4.30.2010
4.29.2010
4.28.2010
4.26.2010
Cedar Avenue, Long Beach
I have lived in a lot of different places. As a kid, I attended six different elementary schools and swore as an adult I would not live like that, not live such a vagabond life. As a young person, on my own or with my sister, I didn’t live up to my own promises. I moved constantly, always looking for something better or cheaper. I lived in a very small studio when my sister had to move in with me, our father tired of her being there, just the way he had gotten tired of me being there. Once Jill moved in, my tiny studio was too tiny. I found a larger studio for less money, the catch was that it was in a pretty crappy part of town. It was downtown. Jill and I moved in and got to know our neighbors, sort of.
I called our downstairs neighbors Punch and Judy. This was really a kindness on my part. These people were trash of the highest caliber – alcoholic brawlers. We all lived in an apartment building behind a house on Cedar Avenue in Downtown Long Beach. The building was on the only nice block of a bad street in a worse neighborhood. There was probably 8 units spread over two stories in the place. The building looked like a plain stucco box from the outside, but the interior was well-preserved 20’s Spanish glamour. It was a little oasis of urban renewal that didn’t seem so renewed when the sun set, or when the homeless raged, or when I looked into the back alley and saw the super quick transactions at our neighborhood drive-thru crack window.
Punch and Judy lived downstairs. At the time they were probably both about 60 years old. Their transportation was a moped, not a scooter, but a moped, which they drove up directly below the apartments north side and let rumble a while before either locking up or driving off. Punch was retired military and Judy wore the uniform of a nurse’s aide. They lived with several foul-smelling cats with fouler smelling cat boxes. Judy liked to air dry her very large delicate garments by hanging them in the lemon tree in front of our building, or over the banister of our front steps. Punch liked to get drunk and throw Judy against the wall directly below my kitchen. Neither appreciated my big cowboy boots stomping around the hardwood floors as they beat the crap out of each other. Judy however did like to tell at me to “mind your own fucking business” when I slammed my fist against their lovely Spanish-style front door as I yelled at them to “come out and talk to me like that”. Punch and Judy didn’t like me apparently, nor I them.
Across from Punch and Judy lived Jane. Jane was divorced and depressed, but a very nice person. She had an off-again on-again boyfriend. This boyfriend merited special apartment cleanings and sweeping off of the sheets to remove flea eggs. I swear, she went through a ritual for this specific purpose and yelled at me when I was there and tried to help her make the bed because he was on the way. I hadn’t ‘swept’ the sheets. I knew nothing of romance. Jane is the person who taught me that if you call a suicide helpline someone comes and takes you away for 48 hour observation, regardless of your professed sudden happy attitude and mental health. Jane eventually married a man that had the same last name as her first husband. She didn’t have to change her name. It was highly convenient. Once engaged she moved away from Cedar Avenue.
My next-door neighbor was Phillip. He was English, slight and very sweet. He was about my age I think. His father had a house-cleaning business and his stepmother ran a nurse registry. They were entrepreneurial and hard-working people. Phillip liked to hang out and he helped me clean my apartment so thoroughly when I prepared to move out that I got my entire cleaning deposit and an amazed head-scratch from my landlord. Phillip took me to an Italian restaurant once in which a cockroach decided to climb up my leg and jump from me straight on to my plate. The host had believed us on a date and had put is in a tiny booth in a corner that only had one seat. I was on the inside, next to a wall and Phillip was on the outside. I screamed and shoved him off the seat as the cockroach jumped from me to my lasagne. Poor Philip. I may have even stepped on him as I tore screaming from the booth.
I call the apartment “our apartment” because I shared it with my sister Jill. I think we moved there because it was a slightly larger studio apartment than our previous place. It was also slightly cheaper. Something like $310 per month rather than $325. It had a Murphy bed so we could each have our own bed with a couch counting as one of the beds. It had a built-in bureau, a built-in ironing board and lovely tiled bathroom. It had wool rose-patterned rugs that covered the long hallway between the kitchen and the bath. It had French doors that closed the kitchen off from the main room which created a modicum of privacy. It also had no heat, or such bad heat, that we froze in the winter and had to share a bed and wear every sweater, glove, sock and hat we possessed. We thought we had it made.
Right around the corner from our apartment was a liquor store that bums and homeless frequented. They would beg out front, go inside and buy NightTrain or some other fortified wine and then lie on the sidewalk as they drank it. They would then stick out their hands as we walked past until one of them bothered to opened an eye, saw it was Jill and I and pronounced to his fellows, “oh, it’s them, don’t bother”. These were the same men that would also come and bang on the outside of our building screaming for money. Punch and Judy remained silent then, I’ll tell you that. Punch and Judy could scream at each other and scream at us, but never scream at the bums. My sister responded to these absurd demands for money by standing next to the window, saying “forget it, get lost, get out of here”. She meant it. She would have thrown slops on them if there weren't screens in the way, and if we had slops.
Jill hated the bums that stalked us. Heaven forbid we had to get gas for our cars anywhere near our home. It was Night of the Living Bums as we called it. They would stumble around, hands outstretched, mumbling “spare change, come on man, spare change”. Jill and I were waitresses at the time and there was literally no spare change. We also had lots of pent-up aggression that was awaiting an outlet other than our own customers. Jill would get all hot under the collar and storm at these men, “spare change, spare change, you think I got spare change, there is no such thing as spare change buddy”. They always backed down. She was all of 21 years old in her little green waitress uniform and these men would always back down.
Punch, Judy, Jane, Phillip, and the bums are all gone from my life now. Only my sister Jill remains, as always, my closest friend. The time we spent on Cedar Avenue was probably 20 years ago. I don’t constantly move around anymore. I live a relatively stable life. There is no drive-thru crack window behind my house, at least that I am aware of. My sister has her own stable life. She doesn’t shake her fists at bums on a regular basis, maybe only occasionally these days.
I called our downstairs neighbors Punch and Judy. This was really a kindness on my part. These people were trash of the highest caliber – alcoholic brawlers. We all lived in an apartment building behind a house on Cedar Avenue in Downtown Long Beach. The building was on the only nice block of a bad street in a worse neighborhood. There was probably 8 units spread over two stories in the place. The building looked like a plain stucco box from the outside, but the interior was well-preserved 20’s Spanish glamour. It was a little oasis of urban renewal that didn’t seem so renewed when the sun set, or when the homeless raged, or when I looked into the back alley and saw the super quick transactions at our neighborhood drive-thru crack window.
Punch and Judy lived downstairs. At the time they were probably both about 60 years old. Their transportation was a moped, not a scooter, but a moped, which they drove up directly below the apartments north side and let rumble a while before either locking up or driving off. Punch was retired military and Judy wore the uniform of a nurse’s aide. They lived with several foul-smelling cats with fouler smelling cat boxes. Judy liked to air dry her very large delicate garments by hanging them in the lemon tree in front of our building, or over the banister of our front steps. Punch liked to get drunk and throw Judy against the wall directly below my kitchen. Neither appreciated my big cowboy boots stomping around the hardwood floors as they beat the crap out of each other. Judy however did like to tell at me to “mind your own fucking business” when I slammed my fist against their lovely Spanish-style front door as I yelled at them to “come out and talk to me like that”. Punch and Judy didn’t like me apparently, nor I them.
Across from Punch and Judy lived Jane. Jane was divorced and depressed, but a very nice person. She had an off-again on-again boyfriend. This boyfriend merited special apartment cleanings and sweeping off of the sheets to remove flea eggs. I swear, she went through a ritual for this specific purpose and yelled at me when I was there and tried to help her make the bed because he was on the way. I hadn’t ‘swept’ the sheets. I knew nothing of romance. Jane is the person who taught me that if you call a suicide helpline someone comes and takes you away for 48 hour observation, regardless of your professed sudden happy attitude and mental health. Jane eventually married a man that had the same last name as her first husband. She didn’t have to change her name. It was highly convenient. Once engaged she moved away from Cedar Avenue.
My next-door neighbor was Phillip. He was English, slight and very sweet. He was about my age I think. His father had a house-cleaning business and his stepmother ran a nurse registry. They were entrepreneurial and hard-working people. Phillip liked to hang out and he helped me clean my apartment so thoroughly when I prepared to move out that I got my entire cleaning deposit and an amazed head-scratch from my landlord. Phillip took me to an Italian restaurant once in which a cockroach decided to climb up my leg and jump from me straight on to my plate. The host had believed us on a date and had put is in a tiny booth in a corner that only had one seat. I was on the inside, next to a wall and Phillip was on the outside. I screamed and shoved him off the seat as the cockroach jumped from me to my lasagne. Poor Philip. I may have even stepped on him as I tore screaming from the booth.
I call the apartment “our apartment” because I shared it with my sister Jill. I think we moved there because it was a slightly larger studio apartment than our previous place. It was also slightly cheaper. Something like $310 per month rather than $325. It had a Murphy bed so we could each have our own bed with a couch counting as one of the beds. It had a built-in bureau, a built-in ironing board and lovely tiled bathroom. It had wool rose-patterned rugs that covered the long hallway between the kitchen and the bath. It had French doors that closed the kitchen off from the main room which created a modicum of privacy. It also had no heat, or such bad heat, that we froze in the winter and had to share a bed and wear every sweater, glove, sock and hat we possessed. We thought we had it made.
Right around the corner from our apartment was a liquor store that bums and homeless frequented. They would beg out front, go inside and buy NightTrain or some other fortified wine and then lie on the sidewalk as they drank it. They would then stick out their hands as we walked past until one of them bothered to opened an eye, saw it was Jill and I and pronounced to his fellows, “oh, it’s them, don’t bother”. These were the same men that would also come and bang on the outside of our building screaming for money. Punch and Judy remained silent then, I’ll tell you that. Punch and Judy could scream at each other and scream at us, but never scream at the bums. My sister responded to these absurd demands for money by standing next to the window, saying “forget it, get lost, get out of here”. She meant it. She would have thrown slops on them if there weren't screens in the way, and if we had slops.
Jill hated the bums that stalked us. Heaven forbid we had to get gas for our cars anywhere near our home. It was Night of the Living Bums as we called it. They would stumble around, hands outstretched, mumbling “spare change, come on man, spare change”. Jill and I were waitresses at the time and there was literally no spare change. We also had lots of pent-up aggression that was awaiting an outlet other than our own customers. Jill would get all hot under the collar and storm at these men, “spare change, spare change, you think I got spare change, there is no such thing as spare change buddy”. They always backed down. She was all of 21 years old in her little green waitress uniform and these men would always back down.
Punch, Judy, Jane, Phillip, and the bums are all gone from my life now. Only my sister Jill remains, as always, my closest friend. The time we spent on Cedar Avenue was probably 20 years ago. I don’t constantly move around anymore. I live a relatively stable life. There is no drive-thru crack window behind my house, at least that I am aware of. My sister has her own stable life. She doesn’t shake her fists at bums on a regular basis, maybe only occasionally these days.
4.24.2010
4.22.2010
4.08.2010
Oh morning in Los Angeles
Oh harried Dropper-off-of-Children
Oh zippy BMW
Oh doddering, weaving Gardening Truck
Oh bearing-down Big Rig
Oh slowly merging Maxima
Oh lunatic Metro Bus
Oh sweaty-butted Cyclist
Oh foraging Coyote
Oh morning in Los Angeles
Oh zippy BMW
Oh doddering, weaving Gardening Truck
Oh bearing-down Big Rig
Oh slowly merging Maxima
Oh lunatic Metro Bus
Oh sweaty-butted Cyclist
Oh foraging Coyote
Oh morning in Los Angeles
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