You put an ad for your convertible on Craigslist, asking way less than what you paid for it six months ago, because the top leaks. You feel funny about even listing it at all, as whoever buys it is going to have a real headache on their hands: It’s apparently ludicrously expensive to fix a convertible top. You pledge to tell any prospective buyer about the problem, but not necessarily the repair cost you were quoted at the dealership.

You get three emails about the car. One guy wants to see it but never shows. Another guy wants to know if you’ll knock another thousand off the price, right off the bat. And a couple of women respond that they’d like to come see it.

You set a time and they show up early. When you walk outside, they’re looking the car over with interest. They’re both cute: petite women with short dark hair, each with an accent of some kind that you can’t quite identify. They move in tandem, finish each other’s sentences. They appear to be a couple.

One really wants the car; the other expresses doubt about the small trunk size. They run a photography business, and their current car, also a convertible, doesn’t have a big enough trunk either.

“Why get another car with the same problem?” asks one.

“But it’s so cute,” says the other. “And we can just put the stuff in the back seat.”

They bicker gently. You watch, bemused, thinking you really shouldn’t sell them the car at all, because the first time it rains, they’ll surely curse you. You mention that the top leaks in heavy rains. “Oh, that’s okay,” says the one eager to buy it. “We can fix that.” The other one smiles and shakes her head.

They say they want to look at a few more cars before making a decision. You all shake hands, and they drive off.

A few hours later, you get an email. They’ve decided to hold off on buying a car, but would you like to get together some time? To hang out? They thought you seemed nice. Would you be interested in that?

You feel flattered. They seemed lovely. But isn’t this odd, to make a social plan with someone you met for about five minutes over a potential car transaction? Then again, why should you care? This is L.A., which has proved to be a far friendlier town than your last place of residence. Why not meet some new people? You reply that you’d like that, thanks.

The next day, you get an email inviting you to a dinner-and-movie night that Sunday. Apparently, a group of people get together, cook food, and watch a movie every other weekend at a loft downtown. You can’t make it that Sunday, but express interest in going another time.

More weeks pass, and you seem to have plans each time the Sunday movie night rolls around. Then finally, one weekend you find yourself free. You email them and say, yes, I’d like to come have dinner and watch the movie Fargo. What is the address? And what time? You’re supposed to bring a side dish, so you stop at the grocery store and buy the following: a pound of broccoli salad, a box of Little Debbie Snack Cakes, and a good bottle of Cabernet.

You drive to downtown LA, taking the Los Angeles Street exit as directed. When you get to the right block, you realize you’re in the middle of, if not Skid Row, then something very close to it. Homeless people are bedded down all across the sidewalks, stuffed into cardboard boxes or wrapped up in sleeping bags and blankets like giant cocoons. You park your car about a block away from the building. You wonder whether this is some weird scam. You try to remember what those women looked like. And what kind of accents were those?

You get to the building and realize you didn’t write down the apartment number to get buzzed in. A guy is walking out, and he holds the door for you to come in. You head up to the third floor. When you emerge from the elevator, you can hear music and conversation wafting down the hallway. You head that way.

You get to the loft. When you enter, it is the largest living space you’ve ever seen. The ceiling is three stories above the floor. There are no walls except for those separating two small bedrooms and a bathroom from a sprawling kitchen / dining room / living room that is twice the size of your whole house. A red-haired woman is baking casseroles in the kitchen, and about a dozen hipster L.A. types are sipping wine and chatting.

Your car-buying couple hasn’t arrived yet, so you introduce yourself to the red-haired cook. She wipes her hands on her apron and gives you a warm, enveloping hug. “Welcome!” she says, and takes your plastic grocery-store bag.

The evening’s meal follows a Fargo theme: Swedish meatballs, bacon-wrapped appetizers, hot casseroles topped with tater tots. You introduce yourself to random people, eat snacks and drink red wine. A tiny Chihuahua wearing a sweater races around the floor, yapping at everyone.

Finally, your car-buying couple arrives. They’re just as you remembered them, cute, with little knit caps and cool shoes. They do a double-take when they see you — is that the woman whose car we looked at? Smiles break out all over: Hello! How are you! Glad you could come!

Everyone mingles and the car-buying couple starts preparing the food they brought: some kind of garlicky flatbread, possibly a delicacy from their home country, which you just learned is the former Soviet republic of Georgia. They speak Russian, you speak Russian; what are the chances? They met at film school in Tbilisi in the ’90s, and immigrated here shortly thereafter. They’re not a couple, though they are both lesbians. Yes, everyone thinks they’re a couple; no, it doesn’t bother them. But just to clarify.

People fill their plates with hearty Midwestern food and gulp down another glass of red wine. Then, the main event begins: one on one wall in the living room — a pure white wall that stretches three stories high — the opening credits of Fargo start to roll.

“Let’s go!” whispers one of the Georgians. “We need to get a good seat!”

You follow their lead, heading to one of five overstuffed couches scattered throughout the vast living room. Each couch has an assortment of cozy blankets at the ready. You plop down in the middle, one Georgian on each side of you. A Georgian sandwich. The movie starts.

You sit, watching William H. Macy plan to kidnap his wife, wondering at the fact that you’re so happily squeezed in among total strangers. It is black as night in the vast living room, except for the lights of downtown LA bleeding in through the windows and the giant figures on the wall. As you squish further down into the couch, pulling a fleecy blanket around you, the Chihuahua jumps on your lap and starts licking your ear. The Georgians whisper and giggle across you. And suddenly you think: Where else could I possibly have been at this moment? The space on this couch was created for me. Frances McDormand smiles on-screen, as if in agreement.