The Silverlake Era Part Three--Evacuation

The Silverlake Era Part Three—Evacuation

                The “LSAT Prep” section contains a brief version of this chapter, which I do not hope will be much longer, but certain things were worth mentioning.  I decided to leave L.A.  Last week, it was -17 degrees Fahrenheit on Friday in Chicago.  At the same time, it was 85 degrees in Los Angeles.  I may have been going broke in L.A., but every day I think about how much better I had it when I was on my own, and living my own life, totally responsible for everything myself.  The only things that really sucked about it were needing to do my own laundry at the Laundromat and having a really shitty kitchen in a really tiny apartment.  I did not live very well, but I did not live all that badly, either.  Money was very tight, and if I had been more creative, more enterprising, I might have found a way to make more, and to be comfortable in my situation.  I do regret leaving L.A.  I thought I needed to at the time, because I felt so very alone, and the permanent situation appeared too daunting to contemplate.  But after several months of supposedly “saving up” in Chicago, I still only have a couple more thousand dollars saved up than I had in L.A., and my personal freedom is in a truly regrettable state. 

                I planned my evacuation around August 8 or so, told my boss that August 21 would be my last day, and left on August 27 or around then.  I started shipping my stuff home via UPS, and did not take advantage of the “media mail,” which my friend Justyn told me about, as he is leaving Arizona soon.  I don’t know if I ever talked about Justyn coming from Arizona to L.A. to visit one weekend, but that was the last good time I had there.  We went to a Malibu beach on a Saturday early afternoon, and that was especially nice.  We watched Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, and I had just purchased what would end up being my last eighth from Apothecary 420, one of the better dispensaries I ever found, too late, I suppose, and too expensive.  $60 went a much longer way in terms of buying food for a week rather than buying weed for a week.  In a perfect world (one in which I have lived before) I have enough income to be comfortable with both of those goods.  Food may be a basic need, but pot is the element which can make an unhappy life suddenly appear very wonderful.  It is worth noting, however, that it is better appreciated, and experienced, under a pretext of being used sparingly.  When I would smoke 4 times a day, it came as part of a routine, and lost its allure.  Some effects were still present, but when you get to be the kind of pothead that barely knows what it feels like not to be stoned, then you have crossed into the realm of “drug addict,” though many people will contend that being a “pothead” or a “stoner” is different from being a “meth addict” or an “alcoholic” or a “heroin addict.”  Yes, it may be less alarming, certainly, but it has moved into the realm of an addiction at that point, I say, as one who has experience in that regard.  That is not to say that I don’t want my own one bedroom apartment and a new glass bong and an ounce of really good stuff, but I just have a problem thinking about money that way now.  Justyn’s visit occurred near the end of July, and the next week he experienced an “extreme DUI” which debilitated him for his time in AZ.  Nothing so bad happened to me, but I remember being in Griffith Park for the first time when he told me about it, and feeling very pleasant and connected to nature despite my own dwindling time in that city.

                What was truly sad were the last few days.  Greg, a friend from college, and his girlfriend Maggie came to visit L.A., and to stay with Sycamore and Molly, and also at a small hotel/subletted apartment, for about a week.  They were visiting L.A. because they were touring possible places to live.  They were supposed to move in December so they should be there now, but I’m not sure.  I always felt comfortable and at ease and interested in Greg’s presence, and Maggie was a very charming girl.  They had been living in Asheville, NC, where my car hit the 400 mile mark on one tank (did I mention that earlier?  Also worth noting is that I hit that 400 mile mark upon my return to Chicago in very early September.) and where Greg had worked as a distributor of goods.  Sycamore and he had gone to Farmacy to get a quarter of stuff and I sat in the apartment with Molly and Maggie and had a pleasant conversation.  Then they returned, and we smoked, and it had been a while since I had, and it was very nice, and we decided we would go to dinner at this Indian restaurant in Silverlake.

                But it was closed.  So we went to a “Mexican” restaurant that was only serving Tapas and had some sangria and small snacks.  I spent way too much money there.  This was three or four days before I was going to leave.  Most of my stuff had been sold or sent home.  I was selling my bed to Kazuki, the Japanese girl that would be taking my place at 858 N. LaFayette Park Place #9.  I don’t think I mentioned my day of putting my apartment on craigslist and contending with the interest and finally having an open house for everyone—but that would be crazy to get into.  Needless to say that was an interesting day, having seen Pineapple Express the night before with Sycamore and Molly, and having been given a little nug by Sycamore to smoke before and after the day of the open house, even though I would just be sitting there, reading.  Basically, we spent way too much money out, but we saw the Elliott Smith wall there, and I told Greg and Maggie that of all the neighborhoods to move to in L.A., Silverlake was both the coolest and the least expensive.  I was hoping that they would take my place there so at least one NYU alum would remain under the auspices of that magical little town.

                The next night we went to a different Indian restaurant off of Vermont Ave., also not far from Silverlake, and where I also spent too much money.  This was my last night in L.A.  Afterwards we tried to go to the bar they go to in Swingers, where they have those two jazz musicians who play every night, whose names escape me at the moment, but they are very famous, and so I felt like everyone in that bar was just trying to pretend that they were in their own private version of Swingers, and I did hear one group at a table say something like, “And then when he gets his movie deal, we can all ask him for jobs!” This was a bittersweet evening.  My car was fully packed.  I had spent the whole day packing it, and making my final preparations.  I had given away my futon, my bar table, my end table, and my bookcase for free to a young couple that had recently moved in together and had no furniture and were Latinos quite found of various piercings.  They were somewhat intimidating but they were very appreciative of all this free stuff and it felt very good to be that kind of person for someone.  Giving it away felt a lot better than selling it.  But we tried to go into that bar, and we realized it was too crowded, and it appeared that Maggie didn’t really want to hang out there, and I know I didn’t, so luckily we just went back to our cars and our homes.  Saying goodbye to Sycamore and Molly was very difficult.  I hugged them both, and Sycamore in particular gave me a very long, very bracing hug—he always hugged me more violently than any other person I’ve ever known—that practically made me want to cry for its bittersweet finality.  I have not been close to crying at any other point during farewells, but this particular farewell hit me in a place that was quite primal.

                I was reading Crossing California at the time—the beginning of it, anyway—and I went to bed shortly after returning home.  The next morning I woke up reasonably early, packed the last few things into my car (my comforter, my iPod boombox, my various clothes and toiletries bags), locked my apartment a final time, got in my car and headed for the 1-10 E. 

                A few hours later I was outside of California, nearing Nevada, approaching Las Vegas, and I had that aforementioned long traffic jam, and thoughts of calling Laura, which I still regret not doing.  After Las Vegas and Nevada came Utah, and I had many doubts about where I would stop for the night in Utah.  St. George and Hurricane were boring, and I fortunately decided on Cedar City, because that was a great little town.  I had an excellent time there that night, staying in an America’s Best Value Inn for $39, going for a swim in their pool and a dip in their (admittedly lukewarm) Jacuzzi, having a brief conversation with a little girl in the pool area, who asked where I was from and I told her L.A., going to a pizza place for a very reasonably priced meal of pizza and wings, bringing it back to the hotel room, watching the Democratic National Convention for Joe Biden’s acceptance speech, drinking Jack and Cokes, finally watching The Defiant Ones on TCM that evening. 

                Then the next day I made it to Boulder pretty late—around 9:00 PM—and would stay there for several days and do work for NRDC—transcription of various interviews conducted for a film.  I saw the Allman Brothers Band play at Red Rocks, and I went to a Labor Day party at one of my sister’s friends houses, and told them that I had written a book about a kid who cut himself.  I felt welcome there and not uncomfortable, and free to get a good buzz on, which was rare at my sister’s house, as she did not keep excess alcohol, nor excess food.  A few days later I left and headed for Omaha.

                There was a great moment on my home stretch into Omaha where I played the Desaparacidoes album Read Music/Speak Spanish and blasted “Greater Omaha” as I neared the exit I would take.  I foolishly did not research room rates there before I left and, trying to find the cheapest place, ended up staying at a Super 8 Motel, which ended up costing me some $79, which I found exorbitant.  And it wasn’t even technically in Omaha—it was in Carter Lake, IA, near the city’s airport.  I got over this relatively quickly and planned to go swimming, which I did, and went into the Jacuzzi.  There was a family in there forever, so I kept swimming for as long as I could stand it, until they finally got out and I could go in on my own and not be bothered and not risk making things awkward for them, though I am sure that Midwestern people in general are more friendly in those sort of situations than I give them credit for.  I swam for a while and then ordered a Domino’s Pizza and wings, which was not reasonably priced, which ended up costing me $30 and which was a huge gorging by me, but it was nice because there was a Cubs game on TV and though they ended up losing, it was very nice to see Soriano hit a home run.  I ended up watching The Apartment on TCM, while working on a handwritten letter to my friend Emily, while getting drunk, at one point going outside in the parking lot to smoke a vaguely unsatisfying cigarette.  I remember mentioning that Shirley Maclaine looked like a perfect mix of Ashleigh and Wendy in that movie, which made me sad to reflect upon. 

                As is so sad with one-night-stays at hotels, just when you are starting to have fun it is all over, and so the next day I left relatively early, again, and headed for Chicago.  I made it there around 7:00 or so.  That was the end of my California experience.  Sarah Palin made her acceptance speech that night.  A couple months later Barack Obama would be elected President.  Tomorrow, January 20^th, he will be inaugurated (today is MLK Day and I have decided to utilize my option of taking the day off).  Not much more than a month later the Cubs would choke in the playoffs for the second year in a row against the team I prayed they would face because I would want so bad to see them in person—a rejuvenated L.A. Dodgers complete with Manny Ramirez.  Some three and a half months later I would go back to New York and experience the events that make up the story “Vocational Dilemma” (if it will ever be completed).  Some two months later I also started working on this book, for NaNoWriMo, and how it has grown by 10,000 words plus since the end of that November month.  I have not worked on this as diligently as I did before but it is still of a formidable length.  Some four and a half months plus later, I currently recline on my bed, with pillows as lumbar support, my laptop on a raised tray table, my sister turning 24 today, about to call her to wish her a happy birthday, not much less than eleven months after the experience of the final chapter, which is nothing special, really, just a vacation of the sort that I wish happened more often.