Erika and I walked into a bar in Silver Lake where we were to meet up with another, recently-acquainted, couple for drinks. We felt excited. We have few couple-friends in our area of LA.
“We’re early,” Erika said. “Let’s grab a drink and wait.”
We bought a glass of wine to share between us.
We sat down at a table and looked around at the other people. I noticed tattoos, skinny jeans on guys, girls wearing summer dresses. Next to us sat a white guy hip to hip with an Asian girl. They were giggling about something. I thought she had nice hair.
Erika tapped my hand, brought me back. “How do you like the wine?”
“It’s good.” I said. “But truthfully, I can’t tell one red wine from another.”
Across the bar a lesbian couple, one white, one brown, teased the bar tender about his accent. As we were sipping our drink, a girl, as dark as coal, walked through the door pulling her white boyfriend by the hand. They found a seat next to an Asian guy and a punk slavic-looking girl.
Erika didn’t seem to notice anything. I said to her, “Why do you think Zanaib and Orin picked this place?”
“It’s close to their house I think.”
“Yeah,” I said, “that makes sense, but I think there’s another reason. Did you notice everyone in here is an interracial couple?”
“You’re ridiculous.” She looked around for proof I was mistaken. She found none. “Okay, I guess you’re right. That’s weird.”
I leaned in and lowered my voice. “Zanaib and Orin are an interracial couple.”
She gave me a look that said I was either stupid for pointing out the obvious or stupid for
just realizing this. Zanaib’s parents are Pakistani, though she was born and raised in California. She’s petite with a starlet’s smile. Orin is Bill Clinton Circa 1988 and shops at Banana Republic – I’m pretty sure.
Erika slid our wine glass over to me to finish. “Funny she’s from Orange county,” she said. “I just don’t picture Pakistani people there. I’m pretty sure she was the only one in her high school.”
I imagined a yearbook photo – the girl’s surf team of Laguna Beach High School – one brown face peering out from a crowd of blonde hair and blue-eyes. “Yeah, I bet it was no big deal though. She speaks with confidence. I bet she was popular.”
Erika said, “Yeah, she’s cool. But I wouldn’t want to live down there. I’m pretty sure it’s beautiful and a nice place to grow up but not my style. ”
I checked the time. Our friends would show up at any moment. “Why isn’t Orange County your style?”
She shook her head. “You’re supposed to know who you are and find a situation that fits. I wasn’t meant to stay in Mexico or Baltimore or live in the OC. I’m a New Yorker.”
“Yeah, I know. Me too, I guess.” I thought about places and distance and how Erika and I came together in Manhattan and how I kidnapped her to come to Los Angeles. “Wait a second,” I said. “Do you think they?… Yeah of course, it makes sense…. We’re an interracial couple.”
Erika gave me the look again.
I drew my hands apart. “Well it’s easy to forget. You’re the whitest Mexican person I’ve ever met.” With her green eyes and black hair, most people think Erika is Czech. Judge for yourself here.
She put her hand on my leg. “Babe, you’re becoming Mexican too, so it doesn’t matter.” This is a continuing joke between us – if you eat lots of Mexican food, as I do, you’ll become Mexican we surmise.
I plucked my lip. “Do you think they invited us here because we’re an interracial couple and this is the interracial bar? Maybe that’s what you do as an interracial couple in LA. You seek out other interracial couples and bring them to the interracial bar.”
“Or,” she said, “maybe Monday’s are interracial night.”
I gave her a look of mock-suspicion. “Do you have inside information?”
“Yeah, the Mexican government sent me. I’m a deep cover agent.”
“Ah, I see. You’re going to make sure everyone drinks tequila and eats tacos.”
“You’re racist.”
“I can’t be a racist if I’m FOR your race.” I think Elaine said that on Seinfeld.
Our friends eventually arrived. They ordered drinks. We talked. Shared stories of New York. Orin, who works in the Mayor’s office, asked me questions about my job. I gave vague answers. No one mentioned interracial coupling. But I kept looking at the people around us wondering what it meant. Should we organize and march out into the streets? Turn over cars? Let’s face it, mixed-race couples are better. We’re more diverse. We speak multiple languages. We have genetically superior offspring. What should we do?
In the end, I guess, nothing but enjoy each other and feel that the Interracial Bar will always be there for us.
Wayne
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