It was a play called The Pier.

Evidently some kind of comedy, since the actors featured in several photos seemed to be mugging for the audience, one of the actresses holding up women’s lingerie in front of a man sporting an okay, you got me look on his bug-eyed face.

I was going to turn and keep walking. To where?

I didn’t know.

I’d walk until I couldn’t. Until I ran across her, the odds of which were slim to none.

But something caught my eye.

Caught is right.

Picture one of John Wren’s lake trout hooked right through its gut.

It was an ensemble shot-that moment where all the actors come on stage hand in hand to take their bows.

There were maybe eight of them.

I leaned in till my breath smudged the glass and I had to step back, wipe it clean, then crouch down to stare at it again.

I stood there transfixed. I might’ve been meticulously reading the review from Santa Monica Weekly, which promised a riotous night in the theater.

You’ll shake with laughter, it said.

Or with fear.

I BOUGHT A TICKET, CENTER AISLE, NINTH ROW.

I was right about it being a comedy. A sort of French bedroom farce, except most of the action took place on the Santa Monica Pier. It involved mistaken identities, mismatched lovers, lots of sexual innuendo. The funniest thing was the scenery-a painted backdrop of the pier that kept folding over. One actor or another would deviate from their marks in the middle of a scene in order to mosey over and casually push the Ferris wheel back into place.

Still, the audience seemed to like it well enough. It’s hard to tell with theater audiences, since they always seem to try so hard. It must be the proximity to the actors, who are not up on some celluloid screen but right there in front of you. No one wants to be impolite.

By the second act, all the mistaken-identity stuff basically worked itself out. With one exception.

He made his appearance at the end of act one.

He played a gay actor pretending to be his straight roommate in order to impress a female William Morris agent, who had the hots for his roommate who she thought was him. The William Morris agent kept having conversations on one of those invisible cell-phone speakers that various bystanders took to be directed at them. That was the running gag, leading to all sorts of mistakes and would-be hilarity.

He first appeared stage right, in tank top and running shorts, seconds away from bumping into the talent agent who was telling some producer-over her cell phone, of course-about some hot project, using words certain to be construed two ways.

I leaned forward in my chair, nearly planting my chin into the person sitting in front of me.

It was meant to be dusk, that twilight hour Shakespeare was so fond of. Magical things happened at dusk; people turned into donkeys, spells were cast and lifted, lovers parted and reunited. I leaned forward because the dimmed lights made it hard to see and I couldn’t be 100 percent sure.

By the time he appeared at the beginning of act two in the full, glaring sunshine of morning, all doubts were dispelled.

It was him.

THERE WASN’T A STAGE DOOR.

This was off-off-off-Broadway. The actors exited from the same door the audience did, the one in the front.

I had to wait them out, mingle with the handful of other theatergoers waiting for the actors to appear.

After ten minutes, they began straggling out, first an actress met by a middle-aged couple I imagined were her parents. They wrapped her up in a big hug and gushed on and on about how hysterical the play was, exhibiting the acting genes they must’ve passed on to their daughter.

Then one of the male actors, barging through the theater door and already yakking on his cell phone.

What d’ya mean, not right for the part… you tell them…

When he came out-his name was Sam Savage, according to the playbill-he was with two other members of the cast, a man and a woman. I was half-turned to the wall, undecided whether to go up and confront him or wait back for a while.

I waited.

They slipped out the door where the man waved good-bye. That left Sam with the lithe blond actress; they sauntered down the sidewalk hand in hand.

I followed them, trying to keep a respectable distance. Maybe half a block or so.

If you’ve never followed anyone, it’s harder than it looks.

They weren’t just a moving target-they kept stopping too, peeking into one window or another, mostly her. He would separate from her, wander away, and sometimes turn around and stare back in my direction.

I tried to mirror them, to anticipate, to stop, turn, and hope that when I turned back, they’d still be there.

They turned right on Santa Monica and walked up to Seventh.

The whole time, as I followed and ducked and covered, I kept asking myself one question. Like a mantra. Hoping that if I mumbled it long enough, I might figure things out.

I was starting to connect the dots-here and there beginning to draw very shaky lines from one thing to another. But it was like that dream I had-every time I looked at the half-finished picture, it had disappeared like Littleton Flats itself.

They ducked into a bar on Seventh.

The Piñata.

I didn’t have to walk inside to know what it looked like. Frozen margaritas with little pink umbrellas, plastic table tents with sombreros on them, wooden bowls of chips and salsa. I waited outside, listening to the strains of Los Lobos as people wandered in and out.

Finally, I pushed the door open and walked inside.

It was loud and packed.

She was sitting alone at the bar. The actress. Sipping a gargantuan frozen margarita, the kind you could only dream about at Muhammed Alley.

Where was he? Bathroom?

I walked to the end of the bar farthest away from her, managed to squeeze myself in next to a group of five very drunk women, and ordered an Excellente, the house specialty according to the drink menu, a margarita made with Cuervo Gold, peach liqueur, and a secret ingredient they refused to divulge upon pain of death.

I was halfway through my Excellente when I spotted him.

I’d been staring at him for a while before I knew who it was. There was the actress-already starting on margarita number two. There was the fashionably decked-out couple sitting next to her-he with shaven head and sunglasses, she with tan, silicone-enhanced breasts. There was the waiter taking their order. It wasn’t until the waiter closed his pad, smiled, and leaned down to whisper something into her ear that I knew it was him.

Why not?

He was an actor. In an off-off-off-Broadway theater. Which meant he was also a real estate hawker, a telephone sales solicitor, a parking lot valet. Or a waiter. After the curtain went down, he simply traded one costume for another.

I was starting to feel the margarita. Good.

It was helping to dull the fear.

I was sucking the last remnants of my second one when the lights suddenly began flickering on and off, on and off, on and off.

Closing time.

The five girls disappeared.

Not the blond actress.

He came out from the back, apron off, and whisked her off her stool.

I took the opportunity to slink out of the bar, making sure to stand several yards away from the front entrance.

They didn’t make sidewalks like they used to; this one was swaying like a rope bridge in a gale.

The two of them came out the door and walked right past me without exhibiting the slightest recognition.

I was just an audience member. Someone sitting out there in the dark.

I became bolder with that realization, tailing them by mere feet. Stumbling after them like a third wheel.

They turned the corner, and five seconds later I followed.