the 101. The Dream Center. Kyle had been by the Dream Center before. He would find himself stopping… staring… wondering about the people living there.

And now, here they were, walking two-by-two on their way to a night of discussing faith and boasting of God and their love of His love. Kyle turned his head away, wanting to give these people their time to reflect without his judgment.

He took in a deep, wheezy breath, his lungs still reeling from the allergic reaction. God, he should really start carrying antihistamines, he thought. And had the slow, creeping realization that he felt mightily sad. The weed swam around in his head. It found the anxious corners of his brain, unearthed paranoid thoughts.

The sound of the cars going by on the road only became noticeable when it stopped. A coordinated effort of red lights ceased all traffic around the park. And the overall effect a thick cocoon of silence. And in the silence Kyle noticed…

A strange flicker. Something odd… something metallic in the water… reflecting the light of a lonely park lamp. Kyle rose from the bench, walked a couple steps forward and kneeled on the concrete barrier surrounding the lake.

He suddenly needed to have it. Rolling up his shirt sleeve, plunging his arm into the dark water, he reached for the shiny, strange metal. The parade of faithful men and women—who spent nights staring at the ceilings of their small rooms at the Dream Center, and spent days devoting themselves to the oppressive task of sobriety—offered small, curious glances. But soon they passed by in full.

Kyle was alone, unwatched when…

He had it, had a grip of the shiny metal... necklace? It must be a necklace. He pulled, but it was stuck on something, or lodged in the mud. And he plunged a second hand in, not caring to roll up his sleeve, soaking his nice flannel. And he pulled, leaning away from the lake. And he pulled, and something popped! It came loose! And Kyle fell onto his back, wet and gazing at the night sky, the treasure in his hand...

A necklace. Broken now at the clasp.  A small child's toy. A little locket. Elsa's face from Disney's Frozen stared at Kyle. Kyle stared back.

Then he started to laugh.

Realizing how silly he must have looked.

He pocketed the night's treasure, and decided he'd walk the couple miles home tonight.