The Avocado Incident of 2013

It was unbearably hot out and the air conditioning was broken on the champagne colored 1999 Volvo that I purchased with the money from my first record deal. My thighs stuck to the cracked leather seats as hot air blew out of the tan dashboard, I had adorned the rearview mirror with a cherry shaped air freshener, and it rocked back and forth as I pulled the clutch into neutral and cranked the E-brake. I lit up what was left of the joint I bought from a man I met at an Eastside coffee shop, taking a deep inhalation of the dry California marijuana. I was sat outside of a recording studio in Santa Monica, 15 minutes early to my meeting with another record producer, at this point, I was so fresh in the music world that I didn’t really understand what “producer” even meant, but each one I met seemed to believe that it was a very important title to carry. When the clock struck 1:30, I peeled my sweaty legs off of the leather driver’s seat and manually locked the car door.

As I walked through the heavy metal door frame at the entrance of the building, I was greeted by an engineer’s assistant who guided me toward the studio control room “Hi there, we are just in the middle of something here”. I stood against a wall as the man I was set to meet continued to work on mixing a song with his engineer for what felt like forever, I stood there waiting for nearly 20 minutes until he finally got up from his office chair to greet me, he was about 55 years old and wearing a t shirt and tan cargo shorts, his flip flops made a percussive beat against the ground as he led me into the kitchen of the studio space. He pulled a bar stool into the center of the room and handed me a guitar “sit here and play me something”. I pulled myself up onto the stool and began shaking with nervous energy, I had never played guitar for anyone but my roommate. I positioned my fingers into the shape of an A minor chord as my eyes followed him to the refrigerator, he pulled an avocado out of the fridge and began to cut it in half as I started to sing, I watched with slight disgust as he pooled Worcestershire sauce into the small cups of green fruit and ravenously swallowed spoonfuls of the concoction, his legs crossed, his flip flops shaking at the end of his calloused white feet. “That’s enough” he blurted with a brashness that lacked any consideration of common manners, never once looking up from his avocado. “But… the song isn’t over.” I responded “I don’t need to hear anymore. Listen, you don’t have it. You probably never will.” My heart sank, what exactly was IT, and how do I acquire IT? “Where did you say you were from?” He hadn’t asked my name, let alone where I was born and bred. “Portland, Oregon” I replied. “Right well you should probably just go back there hon, because look, I’ve worked with some of the greatest artists in the world and they all have something that you just don’t. Maybe go back to school or something.” “Thanks for coming”. He got up and walked over to the bathroom door and closed it behind himself. The same young man who escorted me in, came to grab the guitar from me and pointed to the hallway that led to the door “have a good one”. My heart heavy, I stumbled onto the sidewalk as the bright California sun accosted my eyes, shaking, I opened the scorching aluminum door of my car and began to cry hysterically. It was an hour and a half back to my apartment in stop and go traffic. Why had I never bothered to check if the AC worked when I bought this car?! The hot air that was blasting from the vents was not enough to dry my tears.

I circled the block of my Hollywood apartment building for what felt like an eternity, until I finally submitted to parking 5 blocks over, my pace growing as quickly as my heart rate, I knew I was almost home when the Seventh Veil strip club came into frame, I climbed the stairs to my second story studio apartment on Formosa Avenue, my roommate was never home, she had a boyfriend in Orange County and I had spent the last 4 nights by myself. I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a pair of scissors, I stripped off all of my clothes and stood in front of the built in mirror of our 1920’s closet vanity. I had been growing my hair out since I was 12 years old and now, at 6 years down the line, it was down to my belly button, one last tangible symbol of my childhood. I took the pair of kitchen sheers and hacked at my hair until it reached no further than my chin, accidentally slicing the back of my neck, I climbed into the dirty 100 year old shower and sat at the bottom as the water washed over my frail 98 pound body “I don’t have it”.

The Avocado Incident of 2013

-A