This story begins at MiniBar, as so many of my Hollywood stories do. Well, technically it’s called Lily’s Bar now, but to me it will always be MiniBar — the inconspicuous hole-in-the-wall bar found inside the Best Western — no wait, the Adler a Hollywood Hills Hotel on Franklin Avenue.
It’s the kind of place where you can talk to everyone or no one, and that’s why I love it.
Now it goes without saying that it’s been a rough start to the new year for us Angelenos. As if the constant threat to democracy and climate change-induced fires weren’t enough, I also found myself deep in the loneliness and existential hopelessness that comes with a breakup, one that was initiated by me but still stung. My ex is an egomaniacal actor who once said, “I think I’d like you more if you were repped by a reputable agency like CAA.”
So you’ll understand my choice to drown my sorrows in a dirty martini and Eve Babitz’s “Sex and Rage.”
Despite my “talk to no one” intention on this idle Wednesday, I found myself distracted by a man sitting at the edge of the bar across from me, writing feverishly on a napkin. I recognize that flow of inspiration, the need to get every thought onto any surface possible before it slips away. This manner drew me in more than his sharp jaw and shiny hair (he must have an oiling routine), though in hindsight his features were magnetic, almost of a different era. A Marlon Brando-esque gaze which holds a world of thoughts.
I sensed us looking at each other at different times, he when I was (pretending to be) deeply engrossed in a chapter, and I when he was scribbling down a thought. I wanted so badly to ask him what he was writing but would have had to yell across the bar or plop down next to him. Neither option seemed warranted.
After an hour and a second dirty martini, I decided it was time to leave and let this man remain a mystery. Just as I asked for my check, he got up to go to the bathroom, and a stroke of inspiration hit me: Why not leave my number on a napkin? At the very least he’d respect the vessel through which I chose to write it. So that’s exactly what I did.
I set it next to his drink, and the bartender gave me a wink, which felt like a good omen. I left with a stroke of energy. I should leave my number more often, I thought as I walked across the parking lot to my car.
Then I heard someone say, “Kelly!” My name cut through the spirited air, and I turned around to find him standing there. He shrugged his shoulders and asked, “Do you want to go to the Frolic Room?”
He could have said Mars, and I would have said yes. Suddenly, what lay before me was a night filled with endless possibilities. I hadn’t felt the electricity of spontaneity for a long time.
It turns out the Frolic Room was a quick walk down to Hollywood Boulevard, probably one of the only times I’ve walked from one bar to another in L.A. He said he liked the boldness of leaving my number and had wanted to do the same. He told me his first name: Vincent. There was a lot of silence, but it was comfortable. And we walked fast.
There were only a handful of people inside, although the place couldn’t fit much more than that anyway, and Vincent guided me straight to the jukebox, hand-in-hand. “Pick a song,” he said.
I don’t know why, but Billy Joel’s “Vienna” came to mind, perhaps because it’s always embodied a desire to find adventure in this city and soak the marrow out of life. That prompted Vincent to choose “Piano Man,” and before I knew it we were doing shots of whiskey and pretending the bar was a piano itself, miming the notes with our hands. Everyone joined in.
The whole time I was thinking, Who is this guy? Although I was curious about what he did for work, I also appreciated that we hadn’t broached this topic, especially because it’s often the first thing people want to know about another person in L.A. I was forming my own theories — a writer, of course, or perhaps a musician.
He seemed to be a font of musical knowledge and he was hitting those fake piano notes with a rhythm I did not have! Or perhaps he was an artist of many trades, like me, who pieces together different passions to make a living.
As the place was closing, the bartender said, “You know we just hung your picture up on the wall!”
I was shocked to see him gesture to a framed photo of Vincent and another guy beaming at the camera, arms flung over each other’s shoulders in a brotherly manner. It was in the middle of a gallery wall filled with old-timey signed photos of celebrities including Sly Stallone and Lindsay Wagner, Johnny Depp and even Charles Bukowski. Now my wheels were really turning.
We stepped onto Hollywood Boulevard and strolled up to the Pantages Theatre, arm-in-arm, under the marquee. “So what do you do?” I finally asked, and our very stimulating conversation went like this:
Him: “I’m a DJ.”
Me: “Do you love it?”
Him: “I do!”
Me: “That’s … great!
Him: “Yup. Do you want to come back to my place?”
Me: “Yup!”
So that was that. Mystery not quite solved. The escapades that followed are a story for another day, but let’s just say the ambience was top notch. Think musky candles, dim lighting, lo-fi jazz and smooth whiskey with a big cube. Let’s also say he was seemingly more interested in my pleasure than his own gain, and that was refreshing.
I woke up the next morning with a pounding headache, a meeting to rush to in Santa Monica, and a giddiness I hadn’t felt since well before the new year. Of course, the question remained of who he was exactly, but as I drove on the 101 Freeway, with the sun beating down, the smoke clearing literally and figuratively and the sky a shade of brilliant blue, I realized how little it mattered.
Now, of course, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t do everything in my power to Google him when I got home (though not knowing his last name was a real barrier). I’m a bit of a sleuth, and finally found his Instagram via the Lily’s Bar page. I can confirm he is in fact a world-touring DJ, though I had never heard his music. So a famous DJ — or better yet, an enigmatic, dynamic person named Vincent — made me feel hopeful again and reclaim a little bit of the love I had lost both with my partner and the feeling of enchantment in L.A. Life had been tough, but there was still love to find. When will you realize, Vienna waits for you?
This author is an actor and writer based between L.A. and Paris. She pens the weekly Substack column A Woman of Leisure (awomanofleisure.substack.com), where she explores femininity, solitude and the art of paying attention. She’s also on Instagram: @kellyrookdaly.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
This story originally appeared on LA Times
