SCENES FROM CALIFORNIA

     I was in San Diego one weekend hiding from my responsibilities and needed a motel. I’d put off booking one until the last minute and found out I’d unfortunately timed my visit right for the seasonal opening of SeaWorld.

     The first motel turned me away due to a lack of vacancies. The second motel turned me away for the same reason, but the clerk was nice enough to point me in the direction of another branch nearby. I pulled into the parking garage and got in a line of 20 people, all of us looking a bit rough, and at the front of the line was a guy in cyclist’s gear. A bulletproof glass window separated the line from the clerk and she loudly announced “I’M SORRY, FOLKS! NO VACANCIES!” We all groaned and turned away.

     I got in my car, pulled up my navigator and phone numbers for every motel in town, and worked my way down the list. After five motels told me they were full, I found a lead for a place simply called Harvey’s Motel. I told the clerk on the phone “I’ll be over as fast as possible” and sped all the way to make sure I still got a room.

     I pulled up to the front of the motel and noticed sitting on the curb beside the office was a trio of two men and a woman. The men reminded me of George Milton and Lennie Small clad in sweatpants and hoodies and the woman looked just as miserable. I walked up to the bullet-proof glass window separating me from the clerk and said I’d just called about a room. I didn’t care what the price was, just keep me off the streets. She charged my card, gave me a key, and said checkout time was 11 the next morning. 

     As I walked back to my car, George spoke up.

     “Hey, man. Can you give us a ride?” 

     I reached for the expired pepper spray in my pocket as I walked back to my car. “Sorry, man. I don’t give rides to strangers.”

     “Come on, man. We’ll give you a hundred bucks.”

     “Nope. Sorry.”

     I got in my car, pulled out of the parking lot, circled the block a few times, and parked in a dark lot across the street where they couldn’t see me. I sat and watched them to make sure they wouldn’t wait for me to come back, and after ten minutes, the trio stood up and started walking down the street. I waited for them to get about a mile away before I pulled back into the motel.

     I walked up the stairs to my room, chained the door shut, blocked it with a recliner, and drank a small box of cheap wine while I watched out the window to make sure no one tried to break into my car before I fell asleep around 1 or 2 in the morning.

*****

     Ridgecrest. I’d been looking for a new place to live and found a listing in town for a one bedroom apartment for $750/mo. I called the landlord and we agreed to meet Saturday around noon.

     My journey took three hours to get from East LA through the desert to town, and only when I reached city limits does the landlord call and say she has to cancel. I decide fuck it, since I’m already here, I may as well look around.

     Ridgecrest was simply buildings plopped down in the middle of the desert along a wide street. The sky was a clear blue with no clouds and the dark blue made it look permanently gray. The white layer of smog could be seen on the horizon over the mountains, adding to the gloomy feel. Above you, gray. Beneath you, yellow sand and bright gray streets. It was like a small Nebraska town had been plopped down in the middle of the desert.

     A famous musician was born and raised here because his father had been stationed at China Lake nearby, and he once said being raised here was odd since it was populated by rocket scientists and meth-heads. Walking around the local Walmart, I wondered where the scientists went. 

     I pulled into a gas station near a Jack-in-the-Box to fill up and my then-long grunge-mane was lightly flowing in the wind. An old couple in an older Cadillac slowly drove past me with the windows down so they could glare at me. I glared back and nodded. They drove off.

*****

     Santa Monica. Above me stands a monolith of culture. The Santa Monica ferris wheel has a dirty white frame going about its business, a rusty pinwheel full of souls circling endlessly. I look at a postcard in my hands I bought for 50 cents at a shack nearby and on the front is a picture of the Ferris Wheel when it was brand new. In the photo it’s beautiful, spinning in front of a setting sun and saying “CALIFORNIA: YOU BELONG HERE!” I shoved the postcard in my back pocket and trekked along the pier.

     A large crowd has gathered at the edge of the pier to watch the sun set. I meander up to them and we’re all packed in like sardines. I’m shuffling my way through the crowd of fit sun-tanned gods-and-goddesses that are crowding the fishermen who’d been here for hours, currently glaring at everyone while guarding their fishing rods with one hand and their beer with the other.

     I finally found a spot in the very corner of the platform right under the pier and watched the sun in the final phases of setting. It was a nuclear orange somewhat obscured by the gray smog and it slid behind the California mountains, illuminating the skies into a yellowish tint. It finally sets behind the mountains, leaving us with the night skies and the glow of the streetlamps. I’d never seen smog look so beautiful.

     The crowd disperses as soon as the sun is gone like a class just dismissed by the teacher. I work my way back up the pier, down a set of stairs, and wander along the strip.

     I watched the nightlife go about its business as I followed the concrete pathway. The juicers weren’t deterred by the lack of sunlight and continued to exercise while the homeless set up their tents along the strip. I watched one muscular jogger come my way while a homeless man managed to keep pace with him and talk at him about how he’s a good man, honest, “but those fucking government bankers are making sure I don’t expose them so they fired me and took away my disability.” I went the other way to avoid getting his attention.

     As I walked back to my car, I saw a consumer-grade propane stove set up and being operated by a well-tanned skinny man with no teeth wearing nothing but a pair of jean-shorts. Attached to the front of the grill is a cardboard sign with “AUTHENTIC LA DIRT DOGZ! ONLY $1” written in sharpie. I decided against it, wondering if paying $15 for a parking space was worth it as I tried to figure out where in the sea of cars I had parked.

*****

     San Diego. At a record shop near Hillcrest I won’t name. It’s a small space filled with shelves of loosely organized CDs and records. It’s low-lit and there’s a sign every few feet saying “NO PICTURES!!!” Out front, there’s a 20-something clerk that looks miserable trying to hang a banner and their 40-something boss with a hairline receding well into their scalp while the back still flowed past the shoulders is telling them they can’t do anything right. Out of spite, I sneak pictures of the merchandise.

     I head to the counter where a girl with a dark tan and neon-green hair looks bored. I ask if they have “Don’t Tell a Soul” by The Replacements and she scoffs and goes behind a curtain in the back. This leaves me with a clerk with a bright red mohawk and plaid pants. I notice large stacks of the Satanic Bible sitting on the counter and point at them.

     “Satanic Bible?”

     “Yep!”

     “Nice. You a fan?”

     “It’s a good read.”

     The girl comes back with the CD I asked for and demands four dollars. I’d come back if I lived here.

*****

     Ridgecrest. The week following the first attempt, I called the landlord and asked about another tour of the apartment and this time I got a bite. Another three-hour journey later and this time, we actually met at her office and she gave me a tour.

     The vacant apartment is right above hers and it’s a simple room. It reminded me of some of the smaller houses in Nebraska where I had family. Brown wood-paneled walls, a radiator painted brown placed beneath a dirty window, tan carpet here-and-there, and the bathroom had thin pale tiling with a window that overlooked the long, vast desert. 

     We stood in the kitchen and shot the shit as I filled out my application. I asked her what there is to do for fun around here.

     “Oh. Weeeeeeeeeeell most of the residents work here during the weekdays and then go to LA or Vegas on the weekends.”

     Well, there goes the economy...

     I signed my name at the bottom and folded the application into an envelope. “Hey, be honest with me, is there a bad part of town I should know about?” 

     “Oh, you wanna stay away from [street corner] and [street corner]. Some nasty stuff goes on down there.”

     I thanked her, let her know I’ll drop off my application in her mailbox if I decide on the place, and promptly headed over to [street corner] and [street corner] only to find this was the edge of town surrounded by sprawling desert and any further would have had me on the way back to Los Angeles.

     So I just kept going.

*****

     Huntington Beach. A friend’s co-worker is having a birthday party and she’s been invited and asked if I could give her and a friend a ride since they hate the freeways. I said sure, I’m not doing anything better. 

     So I pick up her friend (whose name I can’t remember, I mostly recall her wearing a Taylor Swift shirt), we stop at a 7-Eleven on the way to grab beer, and I drop them off at a shirt shop near where the coworkers have set up for the celebration. Since I’m already here, I decided to pay for a parking space and wander the strip.

     Huntington seemed to be much more white collar compared to the tourist-y Santa Monica and the bohemian Redondo. The vehicles surrounding me were noticeably nicer and the buildings were better renovated with corporate color palettes. I continue ambling along until I get a call from my friend. I can hear a bunch of 20-somethings cheering and whooping in the background as she asks “WHERE ARE YOU??”

     “Uhhhhh I’m currently standing outside the Waterfront Adventures, whatever that is.”

     “COME ON OVER! THEY WANT TO MEET YOU!”

     So I turned around, walked back, and found the group of 20-somethings standing around a raging campfire playing Jenga on a folding table next to it. Alcohol has been passed around and I help myself to a beer as the pop song on a radio someone brought fades out into another one.

     I introduce myself to the coworkers with varying degrees of interest from them. I find some of them attractive physically, but no personality to mesh with beyond that. The birthday boy was the shift manager and the loudest one there, cutting you off if you talked about anything that wasn’t him. I grew tired of him quickly.

     The only person I recall liking was a silent-type named Bobby, standing by the table and watching idly. I stood next to him, handing him a beer.

     “Hey.”

     “S’up?”

     “Drinking. You?”

     “Fuck yeah.” 

     I extended my hand. “Jake.”

     He shook. “Bobby.”

     We clinked beers and drank while silently observing the crowd.

     I grew bored and wandered away after finishing my beer. After walking a fair bit, I found a small gift shop and wandered in.

     The walls were covered in shelves of t-shirts, stickers, candy, beach toys, etc. etc. and the main source of light came from the sun leaking through the windows blocked by the shelves. Behind the counter stood a slender woman in her mid–20s wearing a band t-shirt, shorts, horn-rimmed glasses, and a bandana in her hair. We caught each other's eye and I walked up to the register with a sticker, a postcard, and a bag of assorted candy. She looked at my shirt and smiled.

     “I like your shirt.”

     I looked down to see today I pulled my Green Day t-shirt out of the laundry pile on the floor. “Thanks. I like your bandana.”

     “I like your hair.”

     “Why, thank you! It takes a whole bottle of conditioner every morning to get it this shiny.”

     She giggled. “Sounds expensive.”

     “Ah, not if you steal it from your roommate. But, tell me, how MUCH do you like Green Day?”

     I leaned against the counter and we talked with her about Green Day for a few minutes before I heard a throat clear behind me. I turned to see a white-collar man in a polo with shorts and his pre-teen son waiting impatiently behind me. 

     “Oh, sorry.” I turned back to the cashier. “Say, how about I come back later?”

     “I’d like that. I get off at 5 tonight.”

     “I’ll see you then.”

     I gathered my newly-purchased belongings and strutted out like a stud, all the while a voice in my head was shouting “DUMBASS! YOU DUMBASS! YOU DIDN’T GET HER NAME!”

     I continued up the strip and in a small amphitheater nearby, a local band was plugged in and playing their hearts away. Standing on a concrete bench at the base of the pier was a man in ratty clothing shouting the gospel at everyone who passed by, shouting about brimstone and fire for the sinners and yadda yadda yadda. Everyone else steered about ten feet out of his way while I stood at a safe distance to watch. 

     I ambled into a few of the shops along the pier, including a kite shop, a gift shop, a snack bar, a diner, etc. and stood against the railing at the edge and watched the ocean do its seductive calming dance for a while.

     Eventually I doubled back to use a bridge over the freeway to cross and see what was on the other side of the road. The bridge put me against a gate I slipped through and it took me right into the heart of a luxury hotel that was attached to a building full of high-dollar businesses. I found myself soon in possession of a meatball sub sitting on a bench overlooking the patio of a luxury restaurant built into the hotel.

     Everyone there was wearing their fanciest dressing gowns and tuxedos and sitting at tables eating the finest cuisine. The hired entertainment was a man in his 30s wearing a tuxedo with greasy slicked-back hair, a 12-string guitar wirelessly plugged into a PA, a wireless headset, and he was singing Led Zeppelin songs off-key. It was glorious. He’d walk up to a table of people and sing right in their faces to earn tips, and they gave him an awkward “please go away” smile that’d prompt him to go to another table. I was laughing my ass off and cheering him on.

     “WHOOOOOOO! FUCK YEAH! DO BLACK DOG!”

     “Did I hear someone say… Black Dog?” he asked in a playful manner.

     “BLACK DOG! BLACK DOG! FUCK YEAH!” 

     And Black Dog he sang.

     He ended with Stairway to Heaven and I sang along (no one could tell me to be quiet because I technically wasn’t on property) and when he strummed that final chord, I noticed night had fallen.

     I crossed the bridge back to Huntington and realized I’d missed the candy shop girl by about 4 or 5 hours. The beach was closing for the night, and I knew so because PAs mounted atop tall poles along the strip were playing a pre-recorded announcement:

     “ATTENTION! HUNTINGTON BEACH IS NOW CLOSED! PLEASE GATHER YOUR BELONGINGS AND BE OFF THE BEACH WITHIN TEN MINUTES. LOITERING WILL NOT BE TOLERATED! ATTENTION! HUNTINGTON BEACH IS NOW–”

     I went back to the firepit where the coworkers had been to see they were all gone. I was muttering to myself “where the hell-” as Bobby ran up to me.

     “Hey, Jake, right?”

     “Yeah?”

     “Ay, your friends are tryna leave without you.”

     I looked over his shoulder to see my friend and her co-worker were up against my car yanking on the door handles trying to get in, shit-faced.

     “Like hell they are! I’ve got the key!”

     I ran after them and took them home.

*****

     East LA. I awoke on the floor of my room surrounded by empty beer cans, a mild headache, and a few missed texts. Christ, what’d I do NOW? 

     I pulled myself onto the mattress on my floor and checked my phone to see a text from a love interest I’d had an argument with a week earlier. I’d been avoiding her in an attempt to run from my guilt.

     “Well, I wasn’t expecting a call from you, but it was nice. If you want to talk again, let me know :)”

     Ohhhhhhh Christ. THAT’S what I did. 

*****

     As a house-warming gift, she’d gotten me a plushie cockatiel. I was sitting on the mattress on my floor with my phone in one hand and the bird in the other. Her angry voice is on the other end of the line. 

     “Why?! You fucking asshole, why can’t you just talk to me?!”

     “I’m sorry. I don’t know why.”

     I could hear her growl.

     “I don’t get it. You argue with me over some stupid shit, then you call me saying you’re sorry and you never want to fight again, and then you go back to ignoring me. Now you finally call me back just to say you aren’t ready to talk to me?!”

     “Well, maybe I get a little tired of you taking your anger out on me and letting everyone tell you what to–”

     “—DON’T YOU FUCKING DEFLECT!”

     I sighed. “I don’t think I can see you anymore.”

     “Please. Please, Jake. I don’t want this to be goodbye.”

     I didn’t know what to say. I tried to think of anything other than ‘goodbye’, but I felt like I was shrouded and lost in a fog. 

     “I’m sorry. Maybe I just need a little time.” 

     I could hear her crying as I pulled the phone away from my ear. I hung up, threw the bird into the closet, and flopped onto the floor. 

*****

     I’m about fifteen miles out from Needles, a town right on the California-Arizona border. I’m leaving town for the last time and all of my Earthly possessions are crammed in the car with me. I was already on edge since I didn’t really have a destination in mind, but my Check Engine light suddenly coming on in the middle of the desert certainly didn’t help.

     I turned off the radio, the AC, and any other unnecessary noise and listened intently to the engine. Nothing SOUNDS wrong, nothing FEELS wrong, but I’m sure not taking a chance out here.

     Sixteen miles later, I pulled over at the first gas station in town and opened the hood. Nothing’s leaking, nothing’s burning, nothing smells wrong, but shit, may as well do some maintenance. 

     I walk up to the front doors to see in front of the garage are two older men wearing overalls and John Deere caps in rocking chairs. They look at the city-boy outsider and spit their chewing tobacco on the ground next to the spittoon. By the front door is a rack of motor oils, and I look it up-and-down over and over to try and find a quart of 5W-20 for my car with no luck. 

     I stepped inside to see it looked like a petrol station from the 70s, right down to the old CRT television mounted into the ceiling in the corner playing a football game. Another man in overalls is sitting behind the counter watching the game and I approached him.

     “Excuse me!”

     “Yup.”

     “Do you have any quarts of 5W-20?”

     He points outside without breaking gaze from the television. “Oil’s out there.”

     I sighed and walked out to the Shell station next door, this one much more modern with a Dairy Queen and a Subway. A tattered man with a pitbull on a leash is standing at the register rambling to the clerk, but I’m too occupied with my own troubles to really notice. I managed to find a quart of 5W-20 and a jug of coolant and determine this should remedy the issue. As I head to the register, the tattered man looks at my t-shirt with joy.

     “MOTÖRHEAD!”

     I look down to see that morning I pulled my Motörhead shirt out of the laundry pile. “Uh, yeah. Motörhead.”

     I plop my items on the counter as the clerk scans them. The tattered man still speaks to me.

     “You know how Lemmy got his start?”

     I blinked at that one. That could be referring to how he assembled the members for the first line-up of Motörhead, how Lemmy was conceived by his parents, why he first learned the guitar, one of his early bands Sam Gopal, etc.

     “Uhhhhhhh he was a roadie for Hendrix?”

     “NAH, MAN! He started as a bass player for Hawkwind!” (I’d like to point out, dear reader, that he was a roadie for Hendrix first.)

     “That’s real cool, man.” I try to slip past him so I can work on the car and get back on the road, but he’s currently blocking the door.

     “Man, fuckin’ Motörhead. Love Motörhead. Hell, I was listening to them all the way out here. See, I’m a veteran and I got a daughter here I wanna visit, but she doesn’t really wanna see me and I don’t know why. I saw some shit overseas, man. I’ve seen some shit here, too, almost as bad as overseas, but my dog here, Lucy, does a real good job keeping me grounded. My car died on the outskirts of town months ago, but–” I looked over at the clerk and his despondent look told me he’d already heard this story across the last hour.

     I don’t know how, but I managed to divert his attention to the Dairy Queen cashier across the building and I ran out the door as soon as he was distracted.

     I ran to my car, popped the hood again, filled up the coolant reserves, topped off the oil, and started the car to see the check engine light was still on. Well, shit. I certainly don’t have the money for a mechanic or a motel here, so I’ll have to take my chances.

     I got back on the highway and turned my hazards on, going 60 mph in a 75. The AC and radio are off so I can listen to the engine, and after ten minutes, nothing sounds wrong. So I turned on the AC and after five minutes, still no trouble. 

     So I floored it and went back to 100mph off to wherever I end up.

*****

     San Diego. It’s my last weekend in California before I hit the highway and go however far a tank of gas can get me. I decided to spend it here where I could hide from my responsibilities and be where I felt the happiest.

     There’s a park in San Diego called Fiesta Island that’s a small island you can access via road where you can ride your bike or drive your car along a trail. You can also just park and watch the water or get out and ride a jet ski, have a cookout, go for a swim, etc. I found if I had nowhere else to be, I could always park at Fiesta Island and wait for an idea on what to do to come to me.

     I was parked by a fire pit with the windows down and the soft SoCal breeze flowed through my car as I watched the water dance and the jet skis cruise past. The day before, I purchased a copy of “Don’t Tell a Soul” by The Replacements and it had been playing as background noise on my radio throughout the day, but now that I was pulled over alone with my thoughts and had the volume turned up, I began to associate the lyrics and the sound of the record with my surroundings.

     The soft Summer breeze and the smell of the ocean combined with the music gave me a specific feeling of melancholy. Whatever I’ll do next, wherever I end up, at least I’ll have this pleasant moment to look back on. The few months I’d gotten to be in California had been a strange period, but I’d still have these memories, fond or otherwise, to look back on.

     A bell jingling approaches me and I look over to see a middle-aged man in a work shirt and a Ball-cap approach me with an ice cream cart. His English is loose, but efficient.

     “Mister! You like ice cream?”

     “Yeah! What do you got?”

     He pulled up to my window and I examined his goodies before remembering “wait, shit. I’m sorry, I don’t have any cash.”

     “Is okay. VenMo?” He pointed at a QR code sticker on his cart. I nod and scan it and pay for a strawberry ice cream cone. I leave a decent tip, thank him, and off he jingles to the next car.

     Now I have the soft breeze on my face, the smell of the ocean, The Replacements, and the taste of frozen strawberries to remember this moment by.