As I look out the plane porthole, I suddenly feel excitement wave through my skin. The ground below is buzzing with a sea of lights; I know we must be in Los Angeles. I've always been enticed by LA; America's cultural epicenter, a city built on dreams getting crushed or made. Not only is LA a cultural hub for America, but also for the world. Whether we've put drones in Pakistani skies, or wiped out the Panamanian government, people all over the world still watch Friends and The Simpsons, and I want in on it.

A couple hours later, I find myself following Sam around Hollywood, with an empty stomach. It's a predictably warm night; not so warm that my thighs are Velcro-ing together, but so mild and pleasant, that with the hazy pink sunset, I almost feel like I'm inside of a hotel painting. The rows of houses all look very modest and similar, but like a bunch of wealthy oil kids in their first year of college; pretending to be normal, while actually worth millions.

"I can't remember where they live," Sam says.

Sam and I have been searching for his friends' house (that he's been to) for twenty minutes. He and I have known each other since he was the only boy in Kindergarten who would play Legos with me. Also, we bonded over the fact that our sneakers lit up.

Sam moved to Chicago in the second grade, but since our moms became friends, we would talk every now and again. I've shared awkward "How's it going"-s with him at a few Holiday parties here and there, but the last time we've had any sort of real conversation was at the Lego station. Now I'm just trying to figure out if he's stoned.

"Wouldn't there be a lot of people in front of this house? This is like a pretty well-known comedy show, right?" I ask.

"Yeah... Wait, here it is."

There's a line of four people standing in a driveway.

"Wow, it looks pretty popular," I say.

"Nah, it is. We're just ridiculously early so we can actually score chairs."

We don't talk for a minute, which gives me proper time to visually catch up with him. He's wearing nice slacks and nicer shoes. I'm still not really sure what his job is, but he's clearly doing something where he has to wear a tie. LA has shown its light on him, turning his charming belly into hardened man-muscle, his skin from "Buttermilk" to "Latte." Velvet fuzz lines his cheeks and jawline now. He's come a long way from the weird, chubby kid in turtlenecks.

"Hey, thanks again for letting me stay on your couch, I really appreciate it," I say.

"Yeah, no problem. I owe you one after you let me stay on your couch after I drank all that punch at the last Connor Christmas party."

"Yeah, hah. You were out like a light."

He shrugs. "One of many reasons why I don't drink rum."