TennisBro and I have known each other our whole lives. Literally. Our moms were pregnant together.
We hadn’t seen each other at all in the ’90s or most of the naughts save for Christmas cards, but for some reason we got back in touch via phone in the beginning of 2008. I was in Los Angeles on business and TennisBro asked if he could take me out while I was in town. The funny thing about people who don’t work is that they are available to hang out WHENEVER.
THE FIRST DATE
TennisBro planned that we would go to San Diego for the night and then have a west coast beach crawl back to LA the following day. Could he pick me up at noon? No, I would be working. 1PM? No, still at work. 1:30PM? Fine, at least the market would be closed. I was working in private wealth out of the Beverly Hills office that week.
That day, I wore a white Chanel skirt suit and at 1:25 PM was waiting at the valet in front of the building furiously punching out emails on my b-berry. TennisBro rolled up in his Lexus LFA, which is the sort of vehicle that gets you high fives from other bros who park the cars. He jumped out of his ride wearing swim trunks, a tank top, and no shoes. No shoes. In front of the office building he lifted me up, swung me around in a big hug, and laughed “What are YOU wearing?” And thus began my crash course in LA bro culture.
Once we hit the road, TennisBro and I instantly reverted to elementary school. We made Forrest and Jenny look like Rhianna and ChrisBrown. Flying down the 405, we blasted crazy loud hip hop music like rules didn’t apply, because they don’t. At the party all night, I took mental snap shots: roof top pool, Jager, dudes wearing shades, peroxide blondes, bro-tastic tribal tatooos, and everytime I looked down a refreshed Red Bull vodka affixed to my hand. By morning, I was fully Cali-indoctrinated and ready for our self-titled west coast beach crawl. I had stopped talking about my cats and oil prices; I started talking about the “sick” surf conditions and the legitimacy of swimsuits as clothes. Who was I? In total we hit five beaches ending in Santa Monica, where mutual friends met us for beers.
Andi asked how it was going with TennisBro. From behind my totally ironic gas station sunglasses, I said pret-tay good and so she asked, “But wouldn’t it be like kissing your brother?” //Sound of record scratching// Put that on the list of things I can never, ever, ever un-hear. I realized that TennisBro was not just an LA bro. He was like my brother. And somewhere in the world, a faint banjo began to strum.