Opening at Palihouse isn’t exactly grueling. Flip on the lights. Make coffee. Grab some ice. Set up the patio. Nothing too intense. The real challenge? Being there at 6 a.m. to do it—especially when you were out until 5.

Working a job like this while also trying to live life to the fullest. It’s like being a prisoner on furlow. Like every moment spent outside the confines of ‘work’ is borrowed time.

After setting up, I make my way to the bar to spike my latte with whiskey. I grab an already open bottle of Maker’s Mark, unscrew the cap, and pour a generous—but still socially acceptable—splash into my four-shot oat milk vanilla latte. One sip in, and my nervous system stops screaming. I can finally breathe.

There’s a specific emotional journey that comes with working an opening shift after a night of absolute debauchery. First, sheer panic. You have to get to work on time, look like a functioning member of society, and somehow string together sentences like you didn’t just crawl out of the trenches. The anxiety is real, and honestly? Valid. Then comes the regret. You start questioning every choice that led you to this moment. The hangover kicks in. Your body turns sluggish. If you’re lucky—like I am today—you have access to a little “hair of the dog.” After that, it’s a game of cat, mouse, and whatever the hell hunts a cat. You’re the cat, the mouse is the euphoric high you had just a few hours ago, and your hangover is the inevitable beast coming to collect its debt.

“Hi!” says a voice to my right.

I turn to see a woman—early fifties, dressed in sleek all-black business attire. She has the polished, no-nonsense energy of a New Yorker in town for work.

“Hi, good morning,” I reply effortlessly, customer-service smile fully engaged.

“Can I get a cappuccino and a menu, please?” she asks.

"The desert wears… a veil of mystery. Motionless and silent, it evokes in us an elusive hint of something unknown, unknowable, about to be revealed." – Edward Abbey

Clear blue skies stretch ahead, windmills spinning to my right as I roll into Palm Springs. The car’s thermometer reads a perfect 74 degrees—exactly the kind of escape I needed from LA’s so-called winter. – say what you want, but 60 degrees in LA is cold. It just is.

The words, ‘You Have Arrived’ light up on the dashboard. I pull over and take a look around the gated community I’ve found myself in. The buildings around me, all interconnected, seemingly carved out of a red stone of some sort, really leaning into the desert landscape, deeply reminding me of where I am. 

I fire off a quick text and step out of the car, stretching deep to shake off the four-hour drive that should’ve been two. But, of course, I checked Maps at noon, left an hour later, and—like magic— that ETA doubled.

The moment I step outside, the air hits different. Crisp, electric, the kind that wakes up something restless inside me. There’s something about the way this place smells—fresh, alive, like anything could happen. 

Maybe it will.

The moment I bend forward, reaching for my toes, to stretch out my back a deep voice rings out behind me: “Oh hi there.”

I snap back to a standing position and spin around to find a man around 6’1, late forties, little scruffy with an impressive gym body.

“Marky Mark,” I say with a smile. Mark grins at me as he slips his arms around my waist and pulls me in for a subtle, quick yet still intimate kiss. 

“How are you, baby boy?” 

Mark holds me, his gaze locking onto mine—intense, unrelenting, penetrating me deeper than most men ever have anally. He’s like a raw, exposed nerve—hypersensitive, always reaching, always craving more.

I can’t relate.

It’s hot. 

Condensation slides down the outside of my spicy, skinny margarita, each drop pulling the tajín rim further from where it belongs. I run my thumb along the glass, catching the salty, spicy powder and bringing it to my lips.

El Coyote is one of those classic LA haunts – not remarkable for its food or ambiance but because it was the last place Sharon Tate dined before she was brutally murdered by the Manson family. For me, though, it holds a different significance. It’s where I sat with my parents the one and only time they visited me in Los Angeles, a table steeped in memories of distance, resentment and reunion. It’s where Tony and I clinked margarita glasses after my second COVID vaccination, only for me to discover – after my fourth drink – that alcohol was off-limits for 24 hours post-shot. And it’s where I realized my friendship with Chris had shifted, like an inevitable landslide or earthquake, into something I couldn't stop even if I tried.

I sit alone on the patio, a deep dread looming over me. I finish my margarita and wait. Wait for a conversation that I know I need but somehow would rather retreat into my own head and replay the last six months over and over. A six months of Sundays spent in bed, cocaine fueled pool parties, and conversations that would last well beyond sunrise.