The best* pitcher in baseball was cruising with a 3-0 lead in the center circle of a blue and white universe. The K’s were piling up, front-facing and backwards alike, swinging and looking in equal measure, and each of the 41,102 planets in his orbit surely believed that, by the end of the night, when their tweets would be sent off into the ether, they’d be celebratory in nature.
But the 6th inning happened. Giancarlo Stanton happened. And a funny thing happened on the way to a textbook Clayton Kershaw victory. A comet added a dent to the ravine.
6 hours before I watched the 3-time Cy Young Award winning pitcher limber up in the outfield, I drove from LAX to The Broad in downtown L.A. in hopes of gaining admittance into the new contemporary art museum via the standby process of, well, standing by in a queue in the very spaces were California midday sunlight meets a slice of shadow cast by protruding sharp edges.
Another comet, another dent, another unexpected change of plans. The Broad’s queue was over an hour long by my inexact calculation. I moved on to a plan B.
Finally, as the clock ticked toward tomorrow I discovered that I no longer had a place to lie down my weary head. I had been awake for nearly 24 hours and found myself in need of another plan B in the face of another unexpected change.
A Comfort Inn halfway between…I have no idea, it was dark and late and I was half out of it, was the choice.
It is a side of some road spot, unassuming and without much promise to look at, but what it actually is and was for me, was perfect. Perfect in every possible way: kindness at the front desk, a crisply made bed, everything spotlessly clean, serenely quiet. This is the kind of hotel I’d never pick in the bright light of day, with a clear mind prone to quick judgement, but this hotel was there for me when I was desperate and tired and nervous I’d have to sleep in the car.
