ONE-NIGHT STAND...on a date with L.A.: MANDRAKE neither here nor there

Friday. 10 pm.

Park on La Cienega. Plenty of room. Way south from the familiar restaurants and bars. South of all things “La Cienega” really, and on the curb of Culver City. Neither here nor there.

The sign only reads BAR. A flashing neon sign in the shape of a martini glass hangs above my head.

I’m reminded of my mother who is convinced there is one mysterious business chap who goes by the name of “Neon Man.” She believes he is the sole provider of neon advertising, and he might possibly be the richest man in Los Angeles.

I am a little hesitant to go in. I wasn’t so excited about this Man named Drake. I heard about him last week from some reliable, and not so reliable, sources. Apparently he is a go-to spot for locals. Curious to know what kind of locals live between neither here nor there.

I was told he may not be my style but someone interesting to meet, and I need to stay open. He is layered, multifaceted, I was told. And who knows? We might hit it off.

Besides, Mr. New Guy is no longer here nor there. I was right, he was different. Religious differences to be exact. He is, and I am not, and for him it was the deciding factor.

So I am here, he is there and God is everywhere.

Open the door.

Room #1. Small. Intimate. Low ceilings, air is heavy. Dimmed down dark. Concrete and overgrown plywood fight for my attention. Tree stumps on peg legs to place my drink on. Hipsters who wear frames sans lenses. Shapes of social circles closing themselves off to potential meet and greets.

Okay, fine. One cocktail. But that’s it.

Rose’s Garden: vodka, cucumber, mint, shaken. Heavy on the vodka and easy on the pocketbook.

Over the sea of lazy, unkempt curls and flannel, a hole in the wall reveals the DJ and another room to explore.

More than meets the eye. Maybe worth two cocktails.

I walk past the cluster of male pigeons staring at the floor. If this one looks up, he might catch the pretty bird in the corner giving him the mating call. But alas, he’s too shy and keeps himself busy looking for scraps.

Enter Room #2.

DJ spins so loud, I can’t hear my thoughts. The taste in music doesn’t match my neoSoul, but I can definitely appreciate. Awkward 8th grade dance party. No one can dance and no one is really dancing. Reminds me of the bars I went to freshmen year in college when digits were exchanged only after slobbered tongues were.

Maybe just one cocktail.

Ready to finish my drink and leave, a couple brushes past me to a back door. Another room?

He is layered, he is multifaceted I was told. We might hit it off. Be open.

Enter Room #3.

Intimate, enclosed outdoor patio. Wood picnic tables, greenery, subtle romantic. A secret hideaway. Men. Eye contact.

How about one more drink? Don’t mind if I do. How about a Moscow Mule? Sure. You want a cigarette? I don’t smoke but thank you for asking. Just stay awhile, let’s chat. Sounds good.

3 drinks in, I receive a text from a friend in NY. She just ran into my ex, Mr. Forever, on the street. The first time I’ve heard of him since that fateful day.

But as good fortune would have it, I am here. He is there and Mr. New New Guy could be anywhere.

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