Chapter Nine La La Land, dir. by Damien Chazelle
“Oh, this is like a legit lounge,” Eli says, staring at the line that stretches down the block in front of the basement entrance.
The rest of the building is dedicated to a closed bakery and apartments that sit above.
“Did you think that it wouldn’t be?” Peter asks, his hand wrapped around Eli’s as he bypasses the mile-long line of people.
Eli doesn’t really know what he expected. He certainly didn’t anticipate the long line and people dressed to the nines. He’s
never felt more self-conscious about his grandpa sweaters, especially with the nice-looking button-up that Peter has chosen
to wear.
“A warning would’ve been appreciated,” Eli tells him, desperate to not feel self-conscious.
“You look great,” Peter promises.
“Where are we going? The line starts back there,” Eli asks as he’s pulled along to the door.
Peter glances over his shoulder, smiling at Eli. “I know the bouncer.”
Eli feels like he’s stumbled into a brand-new world, just like at the gym. Peter didn’t even ask before he took Eli’s hand.
He simply took it, and they walked the three blocks from Peter’s apartment. On the walk, Peter was beaming, grinning from
ear to ear, and laughing at Eli’s stories from the day.
It’s not a new Peter, not at all.
It’s the authentic Peter.
“Hey, Peter!” The bouncer at the door looks like she’d be a bouncer, with strong shoulders and biceps that seem to want to rip out of her shirt.
“Hey, Jaz.”
“Your name is Jaz, and you work at a jazz club?” Eli can’t help himself, but he’s only met with a cold stare, and he feels
his face go hot. “I’m sorry.”
“This guy with you?” she asks.
“Uh, yeah...”
“Go on in.” She nods toward the door. “We’ve got Harry Whitfield tonight.”
“Why else do you think I’m here?” Peter asks, his smile bright in his voice. “I’ve been dying to hear him!”
“So has the rest of the city.” Jaz peers back at the long line.
“I bet Meredith doesn’t mind.”
“Oh, not one bit.” Jaz shakes her head. “Go ahead down, tables are filling up.”
Eli feels like he just got whiplash from a conversation. Who is this man? he asks himself, his gaze focused on the back of Peter’s head as they walk down the steps into the club proper. Peter just
had a conversation, with a person that he clearly knows .
“What was that about?” Eli asks, leaning over the table as they take some seats near the stage.
“What?” Peter stares. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No! God, no. That was actually... impressive, really. You had a full conversation.”
“She owns the club with her wife.”
“Yeah, you talked like the two of you are friends.”
“Oh, no way.” Peter shakes his head. “She’s just being nice. I see Jaz and Meredith all the time when I’m here.”
“She didn’t seem that nice to the people in front of us.” Eli peers at him.
“She was just doing her job, that’s all.”
Eli lets out a tsk tsk , surveying the rest of the club’s clientele. Most people seem to be on their own date nights, laughing at jokes, telling stories,
clinking their glasses together while they eat from the small bowls of pretzels.
“What?” Peter asks.
“I don’t think she was just doing her job,” Eli tells him. But he decides to drop it. “Have you ever flirted with anyone?”
“I don’t think that Jaz is flirting with me,” he says. “I mean, she’s a lesbian. And I don’t think I’m her type.”
Eli shakes his head, laughing. “No, I was just asking, I wasn’t trying to imply that Jaz was flirting with you.”
“Oh.” Peter blushes. “I don’t think I have, no. I mean, maybe with Mark? I don’t know, there was never a lot of talking when we did what we did.”
“Never a little playful banter between you and a guy on Hinge?”
“It’s never really gotten that far.”
“Can I see your profile?” Eli asks.
Peter hesitates, reaching for his phone. “You have to promise not to laugh.”
“Why would I laugh?”
“Because it’s embarrassing?” Peter pleads with the soft gaze of his eyes.
“I swear to you that I’m not going to laugh, Peter.” Eli swallows, taking the phone after it’s unlocked and offered to him
slowly. Eli finds the Hinge app, but not before noticing that Peter’s home screen is hectic, apps everywhere, completely disorganized.
Though Peter seems to know exactly where everything is.
“Okay, okay, decent picture up top,” Eli says, though it looks a little too much like a school photo for his comfort. Peter’s
very face forward at a three-quarter angle in the picture, an awkward smile on his lips.
It’s unfortunate that that’s the last good thing he has to say about Peter’s profile.
The rest of the photos were obviously taken on the same day because Peter’s in the same outfit. They were probably taken minutes apart too , Eli thinks. And they’re all the same—all five pictures are nearly identical. Whatever hope Eli has that his answers to the
prompts might save the profile are lost when he actually reads the answers.
“‘We won’t get along if...’” Eli begins to read. “‘We don’t have the same interests.’”
Eli looks at Peter.
“It’s true.”
“You got me there. ‘I’m looking for... a boyfriend.’”
“Again, true.”
“‘My favorite dish is... mugs.’ What does that even mean?”
“Mugs, they’re good for hot things. You’ve got the handle there, they’re comfortable in your hand.”
“Oh, you sweet, sweet man.”
“What?”
Eli feels his heart melt. “So... there’s a lot to fix here.”
“You think the pictures are that bad?”
“Only if you’re not trying to attract a victim to murder.”
“Okay, well...” The disappointment is obvious in Peter’s voice. “Use the ones that we’ve taken.”
Eli thinks for a moment. “Stay like that.” He points the camera toward Peter. While it only lasts for a second, the image
painted by Eli’s phone is a gorgeous one. The cool dark blue lighting of the club contrasts with the lit candles decorating
each table, painting Peter’s face in the same warmer undertones of his skin.
He looks stunning.
“What? No. Please don’t.”
“Come on, you need decent pictures for your profile.”
“Ugh.” Peter pulls his jacket around his face.
“Okay, okay. I’m putting it away.” Eli puts the phone under the table.
“Thank you.”
“Psych!” Eli whips the phone back out, snapping a picture of Peter before he can hide himself again.
“Eli!”
“Relax, relax. I was too quick with it anyway.” Eli shows him the screen before he deletes the blurry photo. “But if you want
to do this, pictures are a necessity.”
“I guess.”
“Do you have pictures of you rock climbing? That’d get some of your hobbies across.” And prove to any potential suitors that
Peter doesn’t just spend all day in his apartment.
“Who could’ve taken them?” Peter asks him, the pointed frustration in his tone abundantly clear.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry, I just...”
“Iced Americano?” Eli asks him.
“I don’t want to use that every time I’m not feeling comfortable.”
“That’s the exact reason to use the signal, Peter. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” Eli pauses. “Fine. Iced Americano.”
“Did I—?”
“No, Peter. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just want you to communicate with me a little more.”
“I guess I...” Peter hesitates, picking at the fabric of the tablecloth. “I guess I don’t like having my picture taken.”
“That’s perfectly okay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize, Peter. If you’re not comfortable with something, then it’s okay.
You’re not comfortable. I’d consider not using Hinge if you don’t want to post your picture, though.
Or any other dating app, for that matter.
” Eli knows the struggle all too well of anonymous profiles on Grindr and Tinder, most of whom loved making the bold demand that Eli send nudes before they even showed their faces.
“I guess I’ve just never liked looking at myself like that. I don’t feel... attractive.”
“Well, like I said, you don’t have to be comfortable with anything. But speaking from an outside perspective, you’re a very attractive man, Peter.”
“It’s just...” He continues to pick, this time at the skin on his finger. “Never mind.”
Eli reaches forward, taking Peter’s hand in his slowly. “I used to hate having my picture taken too, you know.”
“Really?”
“My mom would take ones of me at family dinners or outings or whatever, and I just... I knew that person in the photos
wasn’t me. I mean, it was, obviously. But it wasn’t at the same time. And they believed that it was, and that was enough for
them. But I knew the truth.” Eli lets out a careful breath. “Even after I started testosterone, even after I changed my clothes
and my hair, even when my voice began to change and hair began to sprout up in places it didn’t used to... Even after I
started to feel a little more confident, I always wanted to hide my face. And the acne didn’t help.”
“Jeez, Eli... I’m...”
“No, no apologies.” Eli tries to laugh it off. “I should apologize to you; I didn’t mean for things to get that heavy. Ah,
sorry...” Eli tucks his face away. “My point is that... I don’t know exactly what you’re feeling, but it’s okay. We
can work on it.”
Peter smiles at that, and Eli feels a weight come off his shoulders.
He’s proud of Peter, at the very least, for verbalizing something that was making him uncomfortable.
This entire experiment has been about forcing Peter into new social situations, testing him.
And the last thing he wants to do is make Peter feel uneasy; Eli just wants to. .. challenge him.
It’s the applause that pulls him from his trance, his gaze shooting right toward the stage as the spotlight shines on a group
of older-looking Black men, each holding their instrument of choice, aside from the drummer, who only carries his sticks for
obvious reasons.
“Hello, everyone.” The man at the front takes the microphone. “I’m not sure if you know who I am, but my name is Harry Whit—”
An even louder round of applause interrupts Harry, and he waves gently to the crowd, requesting their attention again.