I move into Bleak Lofts on North Hampshire because the apartment has a large balcony where I can grow Meyer lemon trees and it’s smack in the heart of a neighborhood called Los Feliz. The Happy.
I can think of nothing more wonderful than happiness and homemade lemonade.
The space is empty, and the manager hands me the keys as soon as I sign the lease. The place is mine.
By the end of my second week in Los Angeles, I’m promising to have the Pirellis over for dinner as soon as I settle in and carrying my meager belongings into a spacious apartment with an actual room for dining. We don’t have those in New York, only multitasking living rooms and alcoves.
Not only is the apartment amazing, the building has a pool. I can swim laps every morning if I want to. Or every night. Or in the middle of the day when I’m feeling stiff and tired from writing.
Welcome to L.A.
As I’m rolling in the third and last load, the door next to mine opens. A tall guy with wavy brown hair, blue eyes and a five-o’clock shadow steps into the hallway and eyes me suspiciously. In ratty jeans, a gray UCLA T-shirt with holes and a torn seam and bare feet, he looks scruffy and out of place.
If anyone should be suspicious, it’s me.
“Please say you’re the new tenant.”
“I’m the new tenant,” I respond dutifully.
He nods abruptly. This information, although exactly what he wants to hear, does little to improve his mood. “OK, now say it like you’re not blindly appeasing a stranger.”
I try for a little conviction. “I’m the new tenant.”
He closes his eyes and lets out a long sigh. “Thank God.”
“Old tenant not much of a prize?” I ask, smiling at the intensity of his relief. I’ve had a few dismal neighbors myself. On Charles Street, I lived next to a snake charmer. She played the same six bars of music over and over for months until she was bit. They carried her out on a stretcher, and I never heard from her again.
“The old tenant was great,” he says, resting his shoulder against the door frame. “Iraq War vet. Real quiet. Always asked if I needed stamps when he went to the post office. He skipped town three months ago to run a golf course in Scottsdale and left me with a conscienceless building manager who lets his niece throw raves here every Sunday and Monday night. If they were partying on the weekend like normal folks, I might have been cool with it because I’d be out partying myself but Sunday and Monday are emphatically at-home nights. Stealing yourself for the first day back and then recovering from it.”
I know exactly where he’s coming from. Paralegaling was all stealing yourself and then recovering.
“Well, I can pretty much guarantee that I’ll be quieter than a full-blown rave. Even a half-blown one. More like no-blown,” I say.
“Bless you, my child.”
I laugh and realize he doesn’t look that scruffy after all. His appearance is more athletic-male-fixing-a-leaky-pipe. “Actually, all things considered, I’m amazed the apartment’s in such good condition. I would never have guessed it was the sight of so much debauchery. The walls are scratch-free, and it doesn’t smell like a frat house.”
“I was going to the store,” he announces, and I feel myself blush.
Of course he’s going somewhere—store, plumbing, it’s all the same. Just because I have all the time in the world to chat with my new neighbor, who now qualifies as one of the four people I know in L.A. (and that’s counting the Pirellis as two separate people, which they really aren’t), doesn’t mean he does too.
“Right, of course,” I mutter, fiddling with my keys.
“The store was the plan. I’m out of eggs and waffles. I need both for breakfast tomorrow. I’m big on breakfast. Keeps me going until lunch at two, which is important. But now I’m thinking I’d rather be neighborly and treat you to a welcome-to-Bleak drink. Do you have the time? Or would it be more neighborly if I offered to help you move? I’m prepared to carry small items of furniture. Armchairs but not couches.” He smiles with a hint of shame, as if refusing to lug around a stranger’s overstuffed sofa is a crime against humanity.
“No, this is it. I’m done,” I say, relieved yet again to have divested myself of all my worldly goods. It feels wonderful to carry my life around in my arms. Like pure freedom. Even if I begin the acquisition process all over again tomorrow, I’ll do it better this time—a few special pieces, not as many things. “A drink would be great. Let me just drop this stuff.” I unlock the door and push my suitcase inside. “All set.”
“Cool. I’m Simon Barlow.” He holds out his hand.
“Ricki Carstone,” I say, taking it. His grip is firm and warm.
As the elevator takes us to the lobby, he tells me about my other new neighbors: Mrs. McEnery on the right, a compulsive baker who will bring me cookies whether I want them or not (“But don’t get too excited—they’re always oatmeal”), and Roscoe Esterman across the hall, a curator at the Griffith Observatory.
Nothing is within walking distance in L.A., but less than two blocks from Bleak Lofts is a pub called the Growlery. It’s long, dark, narrow and seedy. There are tables in a red-tinged pool room in the back, but we stay near the bar in front. The walls are covered with old movie posters from the seventies. The style of decor is familiar but none of the films are. All the usuals are absent—
The Godfather, Star Wars, Chinatown
—replaced by obscure B-features like
God Told Me To
and
Day of the Animals.
“This is the Growlery,” Simon says, sliding into a booth. Most of the stools at the bar are taken, even though it’s only four on a Saturday afternoon. The clientele is a mix of journeymen and college students. “When I’m in a bad mood, I come and growl here.”
“A place for growling is important,” I say. “In New York, I had a breakery.”
He nods solemnly. “A breakery. I like it. What’d you break?”
I think of the tantrums I’ve thrown over the years. “Mostly dishes but sometimes eggs or my parents’ heart.” I look around—at the lineup of liquor in front of the mirrored wall, at the knocked-around bar, at the grizzled floor—and suddenly feel very happy. I wouldn’t have picked an apartment based on its proximity to a local dive, but I’m delighted to have a bit of New York with my lemon trees and swimming pool. “Do you come here often?”
“That’s a tricky one,” Simon says, “because the subtext is: Am I in a bad mood often? To that I’ll say no, not anymore. Things were bad for a while but I’ve got a proper job now with lots of regularity and normalcy. So no, I don’t come to the growlery often. But Growlery with the capital G I’m at at least twice a week. The bartender runs a quiz night on Tuesdays, which is fun. The questions are always arcane and you leave here feeling like a dumb fuck, but it’s a good night out and someone has to win the thousand bucks.”
“Have you? Ever won, I mean.”
He shakes his head. “An honest man like me doesn’t stand a chance. One thousand dollars tax-free would set you up pretty nicely around here, and people come from far and wide for a chance to win the pot. They’ve got their smartphone and iPads at the ready. People used to be surreptitious about it but in the last few months they’re as bold as brass. Carly, who runs the quiz night and considers it a matter of honor, keeps threatening to cancel but her old man’s making too much money to let her.”
Just then a waitress comes by, more to say hello to Simon than to get our order. She sits down in the booth and asks him what’s up. He gives a noncommittal shrug, which she takes an invitation to vent about her life. She starts with an audition on Thursday for a toothpaste commercial, which she knows she didn’t get. She was the only one of her type there (smoldering Latina with huge breasts); the eight other women were blond ingénues. Before she can launch into yesterday’s trespasses, the boss calls her to the bar. She’s three feet away before she twirls around and remembers to take our order.
“Wren gets that a lot,” Simon explains. “Most of her reel is presenting work. She’s hosted a few countdown shows for ESPN. You know, the hundred worst sports injuries. But she can’t seem to catch a break with the acting. This commercial agent is new. I hope it works out.”
At first I think there’s something between him and the waitress. He’s too relaxed and aware for them to be only patron and server. But the longer we sit in the pub drinking beer, the more I realize it’s simply the way he is. Simon knows names, histories, preferences. He remembers the in-laws visiting from Providence, which you mentioned in passing the last time you saw him.
By the time he walks me back to the apartment and says, “Good night, neighbor,” I feel like there’s something between us. It’s not a lust thing. I know the fleeting stab of desire too well to mistake it for liking. No, this is straight-out friendship, the kind where you both hear the click.
Add a good neighbor to a local dive, swimming pool and Meyer lemons and you might just have the best spot in the whole entire world.
Harry takes me to dinner at the Ivy for the full-on Los Angeles experience.
“You might as well know the worst of it now,” he says, pressing his hand to the small of my back as he opens the front door. “Nothing will make you feel more insignificant than the sneer on the lips of the maitre d’. It’s excellent.”
Tonight the part of the sneering maitre d’ is being played by an emaciated Asian woman in a Pucci scarf. Although she looks like she hasn’t eaten in months, she has enough energy for thorough contempt. She doesn’t even acknowledge our presence until our third hello. Then, without even looking at her book, she informs us we don’t have a reservation. Harry assures her it was confirmed twice and is even clever enough to drop the name of the person he spoke to. For his effort, he gets a snarl and a brusque “wait”—just wait, no please, no have a drink at the bar. Thirty minutes later she leads us to a table. Interlopers like us don’t deserve the famous patio so we’re seated inside with the English kitsch. The only thing saving the rustic antiques and worn chintz from complete shabbiness are the beautiful hanging baskets of roses.
Our waiter Gerald is little better. He greets us without making eye contact and rattles off the specials while he searches the room for more interesting customers. He expects us to order dinner immediately and actually sighs when Harry tells him we need some more time.
As soon as he’s gone, Harry leans forward. “I’m so glad they’re behaving. I was afraid they might have had a spiritual awakening or something and treat us decently.”
Having lived in New York for eight years, I’m quite familiar with scorn from browbeaten power-trippers who can’t wait to pass the oppression on. I know what it’s like to go out on a Saturday night in your best Tory Burch skirt and your cutest top feeling beautiful and perfect and have the supermodel wannabe at the door look right through you. But Harry’s savoring of the experience is entirely new. He’s the first person I’ve met who thinks of ignominy like an attraction at Disneyland. It’s surprisingly charming.
“Now, as for as the food, which was always secondary anyway, I can recommended the crab cakes,” he says. I open my menu but he doesn’t touch his. “They’re plump and crispy, just the way your mom makes them. The Caesar salad is another favorite. Stay away from the spaghetti and meatballs. The meatballs were raw inside the last time I got it. The prime rib is also good but ask for it with the Cajun spices on the side. Some of the line cooks have a heavy hand.”
As he runs through his list, I read the descriptions. I’m torn between crab cakes and spinach linguine with a peppery tomato-basil sauce. I do eenie-meani-mo in my head as the waiter uncorks a bottle of Pinot. Harry grins delightedly at me as Gerald waits for him to try the wine as if he’s bored to death.
I have to admit Harry’s right: It’s like theater.
Our orders are barely brought into the kitchen before Gerald returns with our salads. He lays the plates on the table and disappears.
“This is my favorite part,” Harry says as he lifts his fork, “the rapid turnaround. If they’re in really top form, they’ll bring the entrées while we’re finishing our starters. It’s very smooth the way they clear your dish while you still have the fork in your mouth.”
While we eat, Harry reminisces about the first time he came to the Ivy—ten years ago with his parents. He was so awed by all the celebrities, powerbrokers and paparazzi that he didn’t even eat his meal. He took the whole thing home in a doggy bag, another humiliation that he insists we must suffer. (“If we’re lucky, Gerald will roll his eyes.”)
Harry came out to L.A. to be a movie star. “Don’t get me wrong,” he says, sipping the wine, “I love the theater. There’s nothing like adulation from a live audience. But acting is dull and repetitive. I hate memorizing lines and learning blocking and all that other stuff you have to do as a performer. I’d much rather lounge in my air-conditioned trailer while assistants plan my lunches and squash games.”
Harry’s speech strikes the perfect note of irony, balancing between sour grapes and genuine indifference, but I know better than to take his words at face value. A veneer of cynicism is necessary for survival, especially in a place where failure is dished out daily. You can take only so much disappointment before it eviscerates you completely.
To Harry’s dismay, the busboys wait until we finish our salads before clearing the plates. “It’s a Monday night,” he explains apologetically. “Things are probably slow.”
But in an instant, our main course is on the table and I’m cutting into a golden crab cake. It smells delicious, but the crust is soggy and the center is cool. This is what we get for lingering too long over our salad.
When Harry asks how it is, I tell him it’s yummy. He cuts off a piece of his prime rib. It’s dry and overcooked but I gush about that as well because I don’t want to seem like a New York food snob. In Manhattan it’s virtually impossible to get a bad thirty-dollar crab cake. In fact, it’s almost impossible to get a bad thirty-dollar anything. Unless you’re in Times Square. But if you’re eating there, you deserve what you get.
“Do you go on lots of auditions?” I ask while the busboys hover. I’m eating my crab cake slowly because it’s hard to swallow but it has the desired effect of curtailing the rapid service. Harry gives me a nod of approval.
“Not anymore,” he says. “They’re a total drag and nothing ever comes from them.” He shrugs. “True success isn’t the result of hard work; it’s pure serendipity. I see other actors scurrying around and worrying about their headshots and their craft—and don’t get me wrong, I admire their diligence greatly—but that’s just not going to work for me. I prefer shortcuts.”
I laugh because I know it’s not true. Only a hardworking person could say something like that. The truly lazy have to maintain the illusion of their industriousness for themselves and others.
But I don’t call him on it. He has the right to whatever image he wants to project. Instead, I ask about his friend John Vholes, a successful screenwriter who teaches classes in the art of screenwriting. His course isn’t cheap—it runs $995 for four three-hour classes—but it’s considerably less than enrolling in the film program at USC. It’s also a better value than Robert McKee’s famous Story seminar, an intense four-day session with hundreds of other hopefuls. For an additional $995, I’d get personal attention. For twice that, John would work with me on my screenplay.
I hesitate. Two thousand dollars is a lot of money to an unemployed paralegal.
Harry reads me easily. “Hey, no pressure. You have to do what’s right for you. The four-session course is a great intro. It’ll give you the principals of storytelling and explain the ins and outs of Hollywood as a business. It’s a really good start. So it doesn’t get into the nitty-gritty details of the story you’re telling. But it gives you a firm basis to figure out all those maddeningly frustrating points on your own. I couldn’t afford it. Then again, my book isn’t about to be turned into a movie with Moxie Bernard for hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
He’s right. I know he is. I didn’t come all this way to flinch at the last moment. The cost is steep, but it’s an investment in my future. If I don’t believe in myself, who will?
As soon as our table is cleared of soggy crab cakes and dry beef, Gerald hands us dessert menus. I’ve barely opened mine before the hostess comes over and takes it away. She actually grabs it from my fingers. I stare amazed as she does the same to Harry. “The next reservation has arrived,” she announces in a stage whisper. “I told you we’d need the table back.”
She said no such thing, but Harry is too delighted to argue. “This is better than I ever imagined. Usually they let you finish dessert before the next reservation arrives.”
Gerald places the check in the middle of the table, smiles amicably and assures us there’s no rush. Now that his tip is in sight, he’s pulling out all the polite-waiter stops.
Harry smirks and reaches for his wallet. “I’m surprised he bothered. He knows he’ll get a straight twen—” He breaks off and pats his pockets. Then he stands up and pats them again. “I don’t have my wallet.”
My heart flutters. “Think. When did you last have it? In the car? At home? Did you tip the valet? Could it have been stolen?”
He sits down, rests his elbows on the table and closes his eyes. “I had it at the newspaper stand. I bought the
Times.
Then I went home to shower.” He straightens up and looks at me. “It must be sitting on my dresser. I can see it there, right next to my watch, which I also forgot. Damn it.”
He looks so distressed, I reach across the table and take his hand. “The important thing is it’s not stolen or lost.” “Yeah, but I asked you out to dinner and now you have to pay.”
“You can get it next time. We’ll go to Spago and get abused there.”
His bottom lips protrudes, like a sulky little boy’s. “They treat you decent at Spago. It’s not the same.” I laugh, and suddenly Harry sees the humor of the situation. “All right. But we’re going to as soon as I can get a reservation.”
“Deal.”
The tab is in the low three hundreds, thanks to the pricey bottle of wine Harry ordered. Although I genuinely don’t mind paying it, part of me—a very small part of me—begrudges the expense. For that amount, we could have had the tasting menu at BondSt in Nolita, where the food would have been spectacular. And we certainly wouldn’t have paid a hundred bucks for a pedestrian bottle of Pinot.
Pushing these thoughts aside, I sign the credit card slip and fold the receipt into my wallet. Harry wraps his arm around my shoulder as we walk to the parking lot. A few minutes later, the valet hands him his keys and waits awkwardly for something—a tip, I realize. I look at Harry and then remember. I slip the man two dollars, unsure if the denomination is appropriate.
At my apartment building, Harry walks me to the lobby and says good night. I thank him for dinner.
“You’re welcome,” he says, “but I should be thanking you.”
I shrug, wondering what I’m supposed to do next. Even though I paid, this is his date. If it is a date. Maybe it’s a business meeting. We did talk about his friend John. Or maybe he’s just welcoming me to the neighborhood, like Simon. Our drinks at the Growlery were definitely not a date.
My doubts are laid to rest when he leans down and kisses me. His lips are hot and urgent, and my heart leaps in response. It’s been too long since I’ve felt this way.
He pulls back, lays his forehead against mine for a brief moment and steps away. “I’ll call you,” he says, pressing the call button for the elevator. It arrives immediately and I get inside, holding the doors open as he leaves the building, walks down the path and climbs into his car. When he drives away, I let them close and float up to my apartment.
I love L.A.