all apologies - melrose avenue.
from "all apologies: the beginning of the end in the 1990s" - a novel in progress.
I grab my bag and bolt for the door,
“I’m going to Cat’s, I’ll be back later,”
slamming it shut on the chance he’ll have to say anything in response.
Turn the key, depress the gas pedal just so. And there it is. That familiar Volkswagen engine sound. The sound of freedom. I always love driving to Cat Madigan’s house, eight miles away, in Whittier - stirring up that feeling inside, that indescribable bliss that floats in my belly, that makes me turn up the Kenwood. I’m fucking free. I could take the freeway. I’d choose the street over it any day, though. I will almost always take the long way, if only to savor my journey away just a little bit longer. The drive itself is unremarkable. Scenery-wise, just like the rest of the Gabriel - suburban, quasi-industrial flatlands, strip malls among the remnants of orange groves. Oh, you didn’t know? Before there were cities here, there were orange groves. As far as the eye can see. Orange groves. All of greater Los Angeles was orange groves, as people around here take pride in pointing out.
The streets between us run flat at first, through and out of Downey, east on Telegraph, past strips of restaurants and store fronts. Then over the San Gabriel river and under the 605 freeway, a couple more miles out, past industrial parks and under the train tracks in Santa Fe Springs. This is the spot where I hit the gas as the road dips down there, making me feel like I’m flying up from the top. I ride that momentum as I make the left past the relic - what I think used to be some factory or refinery, open air, left rusted into a decrepit metal shanty, looking now like something put together over a weekend by ten dudes, their labor paid for in beer. Wild to think that people used to work there. Something about the place, though, always sets my mind off, imagining, like, a sick action sequence in a movie or something. I know I’ll write about that place someday.
I do that a lot, imagine things, let myself get caught up in thinking something up. One of my favorite things to do on the freeway is to pick a car in front of me. Something I can recognize by the taillights. Then I’ll dream up some story, some reason to follow them. And don’t think for a second that I’ve ever played a cop. And then I will. You know, tail them, following their lane changes and hanging just far enough back to avoid arousing suspicion. I guess I should be careful about doing that all the time, now that I’m thinking about it. Could be setting myself up for a roomful of trouble.
I’ve got the windows and wings rolled down and swung open, sounds of Jellyfish tickling my ears like the wind does my skin. I fucking love my car. I think I'd mentioned before she’s a Super Beetle, ’73. Same year as me, which makes me love her even more. I had the paint and upholstery done a while back. With this pissant settlement that I got from this lame hit and run. Some old man hit me as I walked a crosswalk and drove off and left me laying in the gutter in the pouring rain. This couple had seen the whole thing, went after him, and got his license plate number. Harry settled the thing for two grand. I guess it wasn’t so pissant, though, cause I got the Kenwood with that money, too. She used to be this sort of faded yellow, my Bug did. At least I think it was faded. Maybe they meant it to look that way, I don’t know. Whatever, she’s blue now. This beautiful, deep, dark blue. Got it done at the One Day Paint and Body. And then I had the upholstery and headliner done in black. Harry warned me against it, went on and on and on about how it would be so hot in the summer. But, fuck him, it looks better than that ugly cream color it was before. The coolest part, though, is the seat part of the seats. Black, too. Velour, I think. But with tiny flecks of color that, when you step back, can see is a rainbow. It looks fucking cool against the black like that. You really have to see it. And, of course, my stereo sounds fucking fantastic.
I pull up in front of Cat’s house, pop in, say hi to her folks. Her dad works doing some computer thing, I don’t know. He’s super nerdy with this, like, super dry sense of humor that I never really got until I started watching Late Night with David Letterman. Which he turned me on to, by the way. Her mom’s, like, the opposite. Almost innocent, in a way. She’s the school secretary at St. Francis. That’s how Cat and I met. I was in fourth grade and Cat was in third. On a rainy Saturday, painting the classroom walls. No idea why her mom was there, Harry would do stuff like that, though, for a break on my tuition. We hung out together while our parents painted the school and we’ve been friends ever since.
You’d never know we were Catholic school kids by the look of us now, though. I gotta give Cat all the credit for that. As well I should. I have no idea what I’m doing with this shit sometimes, I swear. I’ve felt better about it lately, though. It really helped when I stopped approaching the whole style thing like a girl.
“I’m so fucking glad our creepers don’t match.”
She always bursts out of her room when I pick her up, Cat does. I have no idea why but it really makes me wonder what the heck she’s even doing in there. I won’t say she’s goth. More punk, though I’m really not an expert on this shit, like I said before. Her hair is cut short, kind of a bob, and two clipped underneath. She makes a lot of her clothes, most all of it with at least a couple of safety pins here and there. She’s small. Shorter than I am and thin.
“Cat, language,” her mother says. It’s touching in a way, I guess.
“Oh, my God. Mother, please.”
“Simmer down, there. And be home in time for dinner.”
“Of course, dad. Later guys!”
Turn a left into the lot.
“…You coming?”
“I still have not figured out why you feel it takes both of us to do this, but okay.”
“Pill.”
“Like, two people, by their very nature, attract more attention than one.”
“Shut up.”
In a matter of seconds, it seems, all of her coins are in, a buck and a quarter, stealth-like she pulls the knob, the pack drops, and we’re out. I still do not get how she does it so fast. Fucking talent. She hands me a smoke that I light as we walk the lot back to the car.
“What would Sister Mary Margaret say?”
“Sister Mary Margaret. So fucking typical.”
“What DO you think she’d say?”
“I doubt she’d be surprised, in my case. Pretty sure she saw me come out of the liquor store next to McDonald’s one time.”
Left again out of the lot. She takes a long drag, exhales with her head leaned back,
"I saw her the other day. Did I tell you?”
“And that would be?”
“Oh, my God, Sister Mary Margaret, dummy. Yearly staff luncheon slash reunion.”
“Yeah? And how did that go?”
“She looked at me like I’ve fucking lost my mind.”
“Okay, well, to be fair, they think you’ve lost your mind as soon as you opt to go to public school.”
“True. She asked about you. Which always weirds me out because she really did seem to hate you.”
“Seem to? She suspended me, like, four times.”
“And the one where she made it the day of that field trip to The People’s Court. Yeah. She really did hate you.”
“It’s not like I really minded my p’s and q’s those last couple of years, though.”
“Okay, well, your entire class really didn’t, either, to be fair. Roberta was there, too. Of course, they’re all sitting around reminiscing about all of the different classes through the years. I wish you could have heard them talking about you guys. Your class is, among all of them, hands down, the rowdiest they’ve ever seen come through that place. You all are, like, serious legends among the middle aged, Catholic school staff set in SoCal, I shit you not.”
A red light up ahead, I let the momentum drain from the car as we coast up a dip in the road. I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror,
“Legendary.”
“You think your dad ever checks your mileage?”
“Well. If he has, he hasn’t said anything. Even if he did, though. He can’t actually prove I’ve been driving to fucking forbidden Hollywood, now that I’m going to Arts. He gave me the Thomas Guide when he gave me the car, anyway. What’s he expect?
“His logic is so fucking flawed.”
“It’s okay for me to take the freeway to high school, but to drive another however many miles, all of a sudden my fucking life is in danger.”
“Parent logic is, as it's based on archaic notions of teen life in America.”
“Archaic notions of Hollywood, too, apparently.”
Cat and I’d been driving around one afternoon with no where to go and no one to see with no fucking desire to troll the mall other than to steal either books from Walden’s for me or make-up from Target for her.
“I fucking hate it here.”
“You know, we should go out to Melrose, sometime.”
“Melrose?”
“It’s this street in Hollywood. You’d fucking love it. Lots of cool record shops, thrift stores. But underground, I guess? So many cool kids, too. Punks and artists, our kind of people. I don’t remember how to get there, though. I’ve only been that one time.”
“There’s a Thomas Guide under your seat.”
“A what?”
“Don’t your parents have one of those map books in the car?”
“Yeah.”
“Thomas Guide.”
And off we went. After I pulled over and found the right page.
“Kind of ironic, if you think about it.”
“I always forget that one.”
“The opposite way.”
“Ah, right.”
“Your dad and the Thomas Guide.”
“Yeah? And how’s that?”
“He thought it’d be a sensible thing to give you. Thinking you’d use it to find your way home if you ever get lost. When really? You’re using it to find your way out.”
Pull north on the 5, towards the city, under the train tracks again, past the old Firestone plant. I always think of Mother as I drive under the pass to the 710 and then on through East Los Angeles. Downtown comes into view as you pass under the bridge, still far off, though. Graffiti and tags painting our way, equal mix gang signs and artwork, so gritty and beautiful.
“Hey, right. Yeah, you still haven’t told me whatever happened with winter formal or whathaveyou and, by the way, I still can’t believe you went to that shit. And, mind you, not for any high minded reason other than. You know.”
“The girl thing, I get it. I’m chill. I ended up going with Dylan from Nixon, which was fun. Guess who the first person I saw was, though?”
“Fucking Matthias.”
“What an asshole that kid turned out to be.”
“Anything happen with Dylan?”
“Nah. I mean, he’s cute and all and really sweet and I totally dig his style. But, I don’t know. It felt like maybe something was gonna happen, but then, in the end, he feels more like a friend, I guess. They kind of always do.”
Then the freeway bends east, Downtown off to the left now and almost so close you can touch it, my little Bug speeding along in the fast lane, music drifting over us like a blanket, this time old school Prince. I always feel so embarrassed listening to songs like this with Cat in the car, try as best as I can to look chill. Into the City, now. This is always the trickiest part of the journey because there’s an interchange to stay on the 5, that’ll take you past the zoo and into Burbank. You can also go either north or south on the 110, south loops to the left into another pass of Downtown, then past USC. North’ll take you right, into Echo Park to Dodgers Stadium, Chavez Ravine they call it. Then straight through it all leads to the Hollywood Freeway, the 101 north. That is, if you survive all the maneuvering everyone else is doing to get to wherever they’re going, too.
Melrose Avenue, two miles, all the way over to the right, my palms now sweaty, my heart racing a bit. Just cause we’re closer. I hang the left at the end of the offramp, to start the next few miles or two, whatever direction on Melrose, only two lanes on each, the right for parked cars, pockets to lane around, if you’re fast enough. I’ve got it down to a science. Past Normandie, Cahuenga, Highland. And then. We start to see the sort of things we don’t ever see in the suburbs. The man that sits at the bus stop in front of the Winchell’s at Highland, transistor radio, static blaring around his tin foil helmet. Then on past LaBrea, color and incense and richness wafting forth from the funky buildings that make up the strip, pinks and oranges with names that make me feel weird inside. Retail Slut, Vinyl Fetish.
“What exactly is a Vinyl Fetish, anyway?”
“Oh, my god, you are so dumb sometimes.”
I make a right on Gardner to park.
“Bite first?”
“Hell, yeah.”
We swing in to where we always do. Ed Rockitt’s, this soda fountain, burger joint on the corner. One of those throwback 1950s restaurants, somewhat of a tourist trap, but with really good food and known for their very saucy waitstaff, the servers wait tables as archetype characters from the 1950s. Archetype, but on Acid. Or what I imagine Acid would be like. Everyone’s been nice enough to me, though, every time I’ve been. Into the chilly, freon cooled air. Music always playing, either from the DJ spinning classics or the table top jukeboxes, they’ll give you nickels for as many plays as you want. Formica accents gleam around vintage signage, lamps, kitchsy decor - the place is a zoo. All the servers are actors and writers and artists and are almost always from somewhere else.
“Hey, honey.”
With the loveliest of smiles. Mason. She always seems to be working.
“Let’s see if I remember. Grilled cheese on sourdough?”
“Yup.”
“Chili cheese fries?”
“And?”
“Grilled chicken breast sandwich. Forgot what it’s on, though.”
“Wheat…”
“With mayo.”
“Nicely done, Mason. Nicely done.”
“Okay, but don’t let management hear. You know we’re only supposed to be going by our character names.”
“How many times have we been over this before?”
“Drinks.”
“Diet.”
“Cherry.”
And then she blows on her fingernails, rubs them on her shirt.
“So, ladies. What brings you to this side of town today?”
“Well, primarily, the suburbs, but Aaardvark’s, as well. Aaardvark’s, as well.”
“Gotta get me some more of those shirts.”
Vintage, old and worn tuxedo shirts with buttons sewn in, flannels, Boy Scout - men’s only.
"And my Docs."
“Those uniforms you’re so stuck on, Amanda, I just don’t get it. The whole concept is fucking disturbing, when you really start thinking about it, you know?”
“Actually. I. Do. Not.”
“Suppressing the individual. That’s what they’re doing. Did. What they use them for. Whatever.”
“I’ll give you that. And the kids that wear Guess Jeans kids, they do it, too. So do we, Cat, you know, now that I’m thinking about.”
“I’d hardly call you conformists.”
“Yes. But if one dresses as an individual, is that not a uniform in itself? But. What do I know? I’m the town weirdo.”
“Okay, well. Consider the source on that, okay?”
“Not to worry, Cat. I’ve come to embrace it.” [subtle reference to mrs. munson saying i was a savage and allowed to run loose by harry. perhaps tell this story later.]
“You still talk to Quinn now and again?”
She used to work here. We met at the Company.
“I haven’t in a while. Last time I saw her she was talking about moving back to Ohio.”
Say our goodbye’s to Mason after we finish and step out on the sidewalk as the bikers pull up on their Harleys and then into their spots out front, bike after bike tucked in, neat and diagonal. The sun out bright, air crisp, the kind of day that I love in L.A. We walk by Boy London and I think of Madonna. A grip of kids walks by.
“Those Fairfax kids fucking scare me.”
“Okay, well. How many of them go to Arts with you now?”
“Okay, well. If they go to Arts they’re no longer Fairfax kids, now, are they?”
"Gimme a cig."
"You still working that show that's starting next month?"
I drag kind of hard and cough,
"Got to. I swear…"
"Yeah. Gotchu on that. Also, these Andre the Giant stickers all over up here. The fuck is this all about?"
Fuck, I love your writing. Your pacing, the way you lay out a scene. I miss LA, haven't spent enough time there. Work used to send me out to the valley, Rialto and stuff, and I would hit the city on weekends or 77 toward the beach. It has been a long time.