My first place in Los Angeles looked like a scene from “Melrose Place.” Two stories, old motel style, patio in the middle. A piece of sun-drenched paradise. As I unloaded things from my newly acquired Toyota pickup truck (a going away gift from an ex-boyfriend), I wondered how I would fit in here, this place called Studio City, where the streets are wide and everyone's hair is the color of spun gold.
With my black suit, chunky shoes, and the veneer of New York still on me, I thought, “What the hell am I doing here?”
Then I saw him, from the other side of the pool. The guy who would teach me about always. He was lying on a yellow chair, rolling a tobacco cigarette. He wasn't wearing a shirt. Or shoes. But he was carrying a guitar and fragments of daylight bounced off it.
I practically jumped at him. Not because he was almost a replica of the guy from “The Big Lebowski,” but because he was my new neighbor and, quite possibly, the only person who would ever understand me. “So what do people do around here for fun?” The sound of my voice surprised me, as it had taken on the raspy tone of a 1940s bombshell. Curse.
Too much East Coast, I thought, wishing I'd kept my mouth shut. But the guy was smiling and his eyes were shining like moonbeams hitting the sand. The next day, we laughed over margaritas at Casa Vega about our mutual love of “Freaks,” a 1932 film whose main characters were members of a carnival show. “To the monsters,” he said, raising a glass. “A love story.”
After that, we ordered nachos, discussed the meaning of life, and danced to a blues version of “Suzie Q” at a local bar in Whitsett. The guy knew where to go. He took me to places that had staying power. And that's what he craved: things that could last over time. In a land of ephemeral coffee shops, I wanted something solid. Something that would last a long time. The guy showed me Los Angeles, the parts you often see on celluloid, which made it easy for me to adapt.
A week later, he showed up with a frozen turkey. “Hey, hey, do you need poultry?” It was around Thanksgiving, so it wasn't too strange a question.
“Sure, I'll take some birds,” I said with a shrug.
“Fool,” he said and walked away with perfect posture.
The next time I saw him, he gave me a Slinky. Since this was my favorite toy, the boy and I fell in love. No words were said. We just knew it. He soon began sharing his world with me: his friends, his family, his German shepherd Sam.
I met his mother, a former movie star who had lived the Hollywood dream in the late '60s, as shown in old photographs hanging on a stucco wall. She had dated Brando and Dylan and had stories to tell, some worthwhile, and I wanted every detail.
Overnight he had acquired an instant family, a new tribe or perhaps an old one he had belonged to since the beginning of time. He was now part of the Angelenos, a special breed of artists who had lived here all their lives. My feelings of loneliness disappeared.
Then one night the guy took us to the top of Mulholland and told me he loved me. Although it had been hinted at for months, our union was now official. He had solidified it, right there, with the lights of the San Fernando Valley as witness. The guy was spontaneous and romantic.
He called me at work to recite Neruda poems, something we did many times before going to sleep. “Hello, I just need to tell you this,” she said, “I love your feet, because they walked on the earth and on the wind and on the waters, until they found me.”
From there, our courtship flourished greatly, as we visited all the museums, clubs, concerts and pizzerias in Southland. And on summer nights, we camped at Point Dume, where I experienced my first algae bloom, something that sometimes happens when placid water is gently disturbed, creating bright green particles.
This phenomenon is intoxicating and makes it easy to believe in it forever. Crossing emerald waves, hand in hand, it seemed like the guy and I could stay like this until the end of time. “Let's be like this forever,” I suggested, drying myself with a wool poncho.
“Ahhh,” he said, “Nothing lasts forever. Do you know that well?”
My heart sank to my feet (the feet he had professed to worship), which were buried under a mound of sand next to his. He tried to right the wheel by saying, “I mean, according to Buddhists, permanence doesn't really exist.” Then he kissed me and all the noise of the ocean disappeared.
A month later we moved in together. Our new home was an Art Deco apartment in East Hollywood, bathed in fairy lights and paper lanterns. There we cooked bolognese sauce and wrote songs. We were hip, cool and inseparable, exploring every corner of old Hollywood, from Musso & Frank to Yamashiro.
We continued like this for years. And for almost a decade, in the gentle hum of Little Armenia, we helped each other grow. The guy and I became adults together.
But even with all that adulthood, cooking, monogamy, and poetry, the guy still couldn't promise forever. And sometimes, when he told her that she loved him, he would simply reply, “Thank you,” and go back to playing an acoustic guitar.
The illusion of permanence was slipping away from me, at a pace I wasn't comfortable with. The more he wanted an everlasting romance, the more he noticed her condescending tone and sidelong glances. And there was the strange way he ignored street cleaning signs and garbage collection days. The way the guy stirred his coffee, banging his spoon against his cup an inordinate number of times before taking a sip, became the cause of my full-blown meltdowns, which I began to have regularly.
Then one day, with the sky covered by a heavy layer of marine cover, we separated. So. On the eve of our tenth anniversary. Not because we didn't love each other, but mostly because nothing lasts forever, as the guy had once speculated. So, after a river of tears and many love songs, he moved out. And we promised to remain friends. Forever.
***
It's been 20 years since this guy and I ended our love story, and those iconic places that he turned me on to still exist. Like our friendship, they have stood the test of time and remained stable amid an ever-changing landscape.
As friends, we share a unique connection, similar to the one we had before: we still write songs and discuss the meaning of life together. We still celebrate the holidays together. His family is still my family, his friends are still my friends. We know all the secrets, inside jokes, and mutual pet peeves, based on memories so deeply woven into the context of Los Angeles that they cannot be undone. And although he no longer calls me at work to recite Neruda, the guy and I still enjoy a margarita together from time to time.
The author is a playwright, storyteller and lover of frogs. He lives in Marina del Rey. She is on Instagram: @nadeencurrie
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