I was waiting for the cable guy. Due: between three and five p.m.
Outside the city was grinding people like hamburger and frying them on the sidewalks.
Suddenly, a gentle, single "tap" came at the door.
I pulled it wide as it would open.
A lone Asian man, in his forties, with face maroon as a new beet, sweated on the doorstep.
I invited him in.
He waited for me to step back, then, sank to the loft floor. I thought it was heat exhaustion.
"Hey, take it easy...I don't have air conditioning, but, would you like an iced tea?" I ran to the frig before he could answer.
I handed it to the confused looking cable man. He thanked me, quietly, looking like he was going to burst into tears.
"Why so many angry people in this city?! They think I'm coming for their money--I don't even collect money--just cable boxes--some of them even throw them at me! I don't make a salary with the big company--I independent contractor--have to pay for my own gas, my own parking--why so many people crazy? Their minds--so angry--they aren't right! People better than animals, should be better...all people around here rushing so fast--where they gonna go? Next stop light? Why?" He tucked his legs under himself and leaned against the wall.
"I'm sorry, man...geez...maybe because it's so hot outside? Or maybe it's just Los Angeles?" I sit down across from him, on the floor. (Most of the furniture is out of the loft, anyway.)
"You moving?" he finally breathes deeply and gets control. He looks at his clipboard form.
"Yup...going back east...outside of Boston, " try to relax, worried about him stroking out on me.
" What airline you flying?" he asks, suddenly re-animated.
"Uh, Southwest, I think," I point to the confirmation sheet tacked on the door.
"I used to work for United...fourteen years...till 9-11...then, they got rid of everybody that looked like me..." he sighed.
"Man...I know the feeling....didn't the Union help?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"Only the senior people...now, I live day to day...this terrible job...they don't pay us right...no benefits...five years barely making it...I have a daughter to take care of..." his voice begins to quaver.
I don't know what to say...telling him I get it--from the union not saving his skinny butt to losing his job after fourteen years with nothing to show for it, to the base pay and struggle to survive in this crazy city...I so get it...I reach out and respectfully touch his arm.
He looks up, then, sees the prayer flags tacked above the confirmation papers. They are gifts from friends, from Tibet.
"You Buddhist?" he asks me, locking eyes for the first time.
"No, but I study the Buddha's teachings...I have Buddhist monk friends, and some nuns, too..." suddenly, something shifts...it's like an air conditioner has gone on in the loft and we are both relaxing.
"People need to practice calmness in this place...they need to start treating each other better...stop the medicines that make them crazy; stop the politicians who steal from everybody, too...we need to be kind..." he smiles, shyly.
"I think, when we calm our minds, we clean our hearts..." I smile back, equally shy.
"Is that why you are moving? So many people in Malibu, Beverly Hills, all leaving the city these days..." he adjusts himself into a full lotus position.
"My Mom is sick...I've been away for too long...I miss...peacefulness...I miss my family, too," I laugh.
"Yes, even Buddha knew when it was time to return home...it's good for your Mother...she will feel your coming home...things will be better for her..." his eyes begin to sparkle.
Suddenly, it is as if this Hollywood film has turned on...am I imagining this or is it really happening...have I created a cliche just to be able to tell the story? I check out his face.
No. There is a real connection here.
He bows a Buddhist bow--to me. I bow back. He says, "This is the first time in five years that someone has sat down with me, has invited me to talk, and given me some tea...thank you...on this terrible day...thank you!"
I take a deep breath for myself.
He stand up at the door. He gives me my receipt. He bows, again, and then gives me a very respectful hug. "I bless your Mother," he says to me, " and you must travel safely."
I feel the tears in the back of my eyes...but I feel stupid, too. (Why is it always so hard to accept these amazing moments when they finally arrive?)
I hand him the string of prayer flags.
"For the traffic..." I tell him.
He takes them, bowing, and heads down the stairs.
Tang Heng, you are so much more than a cable guy.
Friday, August 20, 2010
TANG DISCONNECTS
I am waiting for my cable to be turned off. The company has promised the guy will arrive between three and five p.m. I have crammed in as many movies as possible since yesterday. I have been typing e-mails to all my friends, warning of my impending landing on the East Coast.
At three, I move to the table to watch the street, outside. No truck arrives. I begin attending to last mail delivery items. Suddenly, from the door, their comes a distinct tap. A single rap.
I answer it, surprised to see a man anywhere from thirty-five to fifty; tanned, fit, carrying an alligator- embossed clipboard and sweating as if he'd just run a marathon.
"Cable, ma'am."
I sling the door as wide as it will go, letting in what breeze there is from the open window in the hall. Downstairs, the muffled voices of neighbors, the postal carrier and street traffic drift inside.
He waits till I invite him, and then comes in. I take one look at his face--I think he is about to burst into tears! I ask him if he'd like a can of mint tea--my stock from the Whole Foods run I'd just done two days ago. He seems confused, then, thanks me and slips to the floor. I rush to get the cold drink...I don't need a stranger sprawled unconscious on the loft floor two days before I move out...
Most of the furniture is gone. He props himself against an empty wall. He takes the tea gratefully, still seeming to be upset. But,taking a breath, he looks around, begins asking, for the form, if I am moving.
"Out--to the Boston area-- " I smile, knowing it's an easier explanation than Gardner.
He shakes his head. "So many customers in Santa Monica, in Malibu, in Beverly Hills--they all moving back East...so many..." then his voice cracks and I can tell this man is totally stressed.
He's about to lose it in front of me.
"Look, it's so hot outside...I don't have any air up here, but just take some tea and relax a minute...you are right on time...I'm so happy you came!" I reach out and touch his shoulder, lightly, with respect. I don't know what else to do.
He takes a breath, re-arranges into a full lotus position, then smiles, just a bit.
He looks around what's left in the loft and sees my tiny Tibetan prayer flags, hanging right above where I've tacked the flight confirmation.
"Are you Budhist?" he asks, quietly.
"No, but I am a student of the Buddha--and I have monk and nun friends who are..." I smile back, feeling this "corny" sense of a wave of peace flowing between us--as if someone turned on an air conditioner and made the loft suddenly bearable.
I have to wonder if it is just too, too California, and I'm moving through some absurd reality, or if this is a real lucid moment...before I can talk myself out of it, he pipes up:
He says this is the first time anyone in five years has offered him a chance to sit down for a minute, before unhooking the cables...let alone offer him tea....usually they are suspicious when he knocks on their door or thinks he is coming for money..."I don't even get paid a regular wage! I just collect the boxes and bring them in--sometimes people just throw the boxes at me! Sometimes they break and I get blamed!" his voice rises again. The tears are fought back.
"Maybe because I'm moving... it's just so hot out there...besides, you're on time! I'm thrilled you showed up!" I sit back, wishing I was as comfortable looking as he was in that position.
"What airline are you taking? Jet Blue? To JFK? I worked for United, till 9-11; then they released everybody that looked like me..." he dropped his head against his chest,his hands in his lap.
"Didn't the union help you?" I asked, knowing the probable answer. I just didn't want him to cry.
"So many people let go...only the seniors kept...like now...so many people...living day to day...even me...I have a fourteen year old daughter...I just work, feed her, keep her in school...and drive drive drive with all these angry people in this city...so many people so messed up...twisted tight...like springs...why so many angry people in this city?!"
"I ask myself the same thing," I answer, suddenly shocked that this Asian man has the same issues, exactly, as me...and now he is sitting in the middle of my loft, cross legged, with an iced tea , fighting heat exhaustion!
We go on to speak of Obama, of Arnold and Maria in Sacramento, of the percentages of unemployed that represent to us "real people", whereas in the halls of power, they remain only hills and valleys on print outs...we speak of people needing to quiet their minds in order to clean their hearts...we discuss the life the Buddha led...how he, too, after many travels, had to return home, to share what he knew with his family, too...how we are both missing "home".
He left his family in the Pacific Northwest and came here because of his daughter and whatever relationship that cast her with him ...he, too, longs for peace and somewhere it is less crazed.
Our eyes finally connect and it is like a dream: I know this man (of all the cable guys in this city), came here, and like the guy who installed my computer hook-up and spoke to me of his family crossing the border from Mexico, this conversation I was having,on the floor of the loft, over iced tea, at this end of the journey, was supposed to happen--we were being human for and with each other--simple as that--exchanging heartspace in a respectful, way that humans are supposed to do. Here was this man who was so much more than a cable guy...who loved his daughter enough to leave his own family and reclaim her in a city that was tearing him up. He was making minimum wage, no benefits, had been spit out after fourteen years with a huge corporation, had a clear take on the economy and what was being done to so many of us and also, at his core, knew the answers to his own head and heart pangs..."to find someplace of peace"...."
"People are supposed to take care of each other; people are supposed to not need all the medications, all the pills that keep us crazy; people need to be kind, compassionate, be more than animals...so much more..." he finally stopped the stream of words and just breathed again, deeply.
Then, he bowed, in a little Buddhist way, to me. I bowed back, without self-consciousness nor feeling like a great imposter--this WAS the real deal.. This was the perfect moment in the loft.
Maybe everything had been leading up to simply this.
He rose, again, almost tearing up, taking his tea, his tools, and repeating that this was the first time such a meeting on the job had occurred. Then, he told me, he sends blessing ,to my mother.
It was my turn to tear up. I cleared my throat and said,"Have you ever thought, Tang, that maybe, just maybe, you are so much more than a cable guy?"
His eyes lit up like smokey fire..."I will think about that...thank you. Travel well."
Tang Heng, I believe you.
Namaste.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
PETER PAN PACKING
I haven't slept a full night in a month. Two nights ago, I was dozing, coming in and out of a "King Kong" re-run on the muted t.v., when I suddenly noticed: the big box in the corner was just TOO BIG! My heart began to race. My face began to sweat. I hopped off the futon and stubbed my two on a chair as I moved.
I had a re-cycled, paper towel packing box already taped up. (Contents were mostly blazers and books--nothing breakable--all expendable.)Maybe I could just leave it? Did I really need this stuff? I flipped on a light and started sorting, again. My insomnia was part panic attack and part neurotic worry. I was leaving a non-traditional "California lifestyle", to head back to conservative NE, right before the cold weather. I needed the blazers...the books were another story.
I 'd already come to the decision to pack signed books, from friends-- I'd known a few poets in my time...I also kept copies of my own published work. In these times of e-book trade and Barnes and Noble bailing, who knows what may become valuable? If not for their contents, at least for their "object identities"...hmmm.
I steeled myself, assuring my Inner Neurotic, that surely, there were new books to be discovered, inside and outside. I assuaged my defeated writer by pulling three coats and tossing them into a black yard-bag. (I've been dreading bumping into myself,walking on the street, someone covered in my castaways...maybe it's too hot...) I know everything I've left beside the trash cans, in the black bags, has been thoroughly gone through and most stuff has been squirreled off. I've not seen anyone that could pass as my clone...though...so far...
Now, the problem was having to wait till BOX BROTHERS, the local store,opened. I don't know if it is the times or just the location, but my neighborhood (which currently supports four bars; two competing massage parlors; a range of fast food chains and half a dozen hair salons) also keeps a thriving packing supplies business in operation. (Meanwhile, Kinkos, UPS, Fed/Ex, three print shops, the Post Office are also on the same block.) Either there are more writers around here than I had realized, or everyone is leaving the city at this point.
I explained my dilemna,next morning, to the box guy. We both knew he had me: none of the aforementioned businesses give away boxes--let alone free boxes. (Can't even cajole a cantalope container from Trader Joe's, anymore.) We guesstimate the sizes--me by a lively pantomime using arms,legs and raised eyebrows--him by repeating the performance, to make sure we are agreed. Finally, four flat boxes emerge from the back. (I can barely wrangle them as I waddle into Wilshire.) Thank God it's still almost the break of dawn...
In the loft, I get everything taped for the End Times, and am finally ready to move out. Meanwhile, Wendy is coming, to help me cart the load, downstairs,to Fed/Ex.
I close my weary eyes and realize: it's gonna be a three digit scorcher of an afternoon. Ugh.
Two hours later, I hear my name being called from the street, below. Wendy is there, smiling, perky; in her shorts and flip-flops, clutching the new Italian leather purse she got on her trip, her Ray-Bans glistening in the sweltering light. I haul one of the black yard-bags behind me as I let her in. The emotion of her embrace is embarrassing. I didn't think it would be that big a deal for her to say good-bye. Plus, I look like Captain Hook, dragging a black plastic croc behind me... but a hug her back, hoping I'm not too sweaty...or emotional.
We go up to my place, stepping around the paper towel empty box in the hall, and Wendy smiles. She and her friend had moved me in, five years back, from OC to L.A., my lost truck hauling almost everything, their car picking up the remnants. It's a lot less stuff that's going East, this morning.
"I can't believe that's all of it!" Wendy puts her glasses back up on her bangs.
"Well, if it helps, they are really heavy..." I glance at the pile.
"Yeah, but, that's it? That's all?" Wendy bumps her flip flop against one of the boxes.
"Well...I sent some other stuff--new stuff--earlier, so, I'd have stuff waiting for me--in case this stuff is late--you know--underwear, a leather jacket...stuff..." I clear my throat.
"That's a plan..." Wendy grins.
She's known me for over two decades.
She knows: I usually have a back door plan.
Then, she turns to my lap-top. Her Italian Trip is already posted on Facebook!
We spend the next couple hours touring Italy. She has also brought back three rosaries: two of them blessed by the Pope, for my parents--one of them for me. "I thought you'd love this silver one--see--that's the Pope's face on the medal--"
"Wendy, it's so great you thought of me--and my parents--but, I think Dad would like the Pope's face--uhhh, if it's okay, I'll take the rosewood beads--" I carefully put the Pope back in the Roma gift bag.
"It's your call," Wendy shrugs, good naturedly. (I'm her only Catholic friend and all of this stuff mystifies her--even after her month in Italy.)
She also gives me this amazing, carved crystal and embellished with gold, cameo. Three woman's faces smile back. Three Muses,maybe. Or, Wendy and her wife, and me? It's unusually "girly" for my tastes, but, it is the perfect gift of valuable treasure--from Wendy. I give her another hug.
The temp is rising around us like a steam bath. It's time to move the boxes, before the tape starts to unstick. Wendy goes to see if she can double-park her Volvo in front. (Of course, I know she's not going find a spot out there---)Three minutes later, Wendy returns.
"I got a parking place, right out front!" she giggles.
I check the window: some act of God, or maybe a parking angel (the Pope?) has created the primo parking space in front of the building. I cannot believe the luck, but don't question it. Instead, pick up one of the seven bags. I grunt. My joints creak a warning.
Meanwhile, one hundred and ten pound Wendy, in her fit twenties, still, hoists the heaviest box and flip flops down the staircase, merrily conversing. (O how I've aged!) I follow.
In a surprisingly short time--we are in the car, circling the Fed/Ex building.
I have been scoping the Fed/Ex mega post for two months. I know the lay-out of the shipping department. I know the parking spaces outside the store. This isn't a mini-mall with lots of empty space--this is a main street, fronting an ex-department-store- from- the- '50's kinda space. If we don't get parking, out front, I don't know what we are going to do... Wendy spots an empty meter! (I had planned. I had saved my quarters AND taken my credit card. )All along Wilshire and the connecting environs, parking is so expensive and so short-lived, they allow the actual meters to take major credit cards. I hop out, pay for two hours--just in case--and leave Wendy, to guard the car.
Inside, the place is packed. Every department has a line. But, I must have looked like a crazed, middle-aged street person, sweated out, frantic, because suddenly, all the clerks were staring. I stayed in the doorway and called: shipping?
Four teen-aged Fed-Exers pointed to the back. I hobbled, knee audibly creaking, to the corner end of the store.
A kid named Caden, (his nameplate proudly pinned to his extra-long shirt) looked at me suspiciously, over his computer. "Be with ya in a minute," he mumbled, ringing another woman in front of me. I tried to smile, controlling my huffing and sweating, glad for the little break. Then,I gave Caden the facts. I needed a cart, I needed him. We had a mountain of heavy boxes to unload.
I could see he thought I was nuts and that maybe, maybe we had three boxes, max, at the curb. Crazy Lady. Probably Handicapped. (He wasn't pleased.)He had to leave the air conditioning and clean rugs of Fed Ex, for the doggie-doo and gum stained street. (I was wrecking his afternoon.) However, I was undeterred. (I had no choice.)
Caden followed me outside.
On the curb: Wendy, with the back of the Volvo upraised like a flag! With her Mighty Mouse, rock-climbing toned forearms, she has unloaded all the boxes by herself! (And, she looks adorable, still, barely a sweat trickle on her face!) Caden is immediately smitten. (Caden is challenged.) He springs forward, tripping on the cart, righting himself and pitching boxes. Then, he can't move the thing! Well, I am great on level ground...I push and Caden pulls and Wendy looks cute... behind us. We enter the store to gasps of staff and customers--the mountain of stuff is taller than even the very tall Caden. We head to the back. For a second, I expect applause. There is none.
Almost an hour later, Caden, having to re-pack three back-packs into one HUGE industrial sized mega-box, and to insert two more, recycled boxes, into official Fed-Ex parcels, we are through. But Caden, still blushing each time Wendy makes a comment, has trouble ringing us up, and has to run the entire order, (re-weighed and calibrated each time, a total of three attempts) before he gets it finalyzed. (I don't care.) There is air conditioning. It is finished. This massive exodus that couldn't have been accomplished alone--even though I'd tried--now almost complete--thanks to this army of helpers sent to me from Somewhere Good.
It's a lot of money but it's a lot of Life I have crammed into those boxes. (Less than what I thought it might be, but worth every penny.) As we begin to leave, Caden assures me: "They'll arrive, probably by Monday."
Same day I arrive. (Amazing.) I get his Supervisor's number. I am thrilled. He blushes, one last time.
Now, Wendy and I head for Hollywood, for another end- of -days luncheon. We go someplace with cooled air and cooler drinks. We hash the years together--all that we've done and seen and learned and shared. We started out with me as her Teacher, but, as she approached adulthood, we grew into Friends. From the first: Family.We revisit wild back-packing trips in the Wild Places; her own run-away-to-hide-out forays; lovers and lost friends. We revisit our shared and solo adventures. Even if sometimes hard, it's all been very good.
After lunch, I ask if we can take a last trip to Whole Foods--less for nostalgia-- than for supplies for the next five days. (Wendy saw the frig with a pitcher of water left inside.) If I don't want to exist on take-out, this is my last trip for fresh fruit and veggies. She loves Whole Foods and, of course, there is air conditioning! So, through the Fairfax District and to the store we fly.
It is a wonderful environment, full of soft music, sweet smells, lovely air. I pick up cheese; sun-dried tomato tortas; green salad and rice wrapped veggie rolls; hummus; garlic-stuffed olives; pico de gallo; nectarines, blueberries, and enough iced-tea to float a pirate ship. I buy Wendy her first Goji Berries and some Blood Orange Spritzer, to remind her of Italy. Even with the bad jokes, too soon, it's time to head back.
Wendy asks if she can come back upstairs. I am surprised since it is so hot, and since there is never really a lull in traffic in Southern California freeways...but, of course. So, we enter the now ninety- degree- loft and collapse. She helps unload the treasure from Whole Foods. I tell her I have to take a quick shower... as cold as I can make it. She laughs, knowing me all too well, and proceeds to make some calls, while I excuse myself.
It strikes me, again, how it is so easy with our close friends--the simple acts of Life--a kind of grace.
When I get back, she's loaded up the printer, the reams of remaining paper, the ink cartridges--all gifts to her. The printers like new. (It hated me, though, and there's no love lost in passing it on.) Also the drums and guitar that will go home with her; the mermaid painting that was her wedding gift, from me. (It, alone, is four feet by four feet and will fill the back of the Volvo.)
But, before we start loading, we just sit on the loft floor, in front of the roaring fans. Sip iced-tea and Hawaiian Koffee Flower Soda; watch the sun-light distill across the walls.
I've had too few of these kinds of moments over the last five years; this is the quality I want back in my life.
"You know, Minns, if anybody else talked about you the way you talk about yourself, I'd slug them! You aren't old!" Wendy punches me playfully in the arm as I stand up, groaning, the knee still emitting protests.
"Talk to me when you hit fifty, girlfriend!" I hobble to the frig for more tea. (I have to remember where I packed the aspirin...)
By nine-thirty, it's time. Dark is around us, everywhere. She has parked at the end of the block and I'm sweating her un-permited status on the street. But, when I walk her to the car, there's no ticket--again!
"Must be the Pope-beads!" she shrugs.
We load the last chatchkes into the vehicle and slam the back. All packed. Looks like she's the one running. She gives me several tight hugs and a few more tears. She's all grown up.
It sinks in: this time, I'm flying away for reals.
I had a re-cycled, paper towel packing box already taped up. (Contents were mostly blazers and books--nothing breakable--all expendable.)Maybe I could just leave it? Did I really need this stuff? I flipped on a light and started sorting, again. My insomnia was part panic attack and part neurotic worry. I was leaving a non-traditional "California lifestyle", to head back to conservative NE, right before the cold weather. I needed the blazers...the books were another story.
I 'd already come to the decision to pack signed books, from friends-- I'd known a few poets in my time...I also kept copies of my own published work. In these times of e-book trade and Barnes and Noble bailing, who knows what may become valuable? If not for their contents, at least for their "object identities"...hmmm.
I steeled myself, assuring my Inner Neurotic, that surely, there were new books to be discovered, inside and outside. I assuaged my defeated writer by pulling three coats and tossing them into a black yard-bag. (I've been dreading bumping into myself,walking on the street, someone covered in my castaways...maybe it's too hot...) I know everything I've left beside the trash cans, in the black bags, has been thoroughly gone through and most stuff has been squirreled off. I've not seen anyone that could pass as my clone...though...so far...
Now, the problem was having to wait till BOX BROTHERS, the local store,opened. I don't know if it is the times or just the location, but my neighborhood (which currently supports four bars; two competing massage parlors; a range of fast food chains and half a dozen hair salons) also keeps a thriving packing supplies business in operation. (Meanwhile, Kinkos, UPS, Fed/Ex, three print shops, the Post Office are also on the same block.) Either there are more writers around here than I had realized, or everyone is leaving the city at this point.
I explained my dilemna,next morning, to the box guy. We both knew he had me: none of the aforementioned businesses give away boxes--let alone free boxes. (Can't even cajole a cantalope container from Trader Joe's, anymore.) We guesstimate the sizes--me by a lively pantomime using arms,legs and raised eyebrows--him by repeating the performance, to make sure we are agreed. Finally, four flat boxes emerge from the back. (I can barely wrangle them as I waddle into Wilshire.) Thank God it's still almost the break of dawn...
In the loft, I get everything taped for the End Times, and am finally ready to move out. Meanwhile, Wendy is coming, to help me cart the load, downstairs,to Fed/Ex.
I close my weary eyes and realize: it's gonna be a three digit scorcher of an afternoon. Ugh.
Two hours later, I hear my name being called from the street, below. Wendy is there, smiling, perky; in her shorts and flip-flops, clutching the new Italian leather purse she got on her trip, her Ray-Bans glistening in the sweltering light. I haul one of the black yard-bags behind me as I let her in. The emotion of her embrace is embarrassing. I didn't think it would be that big a deal for her to say good-bye. Plus, I look like Captain Hook, dragging a black plastic croc behind me... but a hug her back, hoping I'm not too sweaty...or emotional.
We go up to my place, stepping around the paper towel empty box in the hall, and Wendy smiles. She and her friend had moved me in, five years back, from OC to L.A., my lost truck hauling almost everything, their car picking up the remnants. It's a lot less stuff that's going East, this morning.
"I can't believe that's all of it!" Wendy puts her glasses back up on her bangs.
"Well, if it helps, they are really heavy..." I glance at the pile.
"Yeah, but, that's it? That's all?" Wendy bumps her flip flop against one of the boxes.
"Well...I sent some other stuff--new stuff--earlier, so, I'd have stuff waiting for me--in case this stuff is late--you know--underwear, a leather jacket...stuff..." I clear my throat.
"That's a plan..." Wendy grins.
She's known me for over two decades.
She knows: I usually have a back door plan.
Then, she turns to my lap-top. Her Italian Trip is already posted on Facebook!
We spend the next couple hours touring Italy. She has also brought back three rosaries: two of them blessed by the Pope, for my parents--one of them for me. "I thought you'd love this silver one--see--that's the Pope's face on the medal--"
"Wendy, it's so great you thought of me--and my parents--but, I think Dad would like the Pope's face--uhhh, if it's okay, I'll take the rosewood beads--" I carefully put the Pope back in the Roma gift bag.
"It's your call," Wendy shrugs, good naturedly. (I'm her only Catholic friend and all of this stuff mystifies her--even after her month in Italy.)
She also gives me this amazing, carved crystal and embellished with gold, cameo. Three woman's faces smile back. Three Muses,maybe. Or, Wendy and her wife, and me? It's unusually "girly" for my tastes, but, it is the perfect gift of valuable treasure--from Wendy. I give her another hug.
The temp is rising around us like a steam bath. It's time to move the boxes, before the tape starts to unstick. Wendy goes to see if she can double-park her Volvo in front. (Of course, I know she's not going find a spot out there---)Three minutes later, Wendy returns.
"I got a parking place, right out front!" she giggles.
I check the window: some act of God, or maybe a parking angel (the Pope?) has created the primo parking space in front of the building. I cannot believe the luck, but don't question it. Instead, pick up one of the seven bags. I grunt. My joints creak a warning.
Meanwhile, one hundred and ten pound Wendy, in her fit twenties, still, hoists the heaviest box and flip flops down the staircase, merrily conversing. (O how I've aged!) I follow.
In a surprisingly short time--we are in the car, circling the Fed/Ex building.
I have been scoping the Fed/Ex mega post for two months. I know the lay-out of the shipping department. I know the parking spaces outside the store. This isn't a mini-mall with lots of empty space--this is a main street, fronting an ex-department-store- from- the- '50's kinda space. If we don't get parking, out front, I don't know what we are going to do... Wendy spots an empty meter! (I had planned. I had saved my quarters AND taken my credit card. )All along Wilshire and the connecting environs, parking is so expensive and so short-lived, they allow the actual meters to take major credit cards. I hop out, pay for two hours--just in case--and leave Wendy, to guard the car.
Inside, the place is packed. Every department has a line. But, I must have looked like a crazed, middle-aged street person, sweated out, frantic, because suddenly, all the clerks were staring. I stayed in the doorway and called: shipping?
Four teen-aged Fed-Exers pointed to the back. I hobbled, knee audibly creaking, to the corner end of the store.
A kid named Caden, (his nameplate proudly pinned to his extra-long shirt) looked at me suspiciously, over his computer. "Be with ya in a minute," he mumbled, ringing another woman in front of me. I tried to smile, controlling my huffing and sweating, glad for the little break. Then,I gave Caden the facts. I needed a cart, I needed him. We had a mountain of heavy boxes to unload.
I could see he thought I was nuts and that maybe, maybe we had three boxes, max, at the curb. Crazy Lady. Probably Handicapped. (He wasn't pleased.)He had to leave the air conditioning and clean rugs of Fed Ex, for the doggie-doo and gum stained street. (I was wrecking his afternoon.) However, I was undeterred. (I had no choice.)
Caden followed me outside.
On the curb: Wendy, with the back of the Volvo upraised like a flag! With her Mighty Mouse, rock-climbing toned forearms, she has unloaded all the boxes by herself! (And, she looks adorable, still, barely a sweat trickle on her face!) Caden is immediately smitten. (Caden is challenged.) He springs forward, tripping on the cart, righting himself and pitching boxes. Then, he can't move the thing! Well, I am great on level ground...I push and Caden pulls and Wendy looks cute... behind us. We enter the store to gasps of staff and customers--the mountain of stuff is taller than even the very tall Caden. We head to the back. For a second, I expect applause. There is none.
Almost an hour later, Caden, having to re-pack three back-packs into one HUGE industrial sized mega-box, and to insert two more, recycled boxes, into official Fed-Ex parcels, we are through. But Caden, still blushing each time Wendy makes a comment, has trouble ringing us up, and has to run the entire order, (re-weighed and calibrated each time, a total of three attempts) before he gets it finalyzed. (I don't care.) There is air conditioning. It is finished. This massive exodus that couldn't have been accomplished alone--even though I'd tried--now almost complete--thanks to this army of helpers sent to me from Somewhere Good.
It's a lot of money but it's a lot of Life I have crammed into those boxes. (Less than what I thought it might be, but worth every penny.) As we begin to leave, Caden assures me: "They'll arrive, probably by Monday."
Same day I arrive. (Amazing.) I get his Supervisor's number. I am thrilled. He blushes, one last time.
Now, Wendy and I head for Hollywood, for another end- of -days luncheon. We go someplace with cooled air and cooler drinks. We hash the years together--all that we've done and seen and learned and shared. We started out with me as her Teacher, but, as she approached adulthood, we grew into Friends. From the first: Family.We revisit wild back-packing trips in the Wild Places; her own run-away-to-hide-out forays; lovers and lost friends. We revisit our shared and solo adventures. Even if sometimes hard, it's all been very good.
After lunch, I ask if we can take a last trip to Whole Foods--less for nostalgia-- than for supplies for the next five days. (Wendy saw the frig with a pitcher of water left inside.) If I don't want to exist on take-out, this is my last trip for fresh fruit and veggies. She loves Whole Foods and, of course, there is air conditioning! So, through the Fairfax District and to the store we fly.
It is a wonderful environment, full of soft music, sweet smells, lovely air. I pick up cheese; sun-dried tomato tortas; green salad and rice wrapped veggie rolls; hummus; garlic-stuffed olives; pico de gallo; nectarines, blueberries, and enough iced-tea to float a pirate ship. I buy Wendy her first Goji Berries and some Blood Orange Spritzer, to remind her of Italy. Even with the bad jokes, too soon, it's time to head back.
Wendy asks if she can come back upstairs. I am surprised since it is so hot, and since there is never really a lull in traffic in Southern California freeways...but, of course. So, we enter the now ninety- degree- loft and collapse. She helps unload the treasure from Whole Foods. I tell her I have to take a quick shower... as cold as I can make it. She laughs, knowing me all too well, and proceeds to make some calls, while I excuse myself.
It strikes me, again, how it is so easy with our close friends--the simple acts of Life--a kind of grace.
When I get back, she's loaded up the printer, the reams of remaining paper, the ink cartridges--all gifts to her. The printers like new. (It hated me, though, and there's no love lost in passing it on.) Also the drums and guitar that will go home with her; the mermaid painting that was her wedding gift, from me. (It, alone, is four feet by four feet and will fill the back of the Volvo.)
But, before we start loading, we just sit on the loft floor, in front of the roaring fans. Sip iced-tea and Hawaiian Koffee Flower Soda; watch the sun-light distill across the walls.
I've had too few of these kinds of moments over the last five years; this is the quality I want back in my life.
"You know, Minns, if anybody else talked about you the way you talk about yourself, I'd slug them! You aren't old!" Wendy punches me playfully in the arm as I stand up, groaning, the knee still emitting protests.
"Talk to me when you hit fifty, girlfriend!" I hobble to the frig for more tea. (I have to remember where I packed the aspirin...)
By nine-thirty, it's time. Dark is around us, everywhere. She has parked at the end of the block and I'm sweating her un-permited status on the street. But, when I walk her to the car, there's no ticket--again!
"Must be the Pope-beads!" she shrugs.
We load the last chatchkes into the vehicle and slam the back. All packed. Looks like she's the one running. She gives me several tight hugs and a few more tears. She's all grown up.
It sinks in: this time, I'm flying away for reals.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
NO MO' KEYS
What does it mean to suddenly find oneself without a single key?
One week from tomorrow, I will know. My apartment loft keys will be turned in; my post box keys will be surrendered; (the truck keys were given up last week.)
I have to figure out if I want to save the old keychain, or, when I finally own another key, shop for a new one...but for one, entire day, (most of it spent in the air), I will be keyless.
I cannot remember when I have been without some sort of key in my life--diary locks needed special miniature keys (even though they could be picked with a bobby-pin--as any girl from the sixties will tell you); my roller skates were dependent on a skate key (one shared by members of the family--sometimes even passed around to neighborhood friends if someone lost their own--and recently, such a childhood buddy mailed me a "found" authentic skate key--bent and rusty-- clearly well loved...now residing in a packed jewellery box, headed "home"...) There were keys, too, to bike locks and backdoors, all hoarded like treasure, protected just as fiercely. Earning the right to carry "enough keys" that they could be used as self-defense objects, was a matter of Junior High pride.
Later on, there were other keys: lost keys to forgotten sea-chests, left in the attic, inciting my imagination, providing fuel for my first fiction. Once, a nun in the second grade had a trunk filled with musical instruments, for her class. She lost the key and the class hadn't had their music time for months. Someone told her the myth that, "Maybe Minns can pick the lock with her scout knife!" Never backing down from a dare, I spent an entire afternoon, belly to linoleum, with several nuns, a few friends and my self-worth, sprawled in the dust. Yes, I had a Girl Scout knife. Yes, it could turn the tumblers. But it would not release the final catch. (I think Mr. Smith, the custodian, finally just took a hammer and chisel to the trunk.)
Then came the keys to my heart--usually lost in emotional swampland; sometimes given away--never to be returned. There were the invisible keys--opening doors that would get me "ahead", as my parents pointed out (usually if I did what was required while looking a certain way and sounding like I came from a certain part of town--all of which I mastered--for a while, until the mastering of those locked doors was too much and I had to find a different entry). Car keys came, but were given back, when I left for college. Then, a whole new keychain filled with dorm room keys, art studio keys and postal box locks--even a few professors' doors, along the way...Always, keys needing to be accounted for, kept track of, used wisely, and finally turned in.
Coming to Los Angeles, suddenly there were the keys to Adulthood to deal with. Different laws necessitated new keys; office doors, desk drawers, my first car, a motorcyle, houses shared with roomies who were always "lending their keys" to unknown parties--which caused new keys to be made, new locks to be installed; keys to places gained through social connections or political connections or simply because I'd earned the trust of someone "in charge"...so many keys...most never lost, just replaced...exchanged...disgarded.
As I examine the keys in my life, I begin to look a bit deeper: keys to the Kingdom; spiritual keys; keys to Enlightenment; keys to success; keys to career; keys to longevity; keys to Mindfulness; keys to Understanding; keys to Peace.
Now my search is focused on keys to unlock the hearts and minds of those closest to me and to whom I return ...the kind there is no keychain for.
One week from tomorrow, I will know. My apartment loft keys will be turned in; my post box keys will be surrendered; (the truck keys were given up last week.)
I have to figure out if I want to save the old keychain, or, when I finally own another key, shop for a new one...but for one, entire day, (most of it spent in the air), I will be keyless.
I cannot remember when I have been without some sort of key in my life--diary locks needed special miniature keys (even though they could be picked with a bobby-pin--as any girl from the sixties will tell you); my roller skates were dependent on a skate key (one shared by members of the family--sometimes even passed around to neighborhood friends if someone lost their own--and recently, such a childhood buddy mailed me a "found" authentic skate key--bent and rusty-- clearly well loved...now residing in a packed jewellery box, headed "home"...) There were keys, too, to bike locks and backdoors, all hoarded like treasure, protected just as fiercely. Earning the right to carry "enough keys" that they could be used as self-defense objects, was a matter of Junior High pride.
Later on, there were other keys: lost keys to forgotten sea-chests, left in the attic, inciting my imagination, providing fuel for my first fiction. Once, a nun in the second grade had a trunk filled with musical instruments, for her class. She lost the key and the class hadn't had their music time for months. Someone told her the myth that, "Maybe Minns can pick the lock with her scout knife!" Never backing down from a dare, I spent an entire afternoon, belly to linoleum, with several nuns, a few friends and my self-worth, sprawled in the dust. Yes, I had a Girl Scout knife. Yes, it could turn the tumblers. But it would not release the final catch. (I think Mr. Smith, the custodian, finally just took a hammer and chisel to the trunk.)
Then came the keys to my heart--usually lost in emotional swampland; sometimes given away--never to be returned. There were the invisible keys--opening doors that would get me "ahead", as my parents pointed out (usually if I did what was required while looking a certain way and sounding like I came from a certain part of town--all of which I mastered--for a while, until the mastering of those locked doors was too much and I had to find a different entry). Car keys came, but were given back, when I left for college. Then, a whole new keychain filled with dorm room keys, art studio keys and postal box locks--even a few professors' doors, along the way...Always, keys needing to be accounted for, kept track of, used wisely, and finally turned in.
Coming to Los Angeles, suddenly there were the keys to Adulthood to deal with. Different laws necessitated new keys; office doors, desk drawers, my first car, a motorcyle, houses shared with roomies who were always "lending their keys" to unknown parties--which caused new keys to be made, new locks to be installed; keys to places gained through social connections or political connections or simply because I'd earned the trust of someone "in charge"...so many keys...most never lost, just replaced...exchanged...disgarded.
As I examine the keys in my life, I begin to look a bit deeper: keys to the Kingdom; spiritual keys; keys to Enlightenment; keys to success; keys to career; keys to longevity; keys to Mindfulness; keys to Understanding; keys to Peace.
Now my search is focused on keys to unlock the hearts and minds of those closest to me and to whom I return ...the kind there is no keychain for.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
THE GHOST OF HOLLYWOOD PAST
When Mark told me that he wanted to have dinner, a last time in L.A., with me, I suggested something simple: Pinks, for hotdogs and tourista spotting; or Roscoes' Chicken and Waffles, up on Sunset Boulevard, to hang with the late night musicians and actors, while eating soul food that indeed, feeds the Soul. (Truth be told, most of my clothes are packed, (already) or tossed out, so the destroyed jeans left, are not presentable any place but the most funky.)
Mark drove up in his black pick-up--a Ford--in all other respects, the twin of my Nissan Frontier. The irony doesn't escape us, as he parks behind the Frontier, where Gus, its new owner, has decided to keep it. Mark shakes his head, feeling my separation pain,when he gets out of his own truck. He hugs me and asks, "Minns, where do you REALLY want to eat? What will you not have access to, when you get back to Gardner?"
I look at my torn jeans, hi-tops and black hoodie. I feel the knot in my stomach begin to tighten at this talk ... what I won't have any more access to....Mark sees me wince, then gently slugs me in the arm..."I know-- Mexican--REAL Mexican--let's go to Silverlake!"
Now, Mark and I have been buddies for five years. He's a trainer of therapists. We hit it off while working for GLASS. He's a MA man himself, around Fitchburg, actually, which is just minutes from my hometown. He is also exactly my age. His Swedish roots mirror my Norwegian side and our upbringings are decidedly familiar.
He came to L.A. when he was twenty-four. I came when I had just turned twenty-two. He came as an actor in training. I came as a writer in training. We both became activists in practice. He even lived in Silverlake much of the same time I had. How we never bumped into each other, I am not sure, but it took this second stint in the city of Angels for us to become friends. Now, in my last few days, he wants this "final cruise of the town". I'm game. Packing is a pain and dealing with any more "feelings" are just too much. I need to get out; to get moving; be with a friend.
So, off we go to the Mexican restaurant. When we pull into the parking lot, I suddenly realize, this is the first place I ever tasted mole! Imagine my surprise when we enter the diningroom and the only thing that has changed is the lighting. Food is great, and conversation is cool. It is easy to be with Mark, since we have pasts and presents that touch on the similar. He is my male twin in a lot of deep respects...a yin-yang kinda twin, though. At six feet, with a close beard and a thin build, nobody would draw that conclusion,if they were just looking at us, but, it's true.
Mark scarfs some kind of beef dish down and I'm wrestling with a taco and relleno. Too stuffed to make any quick moves, we shuffle to the parking lot. "I need gum..." I moan, picking my teeth sheepishly.
"Hold on!" Mark jumps into the front seat, pops up the armrest and reveals a stash of mint flavored dental floss. My hero! I note the depth of our friendship by the fact we can move to separate ends of the truck and floss. When we get back into the cab, we are minty fresh and sparkling.
"Where do you want to go?" Mark guns the engine, showing off his natural ability to back up in a tight, Hollywood parking lot, while spraying gravel and making patrons on the patio jump.
"I'm not sure," I shrug. I'm not. Hadn't planned on anything.
"I know--yogurt! Or, let's walk around and THEN get some frozen yogurt--okay?" He gets us into the sidestreet and pulls across neighborhood traffic, onto Sunset. We head for Sunset Junction, where Santa Monica Blvd. meets Sunset Blvd, in Silverlake-- now famous crossroads of several distinct cultures, which hosts one of the biggest street fairs in Los Angeles, every summer.
"Do you know, I was on the board that first started Sunset Junction? In the day," I smile, remembering the bickering gays, lesbians, artists, writers, Hispanics and Thai leaders of their respective communities, all shoved into a tiny, upstairs "office" over a florist. That was in the early eighties, when my hair was beginning to undergo it's day-glo color scheme and punk rock attitude. Now, the Sunset Junction is marked by a huge billboard, geographically anchoring the corner, and the fair attracts thousands of people.
"Those WERE the days, Minns..."
"Makes me feel old--and not necessary..." I sigh, still finding pieces of shredded beef between my back teeth.
"Well, we ARE old...but even if the twenty and thirty somethings don't know what to do with us, we are still necessary..." Mark winks in the head-lit cab.
We pop out on Sunset, in front of the ever-there Army Surplus Store. "Used to buy my Levis in that place, " I point out.
"Me too," Mark admits.
We stroll around the old neighborhood, noticing where the coffeehouse used to be that was THE place for weekend breakfasts--hangover cures and the place to "be seen" after a wicked Friday or Saturday night in the surrounding clubs. The bookstore is gone; so, too, the candle,soap and organic perfume shop.
In their places, four or five "Vintage Clothes" stores. We both laugh, pointing out that back in NE, what passes as "vintage" in L.A. is "just clothes":wool sweaters with sagging reindeer motifs; bomber jackets with sheepskin collars that look like the sheep had urinary infections before they were shorn; lots of bright plaids. A new music school inhabits what I remember as a florist shop. The waiting room is lit with that kind of 1950s hardware that is yellowed; the chairs and wooden desk the receptionist still sits at (9:00 p.m.) also reflects the era. A few teens with instrument cases lounge on the cracked, maroon leather couches. Surprisingly, even though the door is open to the street, no music can be heard...It is a scene deserving to be painted...and seems far from the Silverlake both Mark and I used to inhabit.
"Don't be sad, Minns. It changes. It goes on. We were here. Now we are moving, too," Mark nudges me in the shoulder. I sigh. We cross the street, headed back for the truck.
"Let me show you were I lived, once...Las Casitas...it looks like the set for Melrose Place!" Mark guns the engine and we turn back down Sunset, headed for Hollywood.
After many twists and turns that have me clutching the door handle AND remembering various side streets, we get to his old block. Amid run down two and three storey tenements, there is this gated garden where a cluster of stucco apartments cling. Wonderful trees and floodlights play, giving the place a sense of perfect Los Angeles lifestyle. Mark is right: Melrose Place lookalike. Complete with balconies and dramatic staircases. He tries the gates, but, as with everywhere these days, there is a security lock. All we can do is peer between the wrought iron bars, at what once was the core of his life. He met his partner, there, on one of those staircases, in an August not unlike the current one we drive through. I am touched by his desire to share this with me. I suddenly realize, it DOES MATTER, that I'm leaving...
"Now, I do need yogurt," Mark sighs as he climbs back into the vehicle. I agree. (Something cool and sweet is called for.)
Back west, down Beverly Boulevard, passing liquor stores where acid and pcp were sold out front in the "old days" , alongside neighborhood carnicerias and churches...all of them locked tight for the night, we race. Few people on the streets, just walking...The city shuts down earlier and earlier these days, even in this part of town. But, we keep driving; Mark giving me a last kalidescope tour. Soon, hitting the mainstream of traffic, we crawl closer to my own neighborhood, mid-city. "There's a yogurt place on La Brea," Mark says.
We find a parking spot, right out front. Pretty amazing, as the place is packed , both inside and spilling into the street tables. Then, I see it: directly in front of us, the license plate of the car has a Red Sox sticker attached. "Can you believe that?!" I point it out, excited and kind of shocked.
"What are the odds?" Mark laughs.
As we enter the shop, I see, parked to the left, a battered, black, VW Bug--like the first vehicle I ever owned--bought from a coven of witches in Venice, for two hundred dollars--the first month I came to L.A. (Again, what are the odds?)
I get coconut frozen yogurt. Seems like the perfect foible to the salty Mexican combinacion earlier. Mark orders neopolitan; reminding me of my childhood and Mom's always insisting that that was the only "fair flavor" for the family, since we all could have whatever we wanted.
We get an outside table. We slurp, happily, and watch the streaming traffic. "It could almost be NYC," Mark tells me.
"Or Boston--if the street was narrower--" I answer, not believing it. (Not really.) It is so fully L.A. Even the smell...all gas fumes, cigarette smoke from the hipster clientele around us and expensive perfume.
"Anyplace else you want to see?" Mark licks the last bit of yogurt from the pink spoon.
"Nope," I am honest.
"You worried about going back? What if you can't accomplish what you hope to, with your family? Don't get your expectations up," Mark says, not meeting my eyes.
"I just want to have a workable truce with sibs and make peace with my parents...I wish a huge publishing deal would happen while I'm there, just to give them some kind of assurance that I haven't wasted my life trying to be an artist..." I sigh.
"Seems reasonable...You are the second person I know that has had to make the decision to return to their childhood family, because of the economy, or aging parents...it's just too close...makes me realize...we are all on that edge..." Mark picks up our trash and tosses it into the aluminum can in one shot.
(He's an ex-jock, still.)
"Okay, then, let's go," I say, stretching and moving towards his truck. I can feel a natural closure surrounding us,coming down like the August fog.
The sounds of the gym, next door, mingle with the traffic sounds. We both watch as a series of muscle-bound men walk outside... we smile at each other; get into the cab.
"You know, Mark, it's like you are one of the ghosts of Christmas, come to fly me around the city and show me what I've forgotten, or didn't see...thanks," I touch his fuzzy arm.
"Cool," Mark grins. Then, pulling away from the curb, heads back down La Brea, and takes me home, one last time.
Mark drove up in his black pick-up--a Ford--in all other respects, the twin of my Nissan Frontier. The irony doesn't escape us, as he parks behind the Frontier, where Gus, its new owner, has decided to keep it. Mark shakes his head, feeling my separation pain,when he gets out of his own truck. He hugs me and asks, "Minns, where do you REALLY want to eat? What will you not have access to, when you get back to Gardner?"
I look at my torn jeans, hi-tops and black hoodie. I feel the knot in my stomach begin to tighten at this talk ... what I won't have any more access to....Mark sees me wince, then gently slugs me in the arm..."I know-- Mexican--REAL Mexican--let's go to Silverlake!"
Now, Mark and I have been buddies for five years. He's a trainer of therapists. We hit it off while working for GLASS. He's a MA man himself, around Fitchburg, actually, which is just minutes from my hometown. He is also exactly my age. His Swedish roots mirror my Norwegian side and our upbringings are decidedly familiar.
He came to L.A. when he was twenty-four. I came when I had just turned twenty-two. He came as an actor in training. I came as a writer in training. We both became activists in practice. He even lived in Silverlake much of the same time I had. How we never bumped into each other, I am not sure, but it took this second stint in the city of Angels for us to become friends. Now, in my last few days, he wants this "final cruise of the town". I'm game. Packing is a pain and dealing with any more "feelings" are just too much. I need to get out; to get moving; be with a friend.
So, off we go to the Mexican restaurant. When we pull into the parking lot, I suddenly realize, this is the first place I ever tasted mole! Imagine my surprise when we enter the diningroom and the only thing that has changed is the lighting. Food is great, and conversation is cool. It is easy to be with Mark, since we have pasts and presents that touch on the similar. He is my male twin in a lot of deep respects...a yin-yang kinda twin, though. At six feet, with a close beard and a thin build, nobody would draw that conclusion,if they were just looking at us, but, it's true.
Mark scarfs some kind of beef dish down and I'm wrestling with a taco and relleno. Too stuffed to make any quick moves, we shuffle to the parking lot. "I need gum..." I moan, picking my teeth sheepishly.
"Hold on!" Mark jumps into the front seat, pops up the armrest and reveals a stash of mint flavored dental floss. My hero! I note the depth of our friendship by the fact we can move to separate ends of the truck and floss. When we get back into the cab, we are minty fresh and sparkling.
"Where do you want to go?" Mark guns the engine, showing off his natural ability to back up in a tight, Hollywood parking lot, while spraying gravel and making patrons on the patio jump.
"I'm not sure," I shrug. I'm not. Hadn't planned on anything.
"I know--yogurt! Or, let's walk around and THEN get some frozen yogurt--okay?" He gets us into the sidestreet and pulls across neighborhood traffic, onto Sunset. We head for Sunset Junction, where Santa Monica Blvd. meets Sunset Blvd, in Silverlake-- now famous crossroads of several distinct cultures, which hosts one of the biggest street fairs in Los Angeles, every summer.
"Do you know, I was on the board that first started Sunset Junction? In the day," I smile, remembering the bickering gays, lesbians, artists, writers, Hispanics and Thai leaders of their respective communities, all shoved into a tiny, upstairs "office" over a florist. That was in the early eighties, when my hair was beginning to undergo it's day-glo color scheme and punk rock attitude. Now, the Sunset Junction is marked by a huge billboard, geographically anchoring the corner, and the fair attracts thousands of people.
"Those WERE the days, Minns..."
"Makes me feel old--and not necessary..." I sigh, still finding pieces of shredded beef between my back teeth.
"Well, we ARE old...but even if the twenty and thirty somethings don't know what to do with us, we are still necessary..." Mark winks in the head-lit cab.
We pop out on Sunset, in front of the ever-there Army Surplus Store. "Used to buy my Levis in that place, " I point out.
"Me too," Mark admits.
We stroll around the old neighborhood, noticing where the coffeehouse used to be that was THE place for weekend breakfasts--hangover cures and the place to "be seen" after a wicked Friday or Saturday night in the surrounding clubs. The bookstore is gone; so, too, the candle,soap and organic perfume shop.
In their places, four or five "Vintage Clothes" stores. We both laugh, pointing out that back in NE, what passes as "vintage" in L.A. is "just clothes":wool sweaters with sagging reindeer motifs; bomber jackets with sheepskin collars that look like the sheep had urinary infections before they were shorn; lots of bright plaids. A new music school inhabits what I remember as a florist shop. The waiting room is lit with that kind of 1950s hardware that is yellowed; the chairs and wooden desk the receptionist still sits at (9:00 p.m.) also reflects the era. A few teens with instrument cases lounge on the cracked, maroon leather couches. Surprisingly, even though the door is open to the street, no music can be heard...It is a scene deserving to be painted...and seems far from the Silverlake both Mark and I used to inhabit.
"Don't be sad, Minns. It changes. It goes on. We were here. Now we are moving, too," Mark nudges me in the shoulder. I sigh. We cross the street, headed back for the truck.
"Let me show you were I lived, once...Las Casitas...it looks like the set for Melrose Place!" Mark guns the engine and we turn back down Sunset, headed for Hollywood.
After many twists and turns that have me clutching the door handle AND remembering various side streets, we get to his old block. Amid run down two and three storey tenements, there is this gated garden where a cluster of stucco apartments cling. Wonderful trees and floodlights play, giving the place a sense of perfect Los Angeles lifestyle. Mark is right: Melrose Place lookalike. Complete with balconies and dramatic staircases. He tries the gates, but, as with everywhere these days, there is a security lock. All we can do is peer between the wrought iron bars, at what once was the core of his life. He met his partner, there, on one of those staircases, in an August not unlike the current one we drive through. I am touched by his desire to share this with me. I suddenly realize, it DOES MATTER, that I'm leaving...
"Now, I do need yogurt," Mark sighs as he climbs back into the vehicle. I agree. (Something cool and sweet is called for.)
Back west, down Beverly Boulevard, passing liquor stores where acid and pcp were sold out front in the "old days" , alongside neighborhood carnicerias and churches...all of them locked tight for the night, we race. Few people on the streets, just walking...The city shuts down earlier and earlier these days, even in this part of town. But, we keep driving; Mark giving me a last kalidescope tour. Soon, hitting the mainstream of traffic, we crawl closer to my own neighborhood, mid-city. "There's a yogurt place on La Brea," Mark says.
We find a parking spot, right out front. Pretty amazing, as the place is packed , both inside and spilling into the street tables. Then, I see it: directly in front of us, the license plate of the car has a Red Sox sticker attached. "Can you believe that?!" I point it out, excited and kind of shocked.
"What are the odds?" Mark laughs.
As we enter the shop, I see, parked to the left, a battered, black, VW Bug--like the first vehicle I ever owned--bought from a coven of witches in Venice, for two hundred dollars--the first month I came to L.A. (Again, what are the odds?)
I get coconut frozen yogurt. Seems like the perfect foible to the salty Mexican combinacion earlier. Mark orders neopolitan; reminding me of my childhood and Mom's always insisting that that was the only "fair flavor" for the family, since we all could have whatever we wanted.
We get an outside table. We slurp, happily, and watch the streaming traffic. "It could almost be NYC," Mark tells me.
"Or Boston--if the street was narrower--" I answer, not believing it. (Not really.) It is so fully L.A. Even the smell...all gas fumes, cigarette smoke from the hipster clientele around us and expensive perfume.
"Anyplace else you want to see?" Mark licks the last bit of yogurt from the pink spoon.
"Nope," I am honest.
"You worried about going back? What if you can't accomplish what you hope to, with your family? Don't get your expectations up," Mark says, not meeting my eyes.
"I just want to have a workable truce with sibs and make peace with my parents...I wish a huge publishing deal would happen while I'm there, just to give them some kind of assurance that I haven't wasted my life trying to be an artist..." I sigh.
"Seems reasonable...You are the second person I know that has had to make the decision to return to their childhood family, because of the economy, or aging parents...it's just too close...makes me realize...we are all on that edge..." Mark picks up our trash and tosses it into the aluminum can in one shot.
(He's an ex-jock, still.)
"Okay, then, let's go," I say, stretching and moving towards his truck. I can feel a natural closure surrounding us,coming down like the August fog.
The sounds of the gym, next door, mingle with the traffic sounds. We both watch as a series of muscle-bound men walk outside... we smile at each other; get into the cab.
"You know, Mark, it's like you are one of the ghosts of Christmas, come to fly me around the city and show me what I've forgotten, or didn't see...thanks," I touch his fuzzy arm.
"Cool," Mark grins. Then, pulling away from the curb, heads back down La Brea, and takes me home, one last time.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
IN THE ARMS OF ANGELS, PART DOS
The usual Department of Motor Vehicles that I do business at doesn't deal, anymore, with registration questions. So, my apointment for the transfer of the truck title takes me to the Formosa branch.
Now, Formosa is the street where the infamous Formosa Cafe still perches on the corner. It straddles Formosa and Santa Monica, where I once used to walk nights in the company of teen- aged hustlers and drug dealers. (That was my first foray into being a professional social worker/street counselor. I cannot even remember how many humid August nights, thirty years ago, were passed on that same block...now, my circling karma has me returning.) This time, not in a '59 VW Bug, but a '98 4x4 Nissan pickup. Instead of heading off for work, and leaving four room-mates, I'm selling my truck, heading back, to Boston...
The weird thing about the DMV office on Formosa is that it has only a long, narrow parking lot, where cars coming in and out must be regulated, single file, from the actual street. This halts traffic up and down Formosa--which the locals avoid--but for the rest of us, we must sit, patiently, until "flagged" inside. I enter the street the wrong way, pull a u-turn and take my place in the line. Finally, sweating the clock to appointment (if you are late, you have to re-schedule and begin on another day--no exceptions), I'm at the head of the line. An ancient, withered Black man, with silver and gold teeth, tells me to stop. I must wait for at least two more cars, at the other end of the skinny lot, to leave. I turn off the motor. He waves to folks going into the building. People tap him on the shoulder or give him a light hug as they pass. Everyone is greeted equally. I ask him how he keeps so "up"all day in the unrelenting sun and anxiety of the place. He grins, looking over his dark glasses, then asks:"Do you read your Bible ?"
I smile, sheepishly. "Actually, I do," I answer, knowing it's not the same kind of "reading" he probably does.
"Well, in Proverbs, it says, why be glum? Why be sad? Don't nothing good come out of being down. You gotta stay up. Stay happy. That's the only way good is gonna find you."
Just then, there's a break in the line. He moves me forward, tells me to simply turn the truck around and squeeze into this spot near the fence. I am worried. But before I even get the truck turned, a guy in a small foreign number cuts out of the line and zooms in, by the gate. Now, I have to make another awkward 360, amid pedestrians, new drivers pulling out, and the single file line-up. The elder walks over to my window. "Sorry--I didn't think he was gonna do that--just drive straight across the lot--the guy down there will help you park, in the alley--I just called him," he points to his radio set attached to the uniform. Then he gives me a huge, silver and gold, gap-toothed smile.
I feel the tears begin at the back of my throat. I carefully maneuver; nobody yells at me to hurry up. Nobody is even laughing at my wrestling with the manual steering on the big truck. I get down to the alley and this nineteen year old, shaved head, kid waves me in. It is even narrower, with cars parked along one side. I tell him I don't think I can get the truck between the two Toyota's he has pointed out. I expect a curse, or a disgusted grunt. Instead, he walks beside the truck, all the way down, and views the space. (It's going to be tight--we both know.)
I ask him if he wants to park it? He shakes his head, "I can't drive stick--I'm just learning," he smiles. He can see the truck's big and I'm short. "I'll walk you in," he smiles, again.
Between the two of us, and a constant stop and go while other cars inch their ways from the alley, we get the truck into the space. (I want to kiss the kid, but don't have time if I'm to make it to the appointment.) I run down the street, re-enter the lot, try one door, the another--both locked! A guy getting out of an "instructor"s car hollars and points to the side entrance. (I'm beginning to feel like a lab rat...sure someone is filming this...) Inside, it is loud as a bus station, complete with PA announcements and throngs of every age, color and size, all as confused as I am. I clutch my appointment paper, and the manilla envelope with all my other papers, sure that I'll have as much rigamarole to go through as I did over getting a permanent parking permit for the neighborhood.
A woman only a bit older than me, sitting at a fold-down table, sees me desperately looking for which line to enter. She motions for me to come over. I start to explain. She stops me. She looks at the bulging envelope. "Sweetie, show me watcha got..." she says.
I open the envelope and pull out everything from registration, insurance cards, smog checks, Lojack forms, bill of sale, etc. She doesn't blink an eye. She pulls out two pieces of paper, tells me what to do and says I don't even need to make the appointment--just fill them out and mail them in! She, too, is smiling calmly. She touches the back of my hand and winks.
My legs are trembling as I exit the building. So much adrenalin has pumped through my system, I feel light-headed. I am back at the truck in less than five minutes. I stop, at the entrance to the alley. I ask the kid for his name and supervisor. I tell him, with a big lump in my throat, how refreshing to have someone at the DMV show patience, a sense of compassion and humor--and not to make an idiot like me feel even more stupid than she already does as she tries to jump through all the hoops. He is polite, sweet, treating me like his auntie, I'm sure. I give a wave as I pull out of the alley and head, the right way, down Formosa.
Today, Gus came by with the check for the truck. I took him out to where I'd parked her. He noticed I'd gotten her washed. "I told you, you didn't have to do that!"
He kissed the keys I handed over--plus the title. I showed him the alarm system and the tools that came with the truck. "You know, I've always liked this truck, since you first came to the building. I'll take good care of her," Gus patted me on the back. He smiled.
I walked away, thanking the Great Spirit for all these people--folks who don't have to really be polite; who take abuse at every turn; whose job is to help usher the rest of us stressed, desperate idiots, through a system that has us all by the back of the neck--and who do it, with grace.
Giving up the best vehicle I've ever owned, in a city where you are often judged by what you drive, is more emotional than I ever knew it would be. I called that kid's Supervisor.
"Hey, I'm going fishing in Alaska, next week--I'll bring you back some salmon!" Gus called, as I walked back up the stairs.
Now, Formosa is the street where the infamous Formosa Cafe still perches on the corner. It straddles Formosa and Santa Monica, where I once used to walk nights in the company of teen- aged hustlers and drug dealers. (That was my first foray into being a professional social worker/street counselor. I cannot even remember how many humid August nights, thirty years ago, were passed on that same block...now, my circling karma has me returning.) This time, not in a '59 VW Bug, but a '98 4x4 Nissan pickup. Instead of heading off for work, and leaving four room-mates, I'm selling my truck, heading back, to Boston...
The weird thing about the DMV office on Formosa is that it has only a long, narrow parking lot, where cars coming in and out must be regulated, single file, from the actual street. This halts traffic up and down Formosa--which the locals avoid--but for the rest of us, we must sit, patiently, until "flagged" inside. I enter the street the wrong way, pull a u-turn and take my place in the line. Finally, sweating the clock to appointment (if you are late, you have to re-schedule and begin on another day--no exceptions), I'm at the head of the line. An ancient, withered Black man, with silver and gold teeth, tells me to stop. I must wait for at least two more cars, at the other end of the skinny lot, to leave. I turn off the motor. He waves to folks going into the building. People tap him on the shoulder or give him a light hug as they pass. Everyone is greeted equally. I ask him how he keeps so "up"all day in the unrelenting sun and anxiety of the place. He grins, looking over his dark glasses, then asks:"Do you read your Bible ?"
I smile, sheepishly. "Actually, I do," I answer, knowing it's not the same kind of "reading" he probably does.
"Well, in Proverbs, it says, why be glum? Why be sad? Don't nothing good come out of being down. You gotta stay up. Stay happy. That's the only way good is gonna find you."
Just then, there's a break in the line. He moves me forward, tells me to simply turn the truck around and squeeze into this spot near the fence. I am worried. But before I even get the truck turned, a guy in a small foreign number cuts out of the line and zooms in, by the gate. Now, I have to make another awkward 360, amid pedestrians, new drivers pulling out, and the single file line-up. The elder walks over to my window. "Sorry--I didn't think he was gonna do that--just drive straight across the lot--the guy down there will help you park, in the alley--I just called him," he points to his radio set attached to the uniform. Then he gives me a huge, silver and gold, gap-toothed smile.
I feel the tears begin at the back of my throat. I carefully maneuver; nobody yells at me to hurry up. Nobody is even laughing at my wrestling with the manual steering on the big truck. I get down to the alley and this nineteen year old, shaved head, kid waves me in. It is even narrower, with cars parked along one side. I tell him I don't think I can get the truck between the two Toyota's he has pointed out. I expect a curse, or a disgusted grunt. Instead, he walks beside the truck, all the way down, and views the space. (It's going to be tight--we both know.)
I ask him if he wants to park it? He shakes his head, "I can't drive stick--I'm just learning," he smiles. He can see the truck's big and I'm short. "I'll walk you in," he smiles, again.
Between the two of us, and a constant stop and go while other cars inch their ways from the alley, we get the truck into the space. (I want to kiss the kid, but don't have time if I'm to make it to the appointment.) I run down the street, re-enter the lot, try one door, the another--both locked! A guy getting out of an "instructor"s car hollars and points to the side entrance. (I'm beginning to feel like a lab rat...sure someone is filming this...) Inside, it is loud as a bus station, complete with PA announcements and throngs of every age, color and size, all as confused as I am. I clutch my appointment paper, and the manilla envelope with all my other papers, sure that I'll have as much rigamarole to go through as I did over getting a permanent parking permit for the neighborhood.
A woman only a bit older than me, sitting at a fold-down table, sees me desperately looking for which line to enter. She motions for me to come over. I start to explain. She stops me. She looks at the bulging envelope. "Sweetie, show me watcha got..." she says.
I open the envelope and pull out everything from registration, insurance cards, smog checks, Lojack forms, bill of sale, etc. She doesn't blink an eye. She pulls out two pieces of paper, tells me what to do and says I don't even need to make the appointment--just fill them out and mail them in! She, too, is smiling calmly. She touches the back of my hand and winks.
My legs are trembling as I exit the building. So much adrenalin has pumped through my system, I feel light-headed. I am back at the truck in less than five minutes. I stop, at the entrance to the alley. I ask the kid for his name and supervisor. I tell him, with a big lump in my throat, how refreshing to have someone at the DMV show patience, a sense of compassion and humor--and not to make an idiot like me feel even more stupid than she already does as she tries to jump through all the hoops. He is polite, sweet, treating me like his auntie, I'm sure. I give a wave as I pull out of the alley and head, the right way, down Formosa.
Today, Gus came by with the check for the truck. I took him out to where I'd parked her. He noticed I'd gotten her washed. "I told you, you didn't have to do that!"
He kissed the keys I handed over--plus the title. I showed him the alarm system and the tools that came with the truck. "You know, I've always liked this truck, since you first came to the building. I'll take good care of her," Gus patted me on the back. He smiled.
I walked away, thanking the Great Spirit for all these people--folks who don't have to really be polite; who take abuse at every turn; whose job is to help usher the rest of us stressed, desperate idiots, through a system that has us all by the back of the neck--and who do it, with grace.
Giving up the best vehicle I've ever owned, in a city where you are often judged by what you drive, is more emotional than I ever knew it would be. I called that kid's Supervisor.
"Hey, I'm going fishing in Alaska, next week--I'll bring you back some salmon!" Gus called, as I walked back up the stairs.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
ARMS OF THE ANGELS
Figuring out what one needs to survive for three more weeks in L.A....tomorrow I go to the DMV to straighten out the paperwork in order to divest myself of my '98 Nissan Frontier 4x4--my "good horse". (Scary to be without a personal vehicle in Los Angeles...however, karmically, it IS exactly how I landed here...minus my own set of wheels. ) So I will exit.
The loft is filled with about ten boxes, packed and taped and ready to be transported to Fed/EX, three blocks away. (A whole adult life condensed into ten medium sized boxes...) Of course,much has gone to friends; much left out for the dumpster divers in the neighborhood. (I'm not the only one...more residents in this building are clearing out, too. Someone left extra large cans of ravioli and vegetarian baked beans, intact, on top of the trash can lid--for the homeless combing through our junk. Made me sad. Reminded me why I need to get out of here...) Some things I've been asked for: the super put dibs on any art supplies I might be tossing--for his daughter. He also asked for a few of my paintings--I had to tell him that they are all spoken for. A few first edition books are finding new homes; the drums will be out of here by next week; so, too, my last guitar and the home-made dream catcher made for me by a fellow teacher (now a marine biologist in Texas). Each "lost" item carries a little twinge--like a loose tooth. (I can't stop playing with the pain.)
A friend told me that California,"Allows everything but supports nothing". She left OC with her husband, for a life in Georgia, teaching at a metaphysical school down there. Her husband died of cancer, not long after. She's still in Georgia, missing California weather and the beaches and her grandchildren, but not the hectic pace. Not the homeless hopelessness. She thinks it's a "wonderful and courageous move you are making, Minns". (I wonder.)
A friend from MA tells me she worries about my leaving my CA friends.."How painful it must be." I have shared with her that it IS the hardest. However, mathematically, my closest CA friends are spread throughout the state--some hundreds of miles away. The ones in L.A. are so busy with their partners and children that they have little time to "do stuff" anymore--at least on a regular basis. I miss the daily lunches and long conversations over coffee; but I don't miss spending the holidays going from rowdy party to rowdy party,trying to dull the ache of no family, near.
Unemployment has underlined these situations, for sure. That's a great portion of this decision to leave. However, my focus is on aging parents and healing hometown karma, while I still can. Having the gift of being able to make this decision, at this precise time, and not "leaving anyone" undone, as I fly away, is huge. I don't take it for granted--thus, I can't ignore it.
I think back on my friends--real friends--and I realize that I've had folks close, wherever I've landed, all my life. Now, they are scattered all over the world. That's what comes as one grows older. I have friends in Europe, in Africa, on both coasts of Canada, in San Francisco, in Santa Cruz, in Napa Valley, in Orange County, in San Diego, in the Canyonlands, in Mexico, in Chicago, in Buffalo, in Rochester and NYC, in Boston, in Vermont, in Connecticut, in Portland and Seattle, in Iowa and Maine, in Houston and Austin, on Cape Cod, in Georgia, in Denmark, in places too numerous to name. Somehow, thank God, in this era of telecommunications, they all feel as close as an e-mail, in the middle of the night. They all respond when called. They still consider me "close" and worth staying in contact with. Moving out of this decaying city, well, it won't change much of that.
Meanwhile, I move closer to childhood connections. Bruised and burnished with age. Vital and genuine. I move back to unhealed sibling rivalry with hopes of making amends for forgotten wrongs. I return to a town changed and changing. With new armor, new tools, maybe a new chance to give something back. My hope is that my luck will hold in the friend department. There are people that I will meet whom I've never known. So, even as saying good-bye to my California connections is the most painful part of deconstructing, part of me looks forward to the folks I haven't encountered, yet. I may be unlucky in romance, but have always held a royal flush when it comes to friends.
I tip my baseball cap, in this almost-empty loft, to everyone who dared to care or carry me; to all those I grew close to and offered my hand. It is so corny...like an astronaut taking a first walk outside the cabin....not exactly death...just...another adventure...another step into the unknown.
The loft is filled with about ten boxes, packed and taped and ready to be transported to Fed/EX, three blocks away. (A whole adult life condensed into ten medium sized boxes...) Of course,much has gone to friends; much left out for the dumpster divers in the neighborhood. (I'm not the only one...more residents in this building are clearing out, too. Someone left extra large cans of ravioli and vegetarian baked beans, intact, on top of the trash can lid--for the homeless combing through our junk. Made me sad. Reminded me why I need to get out of here...) Some things I've been asked for: the super put dibs on any art supplies I might be tossing--for his daughter. He also asked for a few of my paintings--I had to tell him that they are all spoken for. A few first edition books are finding new homes; the drums will be out of here by next week; so, too, my last guitar and the home-made dream catcher made for me by a fellow teacher (now a marine biologist in Texas). Each "lost" item carries a little twinge--like a loose tooth. (I can't stop playing with the pain.)
A friend told me that California,"Allows everything but supports nothing". She left OC with her husband, for a life in Georgia, teaching at a metaphysical school down there. Her husband died of cancer, not long after. She's still in Georgia, missing California weather and the beaches and her grandchildren, but not the hectic pace. Not the homeless hopelessness. She thinks it's a "wonderful and courageous move you are making, Minns". (I wonder.)
A friend from MA tells me she worries about my leaving my CA friends.."How painful it must be." I have shared with her that it IS the hardest. However, mathematically, my closest CA friends are spread throughout the state--some hundreds of miles away. The ones in L.A. are so busy with their partners and children that they have little time to "do stuff" anymore--at least on a regular basis. I miss the daily lunches and long conversations over coffee; but I don't miss spending the holidays going from rowdy party to rowdy party,trying to dull the ache of no family, near.
Unemployment has underlined these situations, for sure. That's a great portion of this decision to leave. However, my focus is on aging parents and healing hometown karma, while I still can. Having the gift of being able to make this decision, at this precise time, and not "leaving anyone" undone, as I fly away, is huge. I don't take it for granted--thus, I can't ignore it.
I think back on my friends--real friends--and I realize that I've had folks close, wherever I've landed, all my life. Now, they are scattered all over the world. That's what comes as one grows older. I have friends in Europe, in Africa, on both coasts of Canada, in San Francisco, in Santa Cruz, in Napa Valley, in Orange County, in San Diego, in the Canyonlands, in Mexico, in Chicago, in Buffalo, in Rochester and NYC, in Boston, in Vermont, in Connecticut, in Portland and Seattle, in Iowa and Maine, in Houston and Austin, on Cape Cod, in Georgia, in Denmark, in places too numerous to name. Somehow, thank God, in this era of telecommunications, they all feel as close as an e-mail, in the middle of the night. They all respond when called. They still consider me "close" and worth staying in contact with. Moving out of this decaying city, well, it won't change much of that.
Meanwhile, I move closer to childhood connections. Bruised and burnished with age. Vital and genuine. I move back to unhealed sibling rivalry with hopes of making amends for forgotten wrongs. I return to a town changed and changing. With new armor, new tools, maybe a new chance to give something back. My hope is that my luck will hold in the friend department. There are people that I will meet whom I've never known. So, even as saying good-bye to my California connections is the most painful part of deconstructing, part of me looks forward to the folks I haven't encountered, yet. I may be unlucky in romance, but have always held a royal flush when it comes to friends.
I tip my baseball cap, in this almost-empty loft, to everyone who dared to care or carry me; to all those I grew close to and offered my hand. It is so corny...like an astronaut taking a first walk outside the cabin....not exactly death...just...another adventure...another step into the unknown.
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