LA Weekly July 14-20, 2000

Let’s Get Lost
by Dianne V. Lawrence

I haven’t passed an exit in the last half-hour, but one miraculously appears. It’s an exit with a gas station north of the Grapevine. A beautiful oasis, surrounded by flat, golden fields, with coffee and a telephone. My crippled wagon pulls in and clanks to a halt, and I step out into sun and dry desert wind in my hair and the deep quiet of all that uninterrupted space. The unexpected has caught me.

I’m towed to the closest open garage in the closest small town. Maybe 300 people living across a two-lane highway from some kind of industrial farm. It’s my lucky day, because the owner of the garage is running for mayor. Today he’s raising money by hosting a big picnic in the local park, and I’m invited to go while the garage investigates my station wagon. The manager of the garage, a friendly, nice-looking guy in his 40s, drives me to the park and talks about his divorce and loneliness and desire to settle down again. Sometimes when I’ve gotten tired of big-city demands and disappointments, I’ve joked about escaping to a small town and marrying a mechanic. As I listen to his lonely, hopeful voice, I turn my eyes heavenward and think, Just kidding!

At the parking lot we separate and I head off toward the activity. There are about 50 people scattered about, most of them eating hot dogs and sitting at picnic tables in the shade of a stand of listless trees. Some wander around and greet neighbors. There’s a touch-football game in progress. I get some lemonade and pull a chair up to the ticket table.

A young, plump woman is in charge of the tickets. I smile hello, she smiles back, content and easy in her demeanor. She’s okay with what’s going on in her life. Maybe kids, a faithful loving husband, civic involvement. Or maybe a divorce and freedom at last. Next to her is a teenage boy, all skinniness and ears and a gosh-darn kind of enthusiasm. When he hears I’m from L.A. the questions start. How often do I run into movie stars? Once a year. Have I ever seen a drive-by shooting? No, but there was a shootout in front of my door once. How can I stand the pollution? I quit smoking, and they have emission controls now. Suddenly the questions stop and the boy’s lower jaw starts dropping lower. I turn to look, and coming toward us is a vision of tall, lanky, movie-star blondness. I blurt out, "What the hell is she doing here?" and the plump woman smiles, points to the football game and says, "She’s married to him." I think, Of course, the two most beautiful people in town. What choice did they have? I wonder if her beauty isolates her from other women. How does she exercise the power that comes with that kind of beauty in this small town? What else do they have in common? Why have they stayed here? Meanwhile the teenager is becoming frantic. "Damn, she’s the best thing I’ve ever seen! Is she married? Damn I want her!" He jumps up from his seat and sits back down. "What the hell can I say to her? "The plump woman looks at me. We don’t know if we should be amused at this burst of uncontrollable hope, delusion and testosterone or be concerned for the safety of the woman. She arrives and asks for two lemonade tickets. The boy, grinning from ear to ear, does not shy away from the golden opportunity. In a tone of unbridled giddiness laced with sincere concern, he asks if she’s enjoying herself. She takes her tickets, mutters, "Yeah, it’s fun," turns and walks away. There’s an awkward moment among the three of us, and then I notice my mechanic friend waving at me. I say my goodbyes and get a warm smile from the plump woman and a sheepish grin from the boy.

My car needs to be towed to Bakersfield, about an hour away. It’s late afternoon, and the sun is warm and low in the sky and will be at our backs. The divorced mechanic drives. I ask a lot of questions. How long had he been married? Why had it ended? Why should his boss be mayor? Did he have hobbies? Had he always been a mechanic? Clouds have been gathering. We finally pull off the highway, and as we take the exit curve he points out the mechanic’s shop under the pass. There’s my motel, conveniently located behind a McDonald’s and a Denny’s. The suburban edge of Bakersfield surrounds us. I’m having the perfect American experience: highways, broken cars, motels and easy access to French fries. My escort pulls into the motel lot and unhooks the wagon as I register. I unload my suitcases in my room and it begins to pour. I open the curtain, fall back on the bed and lie there listening and watching the rain fall. Nothing to do, nowhere to go, only one phone call to make. Was that thunder? I really needed to stop. Feel completely uncompelled. Stare at the rain. Watch a movie. Maybe three or four. Sleep. Stare some more. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. The unexpected has taken me to a place I absolutely had to get to. It rains all weekend. The sun is shining.

Excerpt from "What a Dump! Tales from Al’s Bar,
L.A.’s distinguished demi-monde dive."

A series of short stories by Al’s habitue’s.
L. A. Style magazine July 1987

It was 1980 and Al’s was an uninviting door under a white bulb on a street that was darker than my last depression. The moment I stepped inside I knew I was home free. No Westside decorator’s politics here. No seething Hollywood ambition, desperately optimistic actors, producers with telephones ringing within two feet of wherever they were, writers with tears and loathing or people who mistook their ambition for spiritual destiny. No, just the pool table, the jukebox, those bleak, black booths, the smell of stale beer and….comrades! Deep funk, downtown, hardcore, easygoing poetry! All right.

  ©2004 Dianne V. Lawrence