The Vagina Monologues ended around one o'clock in the morning last night, and as I walked outside of the theater, I saw an eight-year-old boy standing outside waiting for me. "Oh shit." I remembered he had approached me earlier in the evening to tell me that he was lost, and I had offered to help him find his parents. Instead, I had gone to see the play and forgotten about him completely, so he had waited for me outside for the duration of the two-and-a-half hour show. I asked him where he lived and he told me, "East L.A." We climbed into my car and I started taking surface streets east eventually only to hit a dead end. At that point, I had to turn around to find another street east, and it suddenly struck me how creepy it was—and compromising even—to drive a little boy I didn't know home at one-thirty in the morning.
Pop Jungian Interpretation: The boy must be my inner child, not the effusive, jubilant one, but the needy one who nurses drawn-out, draining and improbable crushes. And even though I am in control—I am driving, after all—I am playing to his whimsy. And it is creepy that despite knowing better, I still head east: a vague destination that can only lead to dead ends.
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