Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
Sometimes it happens. I will see a place, or taste a food, or hear a song and be flooded with memories. The search for a new smoke-free environment has led me to some nostalgic locales. This has been a welcome distraction from the drudgery involved in looking for a new apartment. The endless scrolling past ad after ad for the new mixed-use buildings which now dominate the landscape, hoping for a bit of charm, a scintilla of originality, can wear a person down. I know the young folks like those places, but they leave me cold. Their tiny box-shaped rooms are supposed to be offset by the abundance of common areas. There are lounge rooms, a pool, dog-washing stations, and billiards; one I looked at even had a podcast suite and a bourbon room. The latter also has lockers where you can store your private barrel-aged bottles, and then I’m not sure what happens next. Are neighbors supposed to meet there armed with shot glasses or maybe lowball tumblers with one giant cube of ice and pour themselves a drink from their respective lockers, and that’s the deal? The young man who showed it to me seemed very proud of that one. He loves all of those perks.
The new high-rise builds are also a tad disingenuous. The “Pets Welcome” phrase in the amenities section does not hint at the fact that there are many exceptions to this sunny offering. I made a few appointments and showed up in person, only to discover that they all have “breed restrictions.” It turns out that my Doberman/Hound/Dane mix, the lovely, gentle Fairness, is doggo non-grata in all of the corporate-owned housing in Los Angeles, which is a lot of the housing in this joint. I never liked those anyway but was trying to keep an open mind. They are now officially off the list of possibilities, which means more scrolling and squinting. I asked my sisters to keep an eye out, and they sent me a gem the other day.
“Rare opportunity in historic building!”
The photo showed a gorgeous place on North Sycamore, full of rounded archways and ornate design. Gazing at the image of the grand old building prompted some fond and not-so-fond recollections of my life nearly forty years ago.
I lived across the street from that place when I first moved back here from a long stint in New York City. I was young and broke and trying to find a job. I had a teeny bit of savings but was mostly living off of a Shell gasoline credit card that my Dad had slipped me, unbeknownst to his wife. The respective housing units are directly across the street from one another, but proximity is the only thing they have in common. The place I occupied at the time was a small studio with a window that faced onto busy Beverly Blvd, an old air-conditioning unit drooping slightly from its frame. It was rundown and raggedy, but it did have a nice pool in the center of the ten units. It was there that I met my dear friend Lance, when I was trying to get dressed for an audition and could not fasten the top button of my outfit. I wandered out to the pool to see if there was anyone about who could lend a hand, and there he was. He was hella handsome with a mega-watt smile and a charming New Zealand accent. He did up the buttons and wished me good luck.
We became fast friends, and that took some of the sting out of living in that shabby place; he gave that drab environment some spark and sass. We helped each other prepare for auditions and scratched up some decent meals in our tiny kitchenettes. The streets in the neighborhood were often littered with broken glass as thieves regularly smashed in the windows of the cars lucky enough to squeeze into a space there. We often had to park a few blocks away, and it was not considered safe for girls to walk home by themselves late at night. I tried it a few times and was definitely nervous about the situation when I was cast in a show at the Pasadena Playhouse. I begged the folks who ran the Honey Baked Ham store, which shared the alley behind us, to let me park there when I came home after 11. They very graciously allowed it.
I imagined that the folks in 308 were untouched by all of this. They had secure parking and gorgeous trees outside their elegant windows. They glided by the rest of us and nestled into their gilded lodgings with barely a glance in our direction.
I used to stare at the commanding structure, studying it every chance I got. I would sidle up to the sculpted wrought-iron gates and peek into the windows, dreaming of one day being able to live there or somewhere like it.
Lance died suddenly after developing a mild cough. I was shocked when he told me he was HIV positive. I had to sit down on the curb across from the dream villas; I had moved on at that point, but he was still on Sycamore. I had run an AIDS program for several years and should have been unshockable, but I was not prepared for it. He was so full of life, so buoyant. Lance never walked up a staircase; he bounded to the top, taking three steps at a time. I could not believe that such a life-force would be snuffed out in mere weeks, by a damned virus. This came on the heels of my five years as a volunteer in NYC, witnessing the same thing happen to boy after boy and man after man. Still, I was not prepared to lose him. I have kept a jar of his ashes with me and moved them into every new abode. They are right now sitting on the bar in the living room. I have kept him close for nearly 30 years. He was something. He was someone. They all were.
A FEW ROOMS LATER.
In the years since, I have bought and sold several large houses and lived many different kinds of lives in them. Single gal making it on her own, married lady cooking for two, well-employed hostess of fundraisers and gatherings, heartbroken divorcee rattling around. One or two were quite glamorous, the others homier, but still chic. At this stage in my life, an apartment at 308 Sycamore is not an impossible dream; now it would be a good fit.
But the realtor won’t call me back, dammit.
In the course of hunting new digs, I have found myself driving around looking at streets I have always loved and blocks that felt special to me. The other day, on a whim, I put Grape Place into Google Maps. Years ago, I tried to buy a small home there. I was single again and wanted something manageable. I put an offer on a darling little ranch-style home on that teeny tiny street. I wrote letters to the owner begging her to sell it to me. She didn’t. She sold it to a friend, which was nice for her pal but rotten luck for me. Or was it?
I bought a house on Beachwood Drive instead, and there I met my dear pal Don W., who lived next door and was a fantastic neighbor. He put a gate in the fence between our two yards in case I ever felt unsafe and needed someplace to run to. We attended each other’s performances and whipped up some good meals in our very nice kitchens with our very good equipment. It was Don who introduced me to my second husband. The marriage did not work out, but I am not sorry that I met him. He was there when I had to have a hysterectomy and came to the hospital every day. He helped me heal from that, and I am ever grateful. We probably should NOT have tied the knot, but judging by the over 50% of marriages that end in divorce, we are keeping good company there.
If I had bought 6300 Grape Place, my life would have turned out very differently. I wanted to see it, and it turns out that it is exactly seven minutes from where I am here in this smoldering ashtray of a place on Beachwood Drive, so I followed the directions and wound my way up narrow streets, making no fewer than eight turns before finally locating it. I recognized the house instantly. It is still a bit rundown, but it has a good aura. A black sign with white lettering was posted out front.
“Coming soon.” It had the name and number of the realtor who will be representing the sale. I took a picture of it because even though I do not feel this is a good time to buy real estate, I HAVE to know what they plan on asking for it. When I tried to buy it over twenty years ago, the asking price was $389,000. I don’t think there is any unit of housing in Los Angeles that would go for so little now.
You can never go home again…
…maybe that’s what the old saying is getting at? You definitely cannot go home again to the home you never had, which is now triple the price, or at least you shouldn’t. That much is certain.
On we go …
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