City of Los Angeles, full name El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora la Reina de los Angeles de Porciuncula, incredibly contracted to simply L.A., is a quirky place that is unlike any other city in the world. The balmy climate and the lack of any meaningful history–the city is only 120 years old– lends an air of impermanence and a kind of desperate buddhist live-in-the-moment attitude but without ever attaining nirvana. That is, after all, what the mind altering drugs are for.
Coming from the perpetually wet and cold Scotland, the beaches that flank the southwestern edge of LA were a major draw for me and as soon as possible, I drove to Santa Monica Beach and, completely in awe, walked along the deserted beach to the edge of the Pacific Ocean in mid-December. The beauty, the tranquility and the gravitas of the moment brought tears to my eyes. From that day on, every Saturday and Sunday I drove to a beach regardless of the weather.
Everyone in L.A. has their favorite beach and a special spot on it. Castellammare Beach, a stone throw from the original Getty Museum, in Pacific Palisades close to where Sunset Boulevard meets Pacific Coast Highway, became my favorite. The proximity of the parking spaces and Gladstone's 4 Fish Restaurant were the main reasons for my choice. One Saturday in January the weather was really bad, so I drove to Santa Monica Main Street instead and spent an afternoon window shopping in one of the few areas of LA where one could actually walk along the street, European style. Early in the evening I ended up in Merlin's Rest, a faux English pub, drinking a beer. At the other end of the bar I saw a blonde girl with a bright green top. Being a bit nearsighted I did not clearly see her face, but I knew she was aware that I was myopically squinting at her. As I was finishing my beer she sashayed towards me with her girlfriend. Looking straight at me, she said: "I'm goin' home now" with a Home Counties English accent. This was a new one for me, but we started talking and eventually left together to pick up her car that was parked some distance away. Her name was Evelyn, from London, and she would only leave with me if I showed her my driver's license which her girlfriend copied, just in case I turned out to be some sexual deviant.
Evelyn was very sexually liberated with an enormous capacity for activities that were not yet invented by the adult entertainment industry. We dated for a few months, but apart from some funky sexscapades there was no substance to our relationship and we drifted apart. Soon I was going to the beach alone again, armed with the Sunday LA Times, some snacks and Perrier water in a small cooler. The days had begun to get warmer and longer and the beach was busier each weekend.
One day, there was a storm several hundred miles to the South that generated large waves topping 20 feet. With bravery that bordered on idiocy, I waded into the surf and swam away from the beach, diving to avoid the incoming breakers. Beyond the wave breaking point, it was easier to simply ride the powerful waves. After a while I started swimming back to the beach. Going back was much harder as the undertow kept sweeping me back into the ocean. Diving under each incoming wave was exhausting with hardly time to catch a breath between waves. I struggled, but eventually made it back to the beach. Utterly spent, I lay for a while on the edge of the water like Robinson Crusoe. The lifeguards closed the beach shortly after. Apparently the ocean was too dangerous. No shit.
As I basked on the beach one spring day something caused me to lift my head from my newspaper, and I spied a dark haired girl in a dazzling white bikini walk from her black BMW down the bluff to the beach. She picked a spot to my right, a few yards away, exactly the right distance to maintain my (and her's) territorial prerogative. She had her space and I had mine; an important beach etiquette. I paid her no attention; I was on the beach to soak up the sun and meeting women was not a high priority that day. An hour later, I needed to get something from my car and asked my new beach neighbor to look after my stuff if she would not mind. As if the half empty beach was teeming with thieves bent on stealing my blanket and cooler.
Sure, was the answer. It was the beginning of an unusual relationship that lasted a quarter of a century.
When I returned, I thanked her with my odd mixture of mid-European/English/Scottish accent. Where was I from, she asked. From that point on we talked about the theatre, Pasadena, Scotland, in a remarkably easy conversation that flowed effortlessly from topic to topic. Michelle was her name and she was an aspiring actress from Arizona, living in Hollywood Hills. She was from a powerful political family and I found that fascinating even though at the time I could barely describe the differences between the two major American political parties. In a defensive gesture, I think, she kept her sunglasses on throughout the afternoon. It was not until the sun started to set that I walked with her to her car. As she wrote down her phone number, she took off her shades and revealed the largest pair of dark eyes I'd ever seen.
Michelle made quite an impression on me but I was under no illusion that anything would develop between us. Only a few months ago I arrived in California with just a couple of suitcases. Soon I would be an illegal immigrant and my quasi-architectural position in Pasadena was poorly paid. I lived in a one room studio with a Murphy bed in an old hotel that had been converted to condominiums - my room was originally the maid quarters. The fact that the building, the old Castle Green Hotel, was a historical landmark was not interesting to me at the time. I did not even have a phone or air conditioning. I drove a boat of a car, a five year old Lincoln Continental that actually had the proverbial little old lady from Pasadena as its previous owner. It was a pimp-mobile and a gas guzzler that was prone to breaking down at the least opportune moment. In Los Angeles it was perception that mattered, not substance; I was a D-minus date.
Still, I called Michelle later in the week and we arranged to meet in the Fox and Hound Ye Englishe Pubbe at the western end of Sunset Boulevard. The place was reputedly frequented by Rod Stewart who lived nearby. He may have been there that day, but the bar was so dark, night vision goggles should have been provided in a bin at the door and the menu should have been in braille. Michelle arrived, and blindly traversed the room with her arms stretched out, guided only the sound of my voice. The place was a bit of a dive so we did not stay long. I don't recall where we ended that evening. Awareness of my immediate surroundings diminished and that unmeasurable phenomenon called "chemistry" was kicking in. Not only was Michelle very, very pretty, she was smart, witty, personable and a slightly crooked tooth gave her a mischievous smile. She was taking acting classes as well as working at the "Blue Whale" in West Hollywood, a huge design center for interior decorators and designers. I was wary, but Michelle cast a powerful spell and there was a definite connection.
Slowly the relationship developed into a romance and we both gamely tried to make it work. We often went away for weekends to Santa Barbara, where we'd roller skate along the beach, have our palms read (by Madame Rosinka - she's still there today!), eat clam chowder on the pier and attend the midnight showing in the local movie house of the cult classic "The Rocky Horror Movie Picture Show". Along with half of LA we escaped to Palm Springs during the opening ceremony of the 1984 Olympic Games where we spent most of our time in the air conditioned comfort of the hotel room. We went to Six Flags Magic Mountain and rode every ride at least once. We often spent time at the beach and enjoyed art galleries like Huntington Library and Norton Simon. At Disneyland we discovered that the Happiest Place on Earth did not take kindly to couples having a tad too much fun in the darkness of the Haunted House ride. We'd have a great time, we'd enjoy each others company. But as we returned to our regular lives after these outings, a cloud would descend over us and the chemistry would vanish. Just like that...poof...it was gone and suddenly we were two strangers riding in a car.
I knew she was on a rebound from a Beverly Hills boyfriend who had money and a social pedigree that I could not match. That was the crux of the problem. We were not on the same social level. Michelle had loads of stories about wild weekends in Cabo San Lucas. Some of these were quite piquant. But I did not have the means to fly her to Cabo for a weekend party; I could barely afford a new pair of jeans. I felt inadequate and frustrated and there was some friction.
We spent some evenings in Michelle's tiny cottage, just off Coldwater Canyon in Hollywood Hills. I'd buy some champagne and deli meats and cheeses in Greenblatts Deli on Sunset and we'd spend the evening just talking and the clouds would disappear again. One morning we walked out of the cottage and there laying in the street was a tiny envelope, folded in the unmistakable pattern favored by drug dealers. It was pure cocaine. We felt that it was safer with us than in the street. What if some kids find it? There was a dilemma. Is one obligated to return illegal drugs one finds in the street? Is there an ethics code? Lost and found counter at the nearest Sheriff's Station? I leaned towards returning the cocaine to it's rightful owner; Michelle was less sure. So, off the beach we went and did some of the cocaine right there on the sand. This was actually quite stupid as the heroic LA County Sheriff deputies patrol the beaches–and scan them with high-powered binoculars– looking for beach goers drinking alcohol, or enjoying each other's company a bit too intimately or...doing drugs on the beach. Witnessing an arrest on the beach for some infraction was not uncommon. It's easier for the cops to ride on the beach on ATVs, and far more pleasant, than chasing heavily armed gang members in the badlands of South LA.
After we returned back to the cottage in late afternoon we gave the remaining coke to Michelle's actor neighbor who supplemented his income by trading in illegal substances. Hey, this was Hollywood Hills where mind altering drugs were never far from the surface - in this case actually just laying in the street.
Michelle introduced me to a lot of new things. I'd never had sushi, so one evening we went to a small Japanese restaurant in West Hollywood and I tasted raw fish. At least I already knew how to wield the chopsticks. I loved the simplicity, purity and elegance of sushi and the deliberate low-key rituals. Michelle also taught me how to behave in restaurants. The United Kingdom is a society with clearly defined classes and the way one interacts with the people who serve you reinforces the class distinction. In the UK, a waiter is there to serve you food and drink and his instructions are usually made in a somewhat bossy tone - you are the one placing an order and the waiter is there fulfill it. Chop Chop. The California restaurant etiquette is very different. Here, the waiter or waitress is your best friend for the duration of the meal, Michelle told me. Regardless of your social standing, you will be called by your first name as though you are an old friend. Placing an order for food is more like a banter between two acquaintances, with the waiter often making suggestions and approving the wisdom of your choices. You just go along with it!
I've experienced waiters who felt free to join us at our table and openly discuss their personal problems. One waitress used her time with us to pitch her husband's business. On a couple of occasions I ended up taking my waitress to a party I was attending later that evening, just because she was so damn personable serving the Osso Buco.
Los Angeles is a movie town. It is probably the only place in the world where people in cinemas wait until the movie is over to watch the credits at the end because everyone knows someone who may have been associated with the movie. "Look there's cousin Kevin as a Second Grip". Getting on the list of credits is a big deal, as is the position, the size of the font and so on.
- Early one evening, Michelle and I are getting ready to go out. I'm waiting impatiently in the living space of her cottage while she puts on her make up in the bathroom. Out of boredom I start to scan a small bookshelf next to the sofa. Michelle is an eclectic and avid reader so I'm sure to find an interesting book. I do. On the bottom shelf, right at the end is a small hardcover without a title on the spine. I pull it out and start skimming the pages. They are all blank except the last one. There, written in a deliberate feminine script is a column of names; mostly male names, a few female. As I scan the list from top to bottom, I see my name, the last name on the list. And written in red ink! I've made the credits! I might be at the bottom but I'm the last one. In red! I like to think it is a good thing but ultimately I'll never find out for sure.
And that's how I got on a Hollywood credits list without the hassle of appearing in a movie.
Michelle and I parted ways shortly after. But somehow we stayed intermittently in touch for the next 25 years.
