Globetrotting in Los Angeles

We’re CELEBRATING a guys’ night out, a rare jailbreak from the home and family. When we fled, sirens sounded and dogs barked. Shots were fired into the cold night air. Yet we all made it out alive, to this steak joint at the center of town. All six of us a little nuts with middle age.

“How great is this?” one guy asks as we gather in a corner booth.

“Pretty great,” someone answers.

“Cheers,” someone says, raising a glass.

Finally, a guys’ night out. What did we have to lose? Our mortgages? The comp time we never take? The knowledge that someone warm and tolerant awaits when we get home late? Well, there’s that.

“She was not happy about this,” one guy mutters into his vodka. “My wife was not happy at all.”

“Stinkin’ Yankees,” someone notes, and we’re off onto another topic.

Some of the guys know each other. Others have just met. As men, we are automatically bound by the things we hate. The Yankees. Politicians. Sales tax. Free agency. “Frasier.” Worst of all, that new Dodger owner.

“This guy’s going to be a disaster,” one guy predicts.

“I hope you’re wrong.”

“I’m not,” the guy growls, attacking a piece of warm bread.

And bound, as well, by the things we all love. Beefsteak. Ferraris. Eighteenth fairways. Crossover dribbles. Long, perfumed necks. The heroes of our youth.

“Remember when you were a kid ... ?” I start to say.

“No,” someone answers.

“Remember when you were a kid and you thought the Globetrotters could’ve beaten the Knicks or the Celtics?” I ask.

“And you thought Curly Neal was the best guard of all time,” someone else says.

“He was,” one of my friends confirms.

We search the lost-and-found departments of our middle-aged minds. Eyes twinkle. Voices rise. Boyhoods are reborn.

“Remember the way Meadowlark always hit that half-court shot?” one guy asks.

“Yep, every time.”

“To me, it’s still the most impressive thing I’ve ever seen in sports.”

The food arrives. The baked potatoes hot as engine blocks. The meat quickly smeared with horseradish, our most underrated condiment.

“Everything cooked OK?” the waitress asks.

“I’ve been cooked since noon,” someone says.

“Dean Martin,” someone notes. “Now, there was an entertainer.”

We wipe our Friday faces with scratchy napkins and head off to Staples Center, dropping down from the 110 as if landing on another planet, which Staples often is. It’s a Laker Friday. The Sixers are in town.

“Left! Left! Left!” someone shouts to the driver as we search for the parking lot.

“Did he say left?” the driver calmly asks.

“Left!!!”

Staples, as usual, has the sweet ambience of a strip club. Same music. Same cheap carpet and expensive booze. Same sense of manufactured joy. All it needs is stripper poles.

“Don’t you love this place?” someone asks.

“Of course,” I say.

This citadel of restraint is in fine Friday mode. The men all look like real estate moguls or fading rock stars. The women look like actresses from Latin soap operas. Where do they find clothes like this? What holds their chests up?

With those questions hanging in the air, we welcome the Lakers, who play well if not wisely.

The Globetrotters would’ve put these Sixers away in the third quarter. Meadowlark would’ve nailed that half-court shot, sprayed confetti all over the Philadelphia bench, and it would’ve been over. Over! But not the Lakers. They toy with the other team till well into the last quarter.

“Let’s get outta here,” someone orders.

“We’ve got places to go,” someone adds.

“We do?” I say.

“Let’s roll.”

On the way out, we brush right past Jack Nicholson, the promising young actor. Hey, Jack! One guy in our group shakes his hand; another guy actually touches his shoulder.

“He’s sort of short, you know,” I tell my wife the next morning.

“Shorter than you?” she asks.

“All actors are,” I say. “They’re tiny ... like jockeys.”

“So where’d you all go last night?” she asks.

The key to surviving a guys’ night out, when questioned the next day, is to appear not to have been there at all. Or to pretend you were a hostage held at gunpoint, then brainwashed.

It’s also best to avoid names, details or locations of any kind. To be as vague as possible, until your attorney arrives.

“You were in a luxury suite?” she asks.

“Maybe.”

“That’s what you said when you got home,” she reminds me.

“Must be true, then,” I say.

“And you said you were going fly-fishing,” she reminds me.

“I am?”

“In the spring,” she says, “when the steelhead are running.”

“That sounds great,” I say, suddenly excited. “Really great.”

“Why?” she asks.

“Because fish are an excellent source of protein,” I remind her.

Which, let the record show, is not a lie. Not even a little one.

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Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.