Redondo Beach Interlude

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I’d like to rest my heavy head tonight

On a bed of California stars

I’d like to lay my weary bones tonight

On a bed of California stars

Yes I’d give my life

To lay my head tonight on a bed

Of California stars-“California Stars” Billy Bragg and Wilco 

 

Prologue

 On January 18, 2016, Glenn Frey, one of the founders of the Eagles passed away at the age of sixty-seven. Like many rockers before him he was gone too soon. He was born in Detroit and like his hometown contemporaries, Mitch Ryder and Bob Seger, his solo work carried with it an unmistakable “Motor City Beat.” Once transplanted to Southern California and united with the Eagles, his music became the soundtrack of the Mojave Desert, the endless beaches tinged perpetually in a hazy, warm golden light. The songs conveyed the vast sprawl of what is seemingly an endless city but also the electricity which exists side-by-side with sadness and longing under the blanket of the neon lit LA night.

I first heard the Eagles while driving westward on a narrow straight stretch of South Dakota Interstate 90 one hot late summer afternoon. The music floated out of the dashboard speakers of my red Chevy Nova muscle car and took up residence in my subconscious. By increments I began to fall in love with Southern California, specifically the desert and Los Angeles. It seemed the lifestyle; the real or imagined film noir texture of the place would suit me. “Tequila Sunrises,” and a “Peaceful Easy Feeling,” seemed like a direction my life could follow with very little resistance. Thus, without realizing it, it was on a lonely stretch of interstate highway, bound for Rapid City that my journey toward Redondo Beach began. There would be twists, turns and detours but after three decades I would finally arrive.

* * *

The wind is called the Santa Ana. It has been blowing perhaps since the beginning of time. It gathers speed and power in the outer edges of the Mojave Desert and boils over the San Gabriel Mountains of Southern California bringing with it winter storms, mudslides, and brushfires. It is the only flaw in Southern California, a place that could otherwise be considered an earthly paradise. The first native inhabitants, the Spanish, the Mexicans and the white settlers who flocked to this region have long believed that the legendary wind carries with it the seeds of madness. I can attest to this belief as being absolutely true. The madness it brings is not unpleasant. It is the seductive kind wrapped in smog-pink beach sunsets and beach-front bars serving pastel colored cocktails and the appearance that no one actually does anything other than go to or come from the gym or the beach. It is a madness that is futile to resist and easy to get lost in.

I had always been in love with the idea of Southern California, Rococo Moorish apartment buildings sitting near Laurel or Topanga Canyon, surrounded by palm trees and outdoor restaurants. I was captivated by the LA of the 1950’s often portrayed in the black and white versions of Perry Mason. I was smitten with the seamy underbelly of the place so often brought to life in indie films, a place of lost and timeless characters seeking redemption or hiding from it in the glow of perpetual summer and easy living. I read once where people coming to London generally found the London they were seeking. I think the same can be said of Los Angeles. It may be no accident in a summer that seemed rootless and timeless that fate brought me to the Venice Beach Boardwalk and an apartment close enough to Redondo Beach for the sea breeze to drift into your window bringing with a deep and dreamless sleep.

A tattered summer’s end had brought a life that was motion without movement, texture without substance. My excuse for this state of affairs is that several years before I woke up to find myself in a hospital bed facing quadruple by-pass surgery. I had a forty percent chance of surviving it. I thought I would be frightened but instead there was a soothing calm about the situation. For all practical purposes the journey was over. I had lived a satisfying if unremarkable life and had few regrets.

Things did not turn out the way I had envisioned it. I survived and endured the grueling process of recovery. My stubbornness and nasty disposition refused to let me die. In the end I prevailed only to lose what I had fought the good fight for. Every trace of the life and values that I had always cherished and had been the bedrock of my very existence had vanished. I was strong but utterly empty, devoid of direction or purpose.

Things that had once been the reasons I rolled my ass out of bed in the morning, connection, purpose and meaning had suddenly become elusive. I was too lazy and too detached. My life had become irrelevant.   A change was needed. My present trajectory was not an option.

My despair and apathy caused my marriage to deteriorate and crumble. The woman who sat beside me constantly in the cardio intensive care unit became a stranger, another piece of a life that had suddenly disappeared and was not ever coming back. I moved into a stylish studio apartment in the posh Pearl District of NW Portland to live the glamorous bachelor lifestyle that seemed like a counterpoint to the drab existence I had found myself trapped in. I longed to escape a life that had become an endless round of doctor appointments, cardio-rehab, and weekly therapy appointments where I was expected to bare my soul, reveal my true feelings about my present circumstances, the problem was I did not have any. I was nothing more than a wandering void.

I spent my days, strolling through the neighborhood, napping in the park across the street from my apartment, loitering at various sidewalk cafes, consuming espresso and pastries. I ran errands to the grocery store, the cleaners etc., using these moments as a chance to enjoy my BMW Z-3 sports car, and live the illusion that I was jaunty rather than just an old man who needed to drive to the store for juice and yogurt. My living space was unfurnished, save a comfortable chair and a futon. My clothes had taken up residence in a pile in the corner of the closet. My oven was a wine storage unit and my refrigerator was a minimalist montage of microwavable cuisine.

One hot summer night when the heat from the Columbia River Gorge overwhelmed the air conditioning in my small apartment, I sought shelter in a chase lounge on the building rooftop. I was in the midst of consuming the better part of a pint of Cherry Garcia Ice Cream purchased from the Rite Aid six stories below, when the phone rang. It was my friend and teaching colleague, Dave, a Marquette University wrestler, turned coach, turned math teacher, turned house painter. He was a loyal younger brother helping his older brother with his house painting business in Southern California for the summer. By day Dave was a guy who beautified the houses of the wealthy and indolent. By night he became a character better played by Val Kilmer.

He offered me a proposition. Fly to LA, hang out for a few days and then let the seemingly endless band of asphalt that is Interstate Five and music of Bruce Springsteen carry us home. The call came unexpectedly as words of infinite sadness or joy often do. The invitation was a gift coming at the right time in the right place and like most good things in my life I almost blew it off.  In the background of the phone call the noise of a perpetual party served as hypnotic background music. It seems my friend Dave had discovered the joys of tequila shots, the endless hedonist aura of beach living, as well as a parade of temptations and pleasures forever within reach.

Almost instantly, I formed a picture in my mind of pretty women and wandering barefoot in the sand with the fog of a tequila buzz gently enveloping my brain. Dave said we would explore, get a little crazy and return home. I had no prospects and no other offers. Before our conversation had ended, in many respects I had already left.

A few days later l found myself in in the LA airport waiting for my ride and wondering about my fervent desire to run away from myself or at least to give reinvention a shot. My trip was more accident and folly, and less by design, I had not purposely embarked on an Eat, Pray, Love journey, a quest to find myself and the answers to whatever questions were dogging my existence at the moment. I have never been much of seeker after higher truths or spiritual enlightenment. I am always skeptical of those journeys and those who undertake them. People my age are particularly susceptible to that sort of thing. Immersing themselves in the dubious wisdom of Franklin Covey or standing naked in a sweat lodge reading Iron John, aloud to those who would have the universe open to them for $400 for the weekend, meals included. In the end, like the rivers I have rafted, my method of enlightenment is to drift to where I need to be. Seminars and Power Point presentations frighten and bore me and Burning Man is dusty and hot and without room service. My circumstances and motives were simple; I had no luggage, no plan and had no idea where I was going. Like so many times before in my life, I trusted fate and my own stupid good luck that I would be ok and maybe even have fun, learn something or at least come away with a tan.

My living arrangements like all else that is a part of beach life was relaxed and laid back. Besides Dave, my roommates included, Ted, Dave’s older brother, his fiancé, Jessi, and his business partner Keith. Ted was a former New York City actor, a giant of man, a former rugby player and collegiate wrestler. He had given up acting to come west and start a remodeling business which had become an extremely successful venture. Keith, his partner, was shy, reclusive, always smiling but more interested in video poker and smoking dope than he was in interacting with people. Still he was an amiable and gracious roommate. Jessi was from Arizona but she could have been a poster girl for the Southern California lifestyle. She possessed a lithe trim body that was totally at home in a bikini, petite, fit and tan. Her short hair was light brown with ample sun-bleached blonde highlights.  She embodied the very essence of the endless summer that is LA beach life. In an environment dominated by males with frat boy tendencies, she was our house mother and our anchor.

At once I was made to feel welcome. Jessi had made up a queen sized air bed in the dining room whose only other furniture was a small table. I was shown the refrigerator, the pantry, and the bathroom. There were no set mealtimes, no schedule, no expectations other than you would contribute groceries and pitch in with the chores. I thought that this way of life must be similar to living in Laurel Canyon. I had no idea if that was accurate. The notion was formed based solely on movies I had seen. My romantic worldview was forever colliding with the reality of things.

As I settled into my new accommodations, I began to believe that Redondo Beach was as close to earthly perfection as one could expect. Life suddenly had no agenda and no schedule. Time was yours to use as you saw fit. The place met all the needs and wants of a person who was aimless. It was quaint, quiet and was possessed of a funkiness that teetered precariously on the edge of charm.

While Los Angeles with its pretentious chic/seamy underbelly allure beckoned, traffic and my own apathy made it nothing more than a mirage in the distance. The Winchell’s Doughnut Shop and the Safeway were within easy walking distance. The variety of beachside bars all appeared to have spent their previous lives employed as a set in a series of campy but enjoyable black and white films. Colored lanterns and jaunty sea inspired décor conspired to make the interiors almost too cozy for comfort. The clientele all seemed to be attractive, extremely fit and perfectly tan. To paraphrase a line from a Cohn Brothers movie, this was clearly no country for an old man. None-the-less, many of the establishments bordered a white sandy beach and there were many varieties of excellent bourbon to be sampled and savored, oaky, rich, with the clarity and color of a rare gem served in a substantial, sparkling rocks glass. Toward evening, as if on cue, a gentle, refreshing sea breeze would arrive and the candy colored, smog enhanced sunset would produce yet another masterpiece just as the bourbon would take hold. Life during those moments stopped, so their sheer perfection could be appreciated.

In spite of a growing sense of inertia and being totally content with where I was, I discovered there was much to see and do in and around Redondo Beach. There were the beaches of Palos Verdes, turquoise water framed by black and white cliffs all set against the backdrop of a color crayon blue sky. One day Dave and I traveled to the Santa Monica Pier to marvel at the fact we had reached the end of the Mother Road, Route 66.

We celebrated with t-shirt purchases, cotton candy and beer. We adopted the local lifestyle in that when there was nothing else to do, we went to the beach. Boogie Boarding, body surfing and soaking up the sun could easily fill hours at a time without boredom ever setting in. After all, there is no boredom in paradise.

One day it occurred to us that the one thing still remaining on our “to-do” list was a trip to the legendary Venice Beach. It was a short drive and we both decided it would be a shame to not see and experience what is arguably one of the most famous strips of beach in America. Dave’s older brother, Ted explained to us that we were both, “too stupid” for Venice Beach. He tried to dispel the myth of a sun-splashed good time with tales of vagrants, pick pockets, muggers and the darker side of beach life that existed once the sun went down. We were undeterred and assured him we were big boys capable of common sense and possessed with the ability to handle any situation that might come up. As has often been the case, my optimism fell a little short of reality.

Our need to explore brought us to a parking place only a block from the main street of Venice Beach. Upon our arrival the first thing that caught our attention was a building with portrait of a shirtless Jim Morrison in all of his defiant glory covering its entire wall. Our inner tourist overcame us and we posed for pictures. We both agreed that it was just a preview of stranger things to come.

We purchased cold drinks and found a spot to sit near the weightlifting area and the basketball courts. The summer sun and sea breezes conspired to lull me to sleep but there was too much to see. Body builders preening and flexing, narcissism in its best and most purist form, the endless cycle of pick-up basketball games,

and a carnival of wide-eyed tourists intermingled with characters that had appeared to have materialized out of Dickens/Hunter S. Thompson novels. They all passed by against a colorful backdrop of tacky and charming souvenir shops, restaurants and tattoo parlors. There was also an uninterrupted sound track comprised of dancers and street musicians. Roller skaters and skateboarders appeared to effortlessly move to the ever-present beat. Overwhelmed we decided to slow our overloaded brains down. We needed food, and tequila.

The food renewed our energy. The tequila shots transformed us from wide-eyed tourists into part of the ebb and flow of the place. We drifted along the beachside thoroughfare, wandering in and out of shops, stopping to watch breakdancing children, enjoying the sounds of street musicians and marveling at the grace of the roller skaters moving without effort in the late afternoon sun. On impulse I stopped and bought a coarsely knit Rasta stocking cap, black with the traditional green, red and yellow stripes encircling it. Years later, the stretched and faded cap has been worn often. The five dollar impulse purchase on a summer day long ago remains one of my most prized possessions.

It has been many places since and I pray it has one or two adventures still left in it. As the sun set, a blue-black sky conspired to hang a velvet-like tapestry imbued with light and texture. The beachside evening seemed filled with possibilities as my friend Dave and I stood transfixed in front of the window of All-Star Tattoos.

Looking at the artwork displayed in the shop window, I found myself ruminating on my father’s view of me getting a tattoo. I doubt that my father even knew enough about me to pick me out of the crowd of children at the Catholic school he forced me to attend. None-the-less, he had a few rules concerning my behavior which were non-negotiable, a code which I was forced to live by. There would be no smoking, even though he was a two pack a day man. I would go to college. This in spite of the fact no one in my family had gone much beyond the eighth grade. Finally, there would never be any tattoos. This edict came from a man whose arms were covered with tattoos marking the various stages in his life including convict, shipyard welder, golden gloves boxer…He firmly believed that tattoos gave your inner most secrets to people to analyze and judge. They firmly set your place in the world much the same way a Hindu caste mark does.

My feelings toward my father were tangled and complex. Love, hatred, admiration and contempt all existed side by side in a place I tried never to look into. Perhaps this is the reason I held fast to the “no tattoos.” rule long after he passed away. I also had no reason for one. I had chosen a life where there was no place for them. I was not flamboyant or colorful. I was bland, beige, smaller than life. I married, bought a house and taught high school. Much like when I attended Catholic school, I was indistinguishable in a crowd and so it was for three decades of my adult life.

Moved by an insatiable need to do something crazy to commemorate my embrace of all things Southern California, I walked through the front door of All-Star Tattoos. I was met by a young Hispanic man named Brian. He was affable, smiling, and charming. He wanted to help me and I was certainly in the mood to be helped. I asked if he had anything in his design repertoire resembling a classic red rose. I explained that roses were my favorite flower; I was from Portland, “The Rose City,”

By chance he said he just happened to be working on “something” and that having been said he led me back to his workspace. Taped to the towel dispenser was a rumpled black and white pencil drawing of a most delicate, beautiful rose. I was instantly sold on the idea that its place was on my upper shoulder.

“It’s a Vermeer,”

he said, a hint of shyness in his voice. He pointed me toward a large art book sitting on his cluttered work table. He opened it to the page where, “Woman with a Milk Pitcher,” was located.  “We drew a lot of Vermeer still-lives at UCLA,” he said, almost apologetically. I was stunned by the beauty of the yellow roses before me and the fact that at that very moment my pre-conceived notions and stereotypes were collapsing inside of my head. I expected that Brian had learned the craft of tattooing growing up on the mean streets of the East Los Angeles barrio. I had a grand mythology worked out in my head, a story to tell about my encounter with a gangsta tattoo artist on the seamy boardwalk of Venice Beach. To my relief and dismay, none of it was true. Like most preconceptions, it was wrong.

Brian volunteered he had grown up in San Marino, a wealthy enclave of Pasadena, his parents both doctors. He had been pre-destined for medical school at UCLA, but his passion for art, derailed that plan. A Bachelor of Fine Arts, even from from UCLA, is not an automatic entrée into the upper echelons of corporate America but Brian was content to have his art grace the bodies of his many clients. He also did high-end custom airbrushed paint jobs on classic cars. I stared in wonder at the photos he shared with me. I was positive that if I would have had my beloved BMW with me, a Vermeer rose would be about to grace her hood rather than my upper shoulder.

After some discussion but not much actual thought I decided a red version of a Vermeer rose would be the perfect fit to commemorate my Southern California adventures, and my life-long love of roses. Suddenly inspired, I found I also wanted an inscription to go above my rose, but what I had no idea. To this day I have no idea where it came from but suddenly, “Mi Vida Loca,” Spanish for “My Crazy Life,” popped into my somewhat tequila befogged brain.

For the moment my non-gangsta tattoo artist stared at me. He then inquired, “What does that mean and how do you spell it?” Brian sheepishly admitted that he did not speak a single word of Spanish. To avoid something unreadable or worse, embarrassing adorning my arm for the rest of my life short though that might be, we had the presence of mind to consult Google. To be sure, we printed out the correct spelling and taped it near Brian’s workspace. Before he started the lettering he asked, “Would you like me to ‘gang’ it up a little for you?” Having only a vague idea of what that would entail, I declined.

Three and a half hours later I had a beautiful rose tattoo. Aside from the Italian tourist girls in the booth next to me who uttered profanity and produced a variety of inhuman noises as they had their nipples pierced, the experience was relaxing, ordinary and satisfying. I stepped out of All-Star Tattoo into the cool night beach air a different person. Admiring the boardwalk lights of Venice Beach, threading my way through a throng of tourists and homeless men with shopping carts, I took stock; I was $400 poorer, my arm itched as if sunburned, I had a slight tequila hangover, but damn, I had a nice tattoo. I risked a mugging or worse in a public bathroom just so I could stand in front of the mirror and admire it. It was the one really crazy thing I had done in my life that once it healed and if the itching did not drive me insane, appeared to be working out fairly well. In that moment I realized my father had been right in that a tattoo is much like a Hindu caste mark. It does define you, in a sense, done right; it becomes the Cliff Notes for your life. The beautiful rose that now dominated my upper arm and its inscription summed up my journey to that point standing in a Southern California restroom on a fog enshrouded Saturday night. I had no idea it was only the beginning of the journey.

Sunday morning found me lying on my air bed, asleep, lost in dreams of California sunshine and drifting on a cloud of gentle ocean breezes which floated through the dining room/my bedroom window. Finally alert, Dave’s voice finally made an impression on my consciousness. He was sitting crossed-legged next to my bed. For the first time since my arrival in paradise he looked serious.

“I’ve been thinkin’ man, “he began. “It’s time to go home…like tomorrow. If we don’t go soon we ain’t ever gonna leave.” I turned the thought over in my somewhat sleep addled brain. Try as I might I could not think of a single reason to return to a life that I had eagerly and joyously fled from.

Dave continued quoting Springsteen’s, Devils and Dust. “We’re a long, long way from home…and home’s a long, long ways from us.” With a hint of sadness, his voice almost a whisper, he stated what should have been obvious. “We left a lot of stuff up the road and that is what’s real. Sooner or later the fantasy is gonna come to an end. We should go before that happens…make sure the memory stays a good one.” The logical was rock solid. I spent the morning packing my meager belonging, mostly souvenir t-shirts and a jar of Vitamin E tattoo cream.

We followed what had become our regular routine one last time. We spent the day at the beach; Dave, Jessi, Ted and Keith, romped in the surf while I sat on the beach, keeping my healing tattoo dry. I watched children bodysurf, the endless parade of bikini-clad beautiful women body surfing and sunbathing, a sight I grown way too fond of and finally I dozed off, succumbing to the scent of salt water and an almost imperceptible ocean breeze.

That night we decided to celebrate with a movie and Chinese food. In a corner booth of a P.F. Chang’s Restaurant, the bourbon and sake flowed freely, intermingled with good conversation and stories about wrestling, growing up in the Midwest, and hedonist joys of beach life. Heaping platters of General Tso’s Chicken, Mongolian Beef, and fried rice only seemed emphasize the point that we were, indeed living the impossibly good life. The March of Penguins and Morgan Freeman’s hypnotic narration provided a great finale to what had been the most perfect of days.

That night, Dave, Keith and Ted turned in early. Unable to sleep, Jessi and I turned on the TV, perhaps for no other reason than to keep a magical day alive for a little while longer.  We channel surfed, finally settling on American Wedding, mostly for the soundtrack. Mesmerized by Van Morrison singing, “Into the Mystic,” without a word spoken between us, we decided it was time to dance. The lost old man and the beautiful surfer girl, silently slow dancing barefoot on the hardwood floor of a Redondo Beach apartment. After the dance was over Jessi held me close and kissed me gently on the cheek. I kissed her on the top of the head. “Thanks for taking care of me,” I said in a soft whisper. With that unforgettable moment, living the fantasy of Southern California beach life ended. For the last time I fell asleep into a dreamless slumber comforted by the familiar ocean breeze lightly blowing though my open window.

The next morning was full of hugs and tearful good-byes. Fearing we would turn around if we lingered, we stopped only for gas, bathroom breaks and fast-food drive thru windows. An endless stretch of Interstate Five, reaching through the beige and barren valleys of Central California offered little in the way scenery. Small talk and the music of Springsteen broke the monotony. At last, after what seemed like an eternity of driving, we began to climb the foothills of the Siskiyou Mountains just north of Redding.

The sun was beginning to set and the cool night air was replacing the oppressive heat of the day. Re-energized, we decided to stop, stretch our legs and to take some pictures. Freezing this particular moment in time seemed like a good idea. Life is tricky on a good day and you never know when or if you are coming back to a place or if you do, would it even be possible to retrieve the same moment. Being a former river rat, I firmly believe in the old adage, “you never wade in the same river twice.” Our adventure recorded for posterity, we began our descent down the steep grade that is Siskiyou Pass into Oregon and back to the lives we had left behind

Six hours later Dave’s road weary Toyota pulled up in front of the apartment building I had left behind a week ago. I expected it to be different but in spite of being, new, modern and spotlessly clean, a certain sense of melancholy stubbornly clung to the place. I had changed, I had the brand new tattoo to prove it, but my circumstances were still the same.

Dave and I exchanged hugs, had a few last laughs and then he drove off into the early morning darkness. For him school would start in a few weeks, his wife was home, waiting and soon he would go back to being the responsible high school math teacher he had always been. The momentary summer’s madness would be replaced by normalcy, at least until the next summer rolled around.

I stood for a long while staring into the lobby behind the stainless steel and glass door. It was as if I was too tired to enter my security pin number, take the elevator to my apartment and fall into my unmade bed. Finally I picked up my backpack and rode the elevator to the sixth floor. There was one beer left in the refrigerator. I cracked it open, kicked off my shoes and lay down to stare at the ceiling. I harbored a sliver of hope that all of the answers I needed for tomorrow morning would be magically written there for me to read and memorize. No such luck!

Instead what I found rattling around in my head were Eagle’s lyrics;

“It’s just another day in paradise
As you stumble to your bed
You’d give anything to silence
Those voices ringing in your head
You thought you could find happiness
Just over that green hill
You thought you would be satisfied
But you never will-
Learn to be still.” 

My brain was more than a little mushy from the fourteen hour drive so it took a while for it to make sense and it is possible there was no sense to be made and I was making the whole thing up. Still there seemed to be certain logic to it. Long ago the Eagles and their music had started me on my journey toward the paradise that is living near a Southern California beach. It had taken over thirty years to arrive but I had finally gotten there and now the trip was over. I had no idea what the next step would be in “Mi Vida Loca,” but for the moment it was unimportant. The sun would come up in the morning; I would stagger bleary-eyed and groggy into the elevator and across the street to World Cup for my usual Au Chocolate and Danish. I would lounge in the over-sized leather chairs and allow my IPod to let me drift to who-knows-where. For the time being my life had completed another full circle and for the moment it was enough.