Los Angeles
[Author’s note: this is a work of fiction. This is a sequel to Turning on, Tuning in, and Desperately Wishing You Could Change the Channel.]
Every few months I make the trip down from my college town in northern California to Los Angeles and see my mother. I haven’t spoken to her in a long time, really—not since the funeral—but she’s a regular fixture at all our old haunts, and I’ve found there is little I can do to avoid encountering her.
The drive down took longer than it should, but I got a nice hotel room near Westwood this time and was doing everything I could to get comfortable. I spent the most miserable and memorable parts of my childhood in this city and every time I returned it felt like revisiting Hill House.
There used to be a medical marijuana shop about a mile and a half away from this hotel when I was a teenager—now it’s a recreational marijuana shop. I decided to walk down and stock up.
It used to be you couldn’t walk a mile in any direction without coming across at least one tent city—things had changed though, as I passed by three of them before I got half-way to the shop. The last one was a comparative metropolis of a dozen expensive tents neatly arrayed on a surprisingly clean section of sidewalk under the overpass. As I approached, a young man politely accosted me,
“Hey Bro, you need a place to stay? You look lost. Got a nice clean vacant tent here, five dollars a night but only $20 if you want to rent it for a week. Good price, you won’t find a nicer spot on the street.”
“What?”
“C’mon bro don’t waste my time, you look like you could use a place to stay, only $20 to rent a tent for a week.”
“You’re renting these tents under the overpass? Do you own them?”
“Of course bro, I’m operating a service here, times are tough, people are on the street and need shelter, I provide them a place to stay.”
“But aren’t there free shelters or whatever?”
“Dude those are filthy and have limited spots and are far as shit, no one wants to go to those out of the way dumps, I keep this spot clean, I provide nice tents to rent for cheap.”
“I guess I’m kind of confused about your business model. Homeless people pay you to rent out these tents?”
“Yes, all the time, I’m telling you bro I’m operating a reputable well-established business. You know, I got one of my best tents here at the end, nice and vacant for you, try it out for a night for $5, you’ll see it’s so nice you’ll want to stay for the week.”
“These are nice tents. They look expensive, how much were they?”
Here for the first time his demeanor changed, and it seemed to me he went from a fairly affable but ambitious businessman to a dangerous paranoid creep. He narrowed his eyes and got in my face,
“I really don’t appreciate the way you’re pressing me with these questions, I think you should rent a tent or back off.”
“Hey, no worries, got to go!”
The rest of the walk to the shop was uneventful, ditto with the walk back to the hotel.
I got back to my room, took a beer from the mini bar and began smoking and listening to music.
A few hours later and I knew it was time to deal with the spectre haunting my mind. I decided to see a movie. There was a midnight showing of a documentary on the first female prime minister of Pakistan playing at a small theater in Santa Monica, which I decided to check out.
The walk was about two miles away and I was feeling paranoid the entire way. I forgot my headphones so I couldn’t listen to music, and a growing sense of anxiety kept me on high alert. This proved quite fortunate, because about half-way there an extremely tan old man with dirty white hair, wearing a tank top, swim shorts and water moccasins, quickly approached me from the front and—I promise you this is true—out of nowhere, took a swing at me. Instinctively, I ducked, and spun around to look at him. Without turning back, he let out a loud bitter laugh and kept moving forward.
My heart was racing, but I was pleased at my quick reaction, although I was angry and wished I had the chance to throw a punch back at him. I eventually made it to the theater and got my ticket.
I sat in the second to last row, in the left isle seat of the middle section. The theater was mostly empty but maybe a half dozen or so individuals were in the middle couple of rows. After all the previews ran, the theater got dark and the film began to start. Soon after, someone walked in on the opposite side of the theater and sat in the second to last row, my row, in the right isle seat of the middle section.
I stared stubbornly forward as I heard the person, the vague dark blur in the shape of my mother sitting across the theater, whisper my name. She hissed it repeatedly, slowly, every so often, for the first 15 minutes or so of the movie before seemingly giving up. The entire movie she seemed to stare straight at me, never once looking at the screen. Another two hours or so went by where I pretended to watch the film despite being consumed with panic. I’m not sure what the story was, beyond knowing the prime minister ultimately gets assassinated. As the film was coming to a close, she made one final appeal—
In order to overcome being a victim, she whispered slowly, sometimes one must victimize. I hope my point was proven.
At this point, the credits for the film began to roll, and I bolted from the theater. Running flat out I made it about halfway to the hotel before I slowed to heavy breathing walk. Terrified and preoccupied, walking with my head down, I heard a low cough and had time to look and see an extremely tan face under a mess of dirty white hair before I felt the fist hit my face and I hit the ground. I heard the old man let out a gleeful cackle and dazedly watched as he skipped away, clicking the heels of his water moccasins together every so often.
I lie there comfortably in the trash, face bleeding, alcohol-buzz diminishing, possibly crying, feeling very at home. I see my mother standing off to the side staring at me.
I want to tell her that I can’t do this anymore. That I hate this city, and that I have for a long time, but only because I knew it hated me for a long time first. That I was sorry I didn’t get her the help she needed. That I hated her memory for constantly reminding me of what I failure I am. That I hated what we have in common—I hate our laziness and our gluttony, I hate that we always get food stuck in our teeth, I hate our (possibly psychosomatic) chronic neck pain. I hate our insane family.
I don’t tell her this. I can’t tell her this, because she is dead.
Instead, before I turn and begin the slow walk back to the hotel, I make one final promise to her, one I knew I would keep—
“See in you in three months.”
[Part 1: Turning on, Tuning in, and Desperately Wishing You Could Change the Channel]