Say Hello, Wave Goodbye

Life in slow motion somehow it don't feel real.
Snowflakes are falling I'll catch them in my hands
Snowflakes are falling I'll catch them in my hands…
Snowflakes are falling now you're my long lost friend
~David Gray

Last night I was at the Wiltern to see David Gray. I went with a good friend here in Los Angeles. We showed up the theatre late, missing the opening act and running in as the lights dimmed on and off, signaling David was about to take stage. We grabbed a cranberry vodka (literally the only drink the bar had left to offer, other than a lone Corona) and took our seats. As we sat I told her, “I know I will see Chris tonight,” and she just sort of laughed. But I knew.

As his opening song filled the crevices and corners of the theater and our minds, my friend leaned over to say, “This makes me think of ‘Billy,’ David Gray always does.” I didn’t say so at the time, but I thought, me too. Billy is an ex boyfriend of mine (well, we sort of dated, if you even want to call it that)…and hers. As the music played I thought about late nights in college with Billy; wandering down to the bars on Mill Avenue, talking about life and how we both wanted to leave Arizona. I didn’t know at the time, then, that I would be leaving for Los Angeles just a few years later. At the time I didn’t think I was an LA girl, and maybe I am now and maybe I’m not (what is an LA girl, really?) I always envisioned myself enjoying the balmy summers of the east coast or wandering the shops of Michigan Avenue in Chicago. Hell, I even thought of Texas, although I’d never been there. All I knew was that I wondered about the world beyond the borders of Arizona, past the cacti and sand and the magnificent storms of the monsoon season. And I knew, as I’ve always known, that I had some exploring to do.

David Gray sang and I thought about “Chris” - the real ex. Just to add to the irony of the night, not only did my friend and I both date the same guy in college, and now she is one of my closest girlfriends out here in Los Angeles, but “Chris” and “Billy” were and are actually best friends. (Folks, please save your “Joey from Dawson’s Creek jokes for later). David sang and I wondered whether I’ll always feel this alive. He sang and I thought about what it really meant to be young and I thought, maybe there’s something to that saying about thinking young and that’s all that matters. And then he sang the sad songs for me, or at least it felt that way.

The show ended and I sort of let out an internal sigh of relief that “Chris” and I never ran into each other; I still have some healing to do. But we came down the stairs onto the landing in the lobby and I stopped on the second or third step, knees shaking. He was there, right in front of me, maybe five or so feet away, talking to his friends. I could hardly move. He stood the way he always stands, doing the nod when people are talking and putting on his usual charm. I remember that shirt, I thought. I then grabbed my friend’s arm and said, “Don’t look, just move,” and off we went.

It’s strange passing someone from your past and not saying hi. It was like a movie reel was playing; as though I were seeing a ghost appear in front of me, so real you can almost touch but you’re afraid of what might happen. Or like watching an old sitcom rerun on television and laughing, oh, I remember that show, it was so good. But the whole time you’re watching, you know that show will never air live again.

It had its run.