Twenty-five years ago this month, my California adventure began. I'm not talking about that claptrap of an amusement park down in Anaheim. Nope, that was the day my bi-coastal existence began in earnest and I effectively moved most of my life to Los Angeles.
Time flies when, well, time flies.
Truth be told, it doesn't seem that long ago. Back in 1997, my writing partner and I had done all we could in New York. But, some of the work we had done there led us to some great contacts on the West Coast. Plus we had gotten an agent. Okay, her office was on top of a flower shop in Studio City, but she was an agent nonetheless. The smell of jasmine and lilacs permeated every meeting we ever had there. Some would liken it to a beautiful meadow. Usually, for us, it was like a funeral parlor. But, I digress...
Armed with tons of start-up money that had come in the form of severance from my last New York job, we used January 1997 as the target date for our move West. At first, we decided to drive cross-country in my leased Toyota Camry. After all, we needed a car in California. But, quickly, we decided how wrong-headed such a trek would be in the dead of winter. We might not see the Pacific Ocean until 1998 at the earliest.
Of course, this suddenly meant that my car would need to be shipped from Yonkers to Los Angeles. I had no clue how to do this and was astounded to find that there are numerous places who do this. A day prior to my departure, a scruffy looking Black man came to my apartment to take my car away. Watching him drive off with your vehicle, I wondered if I would ever see it again. After all, I had pulled his number out of the Yellow Pages. I almost had a tear in my eye, as if my oldest son was going off to war. Or I had just been car-jacked at gunpoint.
I had already packed off a lot of my essentials, along with my computer. Still, I kept my NY apartment furnished. I figured that I would sell all that off later in the year. Little did I know. To this day, my Yonkers abode looks like it is regularly inhabited. In a way, it is. The concept of being bi-coastal never entered into my feeble little mind on February 13, 1997.
We had somehow settled on one of those apartment complexes in Los Angeles that specialize in housing entertainment people who come to town for pilot season, etc. A wonderful two bedroom unit courtesy of Oakwood Apartments. But, of course, we couldn't afford the really convenient one right up the road from Warner Brothers Studios in Burbank. No, we could financially handle the Oakwood Apartments in Woodland Hills conveniently located right up the road from Chili's. In the days before Google searches, Woodland Hills didn't look that far out of the way. Little did we know.
Back then, I didn't have all the airline credentials that I have with American Airlines today. We found ourselves in the middle seats of a three-across. I wound up sitting next to a Middle Eastern guy in a pilot's uniform. The pants and shirt had holes in them. In October, 2001, I would have likely reported this guy to the flight attendant. But, in 1997, I sat there and quietly stewed over my cramped predicament. Little did I know.
The six-hour flight that day took eight hours. Or eighteen. It seemed like we were flying forever. I looked out at the velvet sky. What the hell was I doing? Was this the craziest thing to try and attempt? When did this guy next to me last take a bath? Questions ping ponging around my head like a pinball machine on steroids.
Once at LAX, we picked up the rental car that would be our vehicle until the Camry would or would not show up three weeks later. Once again, money was an object and we opted for a Kia, which was previously used by Bumble Bee to ship tuna. Its "pick up and go" had picked up and gone. A speed bump proved to be a steep incline for this piece of junk.
Meanwhile, even though we had been out to California before, we had no idea where the hell we were going. Our lodging was in the San Fernando Valley. As we pierced the night air in our motorized beer can, our directions seemed to lead us further and further away from civilization. Just what planet was Woodland Hills on? Oh, look, I think we just passed Jupiter.
In the days before Mapquest and Googled directions, we got lost. We exited the 101 Freeway long before we should have. Riding around in circles. Was this even a "one horse town" because I don't see a single horse? We thought about pulling into several gas stations for help but they all looked like they were in middle of an armed robbery.
Hours and seemingly years later, we arrived at the Oakwood Apartments in Woodland Hills. It was already 9PM and the management had apparently turned in for the night, which was fitting because most of Woodland Hills looked like it had closed at 7PM. Some clown with excessive bedhead finally crawled out from a rat hole and "escorted" us to our home for the next several months. By "escort," I mean...
"It's up there on the second floor someplace."
Oh. Sorry to disturb in the middle of your leisure time.
The apartment was fully equipped. Two bedrooms with adjoining bathrooms. A kitchen with plates, pots, pans, and silverware. A TV with cable and a, gasp, VCR. Home, sweet home.
CLACKETY CLACKETY CLACKETY CLACK. (PAUSE) CLACKETY CLACKETY CLACKETY CLANK!
What the fuck!
The gate to the complex' parking lot was right outside our windows. And, inexplicably, despite all the quiet in the streets around us, that gate was opened and closed once every five minutes. Where did all these people go?
CLACKETY CLACKETY CLACKETY CLACK. (PAUSE) CLACKETY CLACKETY CLACKETY CLANK!
Somewhere in Woodland Hills, there was some stuff happening. Because urchins were coming and going from it all night.
But, after a long day's journey into weirdness, sleep was able to conquer the noisiest of motorized gates. Tomorrow, the adventure would begin its next chapter. We were headed to Warner Brothers to hang with "Murphy Brown" for the next six weeks.
To be continued.
Dinner last night: Beef and broccoli bowl.
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