In my last three years as a Malibu resident, every drive south on PCH has left me wanting; every drive has reminded me of my status as an outsider; with every drive, I have seen one challenge, heard one word whispered in my ear: Moonshadows.
What lay behind its seemingly innocuous whitewashed exterior, I wondered. Carved into its wooden front door, a keyhole window spoke of a secret within. Outwardly, its signage claimed it was just another beach restaurant. But my eyes lingered, tracing the letters of the “Blue Lounge,” spelled out in white neon tubing, the ultimate in class. What was a Blue Lounge anyway? What kinds of shady dealings went on at a place like this? I was captivated.
As friends and I passed the silent edifice, we often spoke its name to each other, in a tri-syllabic covenant that one day, we would break through that invisible barrier that kept us on the outside, craning our necks and risking traffic violations to look in.
Last Saturday was that day.
In preparation, I girded myself with all the charms of Malibu — heels, lip gloss and all manner of general swank. I fidgeted all through dinner, knowing that three years of wondering and waiting would soon be gratified by a night of revelation.
I admit that I almost abandoned the quest as we approached our destination. I saw the rising fog hover over the ocean and thought about how easy it would be to just keep driving, as I had done so many times before. I could provide a believable excuse of fatigue or illness and return home. No one outside my car would have to know. But I would know, and I felt that I could never again drive past Moonshadows without shame if I passed it by that night. It would forever taunt me in all of its neon pomp, unabashedly illuminating my cowardice.
It was now or never, so we parked and dashed across the highway as quickly as our pumps would allow. We approached the front door, the last obstacle to our liberation from Moonshadows’ psychological grip of mystery. As the boards of the walkway creaked beneath our feet, I took a deep breath and pushed past my fears. This was it.
Seconds later, we were inside. The hostess coolly told us we could sit anywhere to the left, as if she did this every night. It was almost too easy. I kept a straight face, but inside I was overwhelmed by our surroundings. The dark wood paneling, the exotic plants on the end of the bar and the smooth techno remix of “Stairway to Heaven” all confirmed that Moonshadows thought itself to be just as extraordinary as we did.
Far to the left was a door leading to the Blue Lounge. My fascination increased upon discovering that the Blue Lounge was not in fact blue; the name referred only to the boundless ocean lapping up against the outside deck. An array of white leather sectionals served as perches for the lounge lizards, kept warm by the glowing heat lamps.
Steaming plates of calamari came for patrons in private booths lining the back of the deck. Around us guests shared jokes and desserts as waves crashed on the rocks beneath them. Jewelry sparkled on the necks of women who carried themselves with supreme confidence. Glasses clinked as toasts were made, saluting the elite gathered at this mythical exclave.
The Blue Lounge was a cruise taking us far away from the realities that we had left on the other side of the highway. The world had shifted. I was now one of those who had seen beyond the shadows of the moon. I had crossed the line that had been drawn before me since my first day in Malibu.
In the days following our investigation, I took on a new air of confidence in my relationship with Moonshadows. Now as I drive past it in the darkness, I cast a knowing smile on the Blue Lounge. I am no longer a prisoner to its mystery. I drive on with my head held high.
