Mad Atoms

She told me, flat out, that she “does not do 818.” And it really was a shame, because everything was going so well up until that point. I was sweating much less than I usually do when I dance. Plus, I hadn’t accidentally grazed her boobs, even when the pack of thick guys made their way onto the center of the dance floor behind me by literally lifting me up and putting me back down.

“You don’t do 818? What about 424?”

“What’s 424?”

“It’s part of where 310 used to be.”

“Really? I think you’re lying.”

“No, honest. It’s like in the late 1990s when they added 323 around the 213. Only, it doesn’t really surround it like that. It’s an overlay.”

She looked at me, concerned.

“How old are you, again?”

I guess she didn’t remember the 323 shift in the late 1990s. It was time for one last sell.

“No, honest. 424 is like cream of the crop 310. Century City and stuff.”

She thought about it for a moment. “You have a 424 number and an 818 number?”

“It’s my work number. I commute to the 424.”

She looked at me, very concerned.

“Wait, seriously, how old are you again?”

That’s when I realized I shouldn’t have used the word “commute.”

“I’m in my early 20s”.

“I don’t do early 20s.”

“But early 20’s are like the new early 30s.” Or is it the other way around?

At that, she left. I had wasted her time.

But I guess it makes sense. I was never really good with numbers. That is, after all, one of the reasons I came out to LA in the first place.