Jon Favreau Comes to Weho.
I am sitting stoned on my wooden fold out picnic table on the upstairs patio one afternoon reading, “Less Than Zero,” listening to Circa Survive radio on Spotify and observing the few pedestrians who walk past on the road beneath me.
I watch an immaculate 1950’s white convertible Thunderbird pull up and idle in front of the apartment complex adjacent to my own. From where I am sitting I have a near perfect view of the back half of the car.
Driving is a man wearing a fitted white t-shirt, black wristwatch, and dark sunglasses – I can’t determine the respective brands but given the car he is driving I assume they aren’t cheap. I notice the man clenching his jaw incessantly like he’s nervously chewing a big wad of gum; he can’t seem to sit still and he keeps checking his presumably expensive watch and his rear-view mirror. He must be tense.
I observe his passenger; a caramel skinned female with long curly brown hair also sporting dark sunglasses and a white top – I see spaghetti straps and I imagine her to be wearing a form fitting white sundress but, alas, I can’t see that far to confirm. I can’t quite make out the details of her face but once again, given the quality of the car, I gather she is expensive as well.
I return my gaze to the driver and observe his face or at least what details of it I can make. I surmise he looks an awful lot like Corbin Bernsen, no, Jon Favreau. I notice the Thunderbird’s license plate reads, “New York.” I realize Jon Favreau is a New York Native now living in Los Angeles as one of the most powerful men in Hollywood, furthermore I am currently living in a rather affluent part of West Hollywood on the cusp of Beverly Hills; its not entirely improbable to imagine Jon Favreau driving through this neighborhood to perhaps drop off his “girlfriend,” or pick up a new friend, or meet a friend, or do just about anything. The point is that it could happen and I think it is happening right here before my very eyes so I remain tuned in. From my perched and elevated recon position I act as the hawk and watch them with strong intent.
I see Jon Favreau’s mistress equip her cell phone, answer an incoming call, and exchange a short and unintelligible dialogue before promptly hanging up while simultaneously another car, a non-descript, nothing special, pseudo gold but more of a spicy brown mustard colored SUV, pull up and park maybe twenty feet behind the thunderbird. Out of the mustard mobile walks an average white guy, mid-late thirties, pasty skin, slightly overweight, sporting presumably cheap sunglasses, a faded blue t-shirt, khaki shorts, and flip-flops. The average white guy walks to Jon Favreau’s mistress’s side of the immaculate thunderbird and without making eye contact with one another they share a very simple exchange of greetings where I notice the average white guy reaching his hand into the car and along the interior side of the passenger door. He quickly retracts his hand and without any exchange of goodbyes he walks back to his nothing-special mustard car and drives away. Then Jon Favreau and his mistress peel out like outlaws and the Thunderbird effectively disappears from view.
I excitedly run downstairs, wake up my roommate Johnny who is napping on the couch, and exclaim, “I just witnessed a drug deal!” I recount the entire occurrence with great detail, highlighting the beauty of the immaculate Thunderbird, the driver’s uncanny likeness to Jon Favreau, and how this drug deal, while occurring on a backstreet of a rather prosperous neighborhood where every other car is a BMW and the average female resident is a certifiable dime piece, is the most blatant and stereotypical drug deal I could have ever witnessed.
I then toast myself a bagel, slather it in cream cheese, take a big rip of weed from my steamroller, and return upstairs to my wooden fold out picnic table on the patio where I dive back into the dejected and disaffected lives of young Angelinos in Bret Easton Ellis’, “Less Than Zero.”