Tag Archives: downtown

“I’ll Be Home for Christmas…” I think.

It started with a text:

“Bring warm clothes.  It is f…ing COLD outside and inside.”

Thanks, motha.

No more excuses could be fabricated for my resistance to visit her part of Cali; and unlike most children, I hadn’t fantasized about “getting out of LA” — for my sanity’s sake — and going “home”, since… well, never.  Home had to be wherever the fuck I landed, for at least two decades of my life now.  I hadn’t even let myself the martyrdom shtick since 1994.  It’s just the way our family’s shit sorted itself out.  So be it, eh?

Besides, each on their own, my old folks were kinda rad:  funny and very specific.  And as far as their parental duties were concerned, they had already done one hell of a job considering my Motha’land’s continuous turmoil.

This year, though, after missing all the major holidays in the last six months AND with my plans to avoid my daughterly obligations to visit for Christmas, motha’s birthday could NOT be missed.  Well…  Actually, it could.  And it was.  I had delayed my visit by nearly a week, but bargained that, on my visit, I would deliver a few make-up gifts.  And take her out to dinner.  And bring Starbucks.

So, there I was:  Waking up early, after pulling my chronic, city-livin’ all-nighter, and immediately checking my iPhone for work emails.  Anything to delay the reality of having to get out of bed and getting my ass rolling on the 10-East.  Not once, not twice, but half a dozen times I touched base with my boss, in the morning.  Look at me:  All diligent and nearly altruistic, just mere weeks before bloody Christmas!  While washing up — thirty minutes before my originally scheduled departure time — I missed a call from motha:

“Verra!  Call me vhen you starrt drrivingg.”

Okay, motha.  Will do.

But you know what I hadn’t done today yet?  Yoga!  I’d have to do that before I leave, because my centered self drove much better through every clusterfuck related to other people’s season of hysterical shopping.  So, I did that.

Ooh, and you know what else?  I’d better wash my car too.

In the bathroom of the carwash, another missed phone call from motha lit up my phone screen.

“I’m on my way,” I lied via a text:  My ride wasn’t even getting soaped yet.  “I can be there anywhere between 1:30 and 2:00.”  (Had I noticed:  The case of my unrealistic expectations from the clocks and the traffic of LA-LA had been getting worse?!)

In another thirty minutes, I finally climbed up — then down — onto 10 East.

“DOWNTOWN 12 MINUTES” — the first sign promised.

“I suppose I could still make it by my promised deadline,” a glimpse of hope inspired me to turn on some Christmas music.  “Hey, this ain’t so bad!” I thought and attempted to whistle along.  (I don’t know how to whistle, actually, so I was more like hissing along. Yeah.  I hissed along.)

Culver and Century City zipped by me.  (Or was it in the opposite order?  I had always confused the two.)  Downtown came up on me, in all of its newly built glory, in ten minutes.  Gorgeous!  Completely white and silver, it glistened in the sun.  I checked my car’s thermometer.  Sixty six degrees?  Really?  ‘Cause inside the greenhouse underneath my sunroof, it’s feeling closer to seventy two.  And, as instructed, I was now carrying only sweaters in my suitcase.

I rolled down the windows.  No, wait!  Too much wind.  I just washed my hair and it was doing its Medusa-in-a-Horrid-Mood routine.  With just the passenger window down, though, the car began sounding like a jet plane in the midst of a turbulent take-off.  Plus the smell of dust and endless construction smacked me out of my mood.  With one whack of my fist, I turned off the jolly tune on the radio station.

Too early for Christmas, after all!  Christmas was for other people, and their children heading “home”.

But I — was a busy working girl, wedging in some premature festivities into her life, and mostly out of guilt.

Scarlett Johansson fpr Vanity Fair

The orange diamonds of construction signs were sure to come up in a few minutes and right around the dodgy part of LA-LA, I noticed I was low on gas.

“Shit.  Shoulda done that last night!”

It’s the worst habit of mine:  Procrastinating with gas by thinking that there would be more hours in the next day of LA-LA.  I examined the eroded walls of abandoned warehouses on the side of the freeway and chipping road signs, mostly in Spanish, and decided to see how long my tank would last.

The traffic wasn’t really crawling yet, but I could see a corridor of break lights for at least quarter of a mile ahead of me.  Might be a while, but as we say in the Motha’land, “Whoever doesn’t risk — doesn’t get to drink champagne!”

The itch of my badass-ness needed some background music, so I smacked the radio again.

“Blame it on the ah, ah-ah-ah, ah-alcohol,” the new station blasted.  That’ll do for now.

The merger to continue onto the 10-East looped around the graffitied walls, arid lawns and long dead flowerbeds.  With one-eighth of my gas tank, I was speeding and leaving the City — exhausted by traffic, lack of time and money, never-ending construction and unrealistic expectations of its dreamers — behind.

(To Be Continued.)

“I’m Sittin’ in the Railway Station, Got a Ticket for My Destination. Mmm…”

“And where are you driving from?”

“Um…  Los Angeles?” I said and somehow felt an immediate need to apologize.

“Ow.  I’m so sorry,” he responded.

I looked at his squinting eyes:  This one was meaning well, I think.  His skin was brown and eroded by the exposure to the sun and to the demands of manual labor.  And at the same time, I knew that there was peace in the simplicity of his survival needs.

A cowboy hat with tattered straw edges covered his hairline, but judging by the streaks of gray in his eyebrows, his head was most likely silver haired.  Against the darkness of the skin, his baby-blue eyes stood out and promised me that I was talking to a good one.  I quickly permitted for a flash of memory of my own old man — (What would he look like, now?) — and I decided that this one had to be meaning well.

“She ain’t so bad,” I said.  I shook my head and smiled from underneath my own embarrassment on behalf of the City that everyone was so willing to leave.  The moderately pleasant woman handing me my smoothie from behind the counter looked sideways at the cowboy, then at me.

So, I reiterated to them both:  “No, really.  She ain’t so bad.”

The night before I fled Her city limits, I took a risk and climbed up onto the 10 East.  I was initially going to zoom through side streets, out of habit, while circumventing the intersecting onramps and the already buzzing malls.  But when nearing a freeway underpass, I noticed the dashing by of traffic headlights.  The cars were moving for a change, and so I took a risk.

At first, my path had to be negotiated with an impatient female driver of some Japanese-made SUV on her way to the Valley:  She demanded her right of way toward the 405 merger by scowling and widening of her heavily made-up eyes at me, through her tinted, rolled-up windows.

“I’m not the one driving with an iPhone glued to her ear,” I thought, and motioned for her to pass.

She zoomed in front of me, honked in a departing act of her aggression, then stepped on it.

“Yeah. You, too!” I muttered in response.  “You fuckin’…”

My navigation of the remaining six miles, however, lacked in adventures.  In silence, I calmed down.

The cars were moving, and for the first time, I noticed the clearness of the night.  It had been raining for a day and a half, and the asphalt in my lane was black and glistening.  On the North side of the freeway, in the crisp, clear air I noticed the square skyscrapers, all lit up in silver.  Is that Downtown?  Nope, too soon for that.

I rolled down my windows.  The air was crisp.  The City was quiet.  She smelled like sweating piles of leaves, pine sap and chimneys.  The hellish pace of the looming holidays was coming upon us; and with the exception of the City’s newcomers, flooding her with their yet un-jaded dreams, Her every resident would begin to plot escape routes.

“She ain’t so bad,” I thought, that night.

I was, however, already that someone who’d preplanned her routes out of the City.  To stick around would either turn out painfully lonely or exhaustingly disappointing.

And so, a day before the year’s first giant migration would begin, I drove out.  At first, my way had to be negotiated along the loop of the 405 merger.  But on the next Northbound freeway and for at least two hundred miles, the traffic would begin to move.

I studied the faces of the other drivers.  The further North I drove, the more relaxed the others would appear.  The permanent tension between my eyebrows softened, and I would talk myself out of my repertory of glares and profanity.

A gray-haired couple, cooped up inside their vintage Volvo hatchback along my ride through Santa Barbara, wasn’t talking.  But in their intimate silence, they seemed to be conspiring against the world.  A college-age girl in a white Honda with writing on its side window kept fiddling with her radio.  Had she forgotten the tensions at the Thanksgiving table of last year, or was she born to parents who loved her unconditionally?

Couples with strapped-in children in the backseats seemed talkative as they discussed the lengths of their future stays at each other’s in-laws.  The brown faces of Mexican workers seemed fancy free no matter the content of their weathered trucks:  Some could be working in the vineyards, others — driving to the wealthy ‘hoods of Cambria and Morro Bay.  The eyes of truck drivers appeared tired but content:  Migrating through the country always promised an escape from obligations and other people’s stress.

I realized that other travelers kept their eyes on their destinations.  They drove to:  To places and addresses of their beloveds.  To me, however, my from — was what propelled me:

From Her — I’ve learned to get away.  From Her — I’ve learned to leave and somehow learn while leaving.  But the more froms I would accumulate, the more often I found myself thinking, “She ain’t so bad” — when heading back.