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.