Gunshots interrupted brunch while I was chowing down on some freshly toasted tortilla chips. The gunshots traveled faster than my hand from the guac bowl to my mouth.
It was the day after Thanksgiving, and my little sister Jordan and her husband Max were visiting from Portland. I took them to Salazar, an outdoor restaurant in Frogtown with the best prickly pear margaritas on this side of Hillhurst. I held the other half of the tortilla chip near my mouth as a short stalky man hauled ass up the street and through the restaurant. “He’s shooting at me! He has a gun!”
Great, I thought. My sister will never move here now.
Whenever Jordan visits, I try to show her how great Los Angeles is so that one day, she’ll decide to live here, too. I love taking her to all the great restaurants, knowing she’ll recognize actors at nearby tables. We go shopping at the good Crossroads in West Hollywood, to see the rose blooms at Huntington Gardens, and to watch humpback whales from our outdoor seating at Malibu Seafood. But every time Jordan visits, something bad happens. This time, it was an active shooter.
The vibe went from lively and fun to chaotic and scary within seconds. Jordan’s life flashed in front of my eyes, and I knew I had to get her to safety because getting shot runs in our family. The women’s bathroom suddenly felt impossibly far away. I pointed to the door and told Jordan to run. I was right behind her. I herded a good twenty people this way. Many of them were in a panic and had been running in circles. We had nowhere else to go since the shooter was at the entrance, which was also the only exit.
I didn’t feel scared for myself; I felt protective of my sister. I would take a million bullets before I ever let anyone harm Jordan because that’s what older sisters do. I felt a strange sensation throughout my body and realized I was in total harmony with the Universe. I was fully present and living in the moment, which I always thought was a myth. I wasn’t worried about work, money, or outfits. I had one job: to keep my sister safe.
Nothing else mattered.
Once we were inside the bathroom, I pointed to a grandmother clutching her phone and realized I’d stupidly left mine at the table. “You, call 9–1–1.” I barked. I’ve always been a natural-born leader, and I accepted my new position as the leader of the bathroom. There wasn’t a lock on the door, so I blocked it from opening with all my body weight. I looked over my shoulder, and Max was consoling my sister. They had met in college, at the University of Oregon, where Max played football with the Oregon Ducks. He was the guy who passed the ball to the important guy. Jordan and I looked at each other, and then at Max. Jordan shoved him in my direction, “Go, switch with Lauren!”
It made a lot more sense for Max to be the one holding the door shut. The three of us had an unspoken agreement that if someone had to die, it should be Max. A police helicopter thrummed in circles above the restaurant, but we didn’t exit the women’s room until the police swept the restaurant and announced it was safe.
We went back to our table and grabbed our belongings. I asked the server for our check; there was no way we would stay and finish our margaritas; that’s how traumatic it was.
The family sitting next to us had stayed put during the entire ordeal. “I stole some of your guac while you guys were hiding in the bathroom,” the Dad said. “That was just a car engine backfiring. I know because I’m a cop.”
Oh, how I hated him. I know the sound of gunfire when I hear it because I grew up in Alaska, where Benneli’s are the official state bird.
On the way out, we talked to the real cops, who were taking witness statements. They assured us that we had heard a real gun, that had been fired by a real shooter, and that they had detained both. How I wanted that off-duty piece of shit to have his badge confiscated: in no world should he be allowed to have a gun or the power to make an arrest. You could tell he didn’t live in LA; he was probably in town from Corona or Bakersfield, judging by his stupidity.
My sister and I agreed not to tell our parents for a while. We didn’t want to scare them or have them worry about us, especially since we had all walked away unscathed and with only a dash of trauma. Besides, Jordan still had a few days left, and something worse could still happen.
The shooting really put things in perspective for me. I realized I had a lot to live for, like my dog and my Soho House membership. My big takeaway from almost being shot was that I would never date a man again in this lifetime because this was the day I realized I was a full-blown lesbian.
"The three of us had an unspoken agreement that if someone had to die, it should be Max." haha!
Scary though!