PARANORMAL PEOPLE

There’s something in the air at the Chateau Marmont that makes you feel like you’re getting away with something. Some lingering sense of mystery, of mischief, lilting along in the breeze. It makes situations such as these so easy—tempting, even—to tumble into. 

You’re sitting with G & O by the pool when he swims up to you. He’s handsome—old, sure, but undeniably handsome. Pushing late 50s. Full head of gray hair. Arms crossed over the hot brick edge of the pool, fingers unfurled like palm fronds. New Zealand accent ricocheting around the bright ring of chlorine. Mr. Chateau. In town for the fun of it.

Mr. Chateau loves going to sleep every night with a chocolate on his pillow. Or so he tells you. How he lives out of hotels mostly—the 1 Hotel in Miami for winters, the Chateau for stretches of summer but mostly his place Out East. His own apartment in New York for fall and spring—he loves the city but hates living without turn down service, without expediency. Yes, you think. Yes. The abject horrors of resting your head on a pillow unadorned by chocolate. 

He’s travelling with a trio of other men—young, long haired artists and hotshot studio owners from the city. You’re under the shade of the lemon tree when he asks what you all do for work. You reveal you’re writers. Phenomenal, he says. He says the word phenomenal too much. He reveals he wants to be someone’s muse. Desperately. And he promises—insists—he’ll take you to dinner, all of you, next time he’s in New York. He’ll text you. He’ll see you soon. He will. 

You speculate back at the bungalow—gay? Sugar daddy? Some sort of benevolent benefactor, surely. 

* * *

So here’s the thing. You’ve never dated. You’ve had boyfriends, yes—the last one lasting from the ages of 21 to 25—so you’ve never engaged in the practice of dating. Or the practice of rejecting men you date. No Hinge, no Raya. No apps at all. No experience with being wined-and-dined by strangers or even semi-adjacent acquaintances, for that matter. You’d listen to your friends tell dating horror stories in a language you did not yet speak. Until you get the text. 

* * * 

You’re thinking: there’s something so beautiful, so financially poetic, about taking the subway to go meet a multimillionaire for dinner. You’re seated, later that same summer, sweating on the Westbound L, summoned by a text sent to you on Sunday for a Monday night dinner at Bar Pitti with Mr. Chateau. 

You consult your friends on the way: 

G:

I’m gonna be pissed if you get a sugar daddy out of this

You:

I wish you weren’t in LA
I’m like deathly curious what the vibe is
Like if this is A DATE i’m going to die

G:

I can’t wait to find out 

Green dress, pink heels, cute but not too cute, it’s a Monday, and he’s probably gaym you are thinking. Don’t let this be a date, you are thinking. If anything, it’s a laugh, you are thinking. If anything, it’s a story. 

So it’s summer. So it’s a story. And so the worst thing possible happens straight away: Mr. Chateau. In a white polo and jeans. Greeting you (you look phenomenal!) in front of the outdoor diners. Kissing you smack on the lips. There, on that central square of sidewalk. All heads swiveled towards you, mouths popped open in shock—yours included. So it’s a story. So you know you’ll never see him again. Maybe you always knew. 

He insists on ordering for you—arugula salad, pappardelle, steak, a bottle of red. With each plate that comes out he booms a resounding phenomenal! Cracked pepper? Our waiter asks. Phenomenal, Mr. Chateau claps. Tell me when. He lets the waiter grind the pepper for a full green light’s worth of traffic. You watch the tiny anthill of peppercorns rise upon his plate of greens. The next dish receives the same treatment. Go crazy! He beams at the waiter. GO CRAAAAAZY  on the peppa!! The girl, your age, sitting caddy corner at the table next to you, bursts out laughing; you laugh, too obviously, along with her. 

He suggests taking you to Thailand. Maybe an elephant sanctuary? Surely his house Out East before it gets too cold. Paris when the weather starts to turn. I’m looking for a girlfriend. He looks up at your face from behind his pyramid of pepper. Do you know where I could get one in this town? Your silent face ashen as salt in your state of panic.

* * * 

You were 19 in some college English class when you learned about The Radiant Gist—the idea of something, some lived moment, some breathless night, some oasis of a vision—being so beautiful that to put it into words would be to sully the sanctity of the experience. The Radiant Gist: an image, a message, delivered with such clarity that you understand it implicitly. No explanation necessary: the message—beauty, terror, joy—beamed straight into your brain.

And as you become fluent in this new language, this new life, you learn: ghosting is not unlike the radiant gist. Some incident—minor or major—some catalyst that consumes you with the desire to disappear without a trace. The forced kiss, the phenomenality, the craziness of the pepper. These small moments. These radiant gists. You know you must leave them untouched in the mausoleum of your memory, lest you ruin the sanctity of your unspoken incompatibility. 

You think of the small graveyard of ghosts you’ve already acquired, all your paranormal people: the DJ whose first question was what kind of drugs do you do and whose follow up questions were, in this precise succession: 1. What’s your star sign? 2. Do you have the co-star astrology app? 3. Can you hand me your phone so I can add you right now?  The nerd who took you to get drinks at a spot you can only describe later to your friends as a place that serves bespoke tater tots while you smoke inside of the diner. The random boy whose number you blocked because he kept referring to himself as a chic normie. The comedian who ambushed you then complained you kissed him like a cousin. Their messages rest in peace, perfectly preserved, fossilized in your iphone’s inbox. Forever. Just like your final message from Mr. Chateau: 

Hiiiiii hellloooo. I hope you had an amazing weekend. I’m back in the city and it’s so beautiful today! I love it here!! I know it’s busy with fashion week. Let’s make room for a gastronomic extravaganza. 

You make sure he gets his turn down service in New York. Just not the kind he wanted.