la diaries: born again

I’m 24 and it’s halloweekend.

specifically, it’s saturday night and L and I are making our big return to a certain la club we haven’t been to in a few months. the usual cast of characters are there, but something about the vibes feel slow, unconvinced.

we’re inside waiting for it all to hit, and while the dj can’t decide on a mood, mostly everyone is in costume. we go outside to stand in the smoking area and wait for the room to fill up.

L lights a cigarette and a man comes over to ask for a lighter. she gives him a light. he’s older, looks at least mid thirties, and I bite my tongue to keep from blurting why are you here.

L asks him where his costume is. he’s wearing a blue nike zip up, jeans and sneakers. maybe a necklace, I don’t really remember.

“I’m C.”

“who’s C?”

“me.”

“oh so you don’t have a costume.”

he laughs and the conversation moves on.

time passes and we talk to a few other people (one being a gorgeous australian girl dressed as sexy mario), then turn back to go inside. on our way inside we run back into C. I don’t know how the conversation picks up again, when all of a sudden he says,

“only 12 more weeks until life gets boring.”

“what does that mean?” I ask, and then without thinking, “are you dying?”

he laughs and shakes his head.

“are you retiring? getting a million dollars and settling down?”

he laughs again, “life’s about to get boring.”

it’s only until L repeats him that I realize he’s saying “born again,” not “boring.”

“born again?” she asks, then turns to me incredulously, “what the hell does that mean?”

we list one or two more possible meanings for ‘born again’ before L rolls her eyes and starts back inside. we start to move past C when it hits me, he’s having a baby.

i turn around, “are you having a baby?” I ask.

“bingo” he replies.

“oh wow congratulations, that’s a big deal” I say.

“no, it’s not congratulations,” he replies.

“but… you’re having a child…that’s like a really big deal. definitely something to celebrate”

“na, not a celebration”

“but it’s a baby. you’re going to be a dad”

“tell that to my baby mama. not a celebration”

L tugs on my arm, she’s finished the conversation she had been having with a different guy while I was talking to C. we start to move again.

I don’t know what comes over me but I turn back around. I grab C’s shoulder.

“just show up.”

he smirks at me, eyebrows raising. I’m not sure he’s following but I repeat myself, straining my voice over the music flowing out of the club and the chatter coming from the mob of people trying to get in.

“just make sure you show up.”

I don’t think about this conversation until many weeks later when I develop a roll of black and white film and catch C, barely visible in the background of a photo. I’m struck for a second with a that’s-so-raven-like flashback to our conversation.

Maybe it was the costume and the makeup and the exasperation of it all that caused me to say something. Maybe it was shock and frustration and anger that someone would be careless enough to make a baby they don’t even want, even though I know this happens every single day all over the world.

Maybe he was just drunk and trying to flirt with some younger girls and said some things he didn’t mean.

Maybe it’s the quiet little optimist in me, maybe it’s delusion (or a bit of both), but I like to think that the baby has arrived and C is there with them. That this baby changed his life; that he was born again. And that in the end, he realized it was a celebration after-all.