Crazy: (Dwell and Tell V)

The location featured in these pictures is the last coffee-shop stop I made while in Lexington, KY.  I have fallen a little behind in posts, but "Coffee Times" was so adorable a place that I had to include it in "Vino & the Bean" before moving on to the places in Staunton, VA.  Stay tuned.

While I remember a few positives from my year in L.A. (driving year-round with the windows down, always a good time for a Jamba Juice, the first apartment where I put up my own Christmas tree, etc.) mostly, when I think of my year on Findley Street in Los Feliz, I remember sheer craziness.

The landlady was certifiable.

Truly.

She made no effort to conceal the fact that she had been institutionalized for mental health problems.

Lacking sympathy and loving alliteration like I do, I wasted no time nicknaming her "Crazy Carol."

Basically, Carol told me that the job of managing the building was all she was really capable of.  And even the nagging responsibilities of us tenants were sometimes too much to rouse her from her hill of blankets and pillows that I occasionally caught sight of through her open apartment door.  And rent was free for Carol, so, you know, that's good for The Crazies.  Not so good for us tenants.

She took great pride in "hand-picking" the residents of our very small and incredibly well-priced apartment units, which I took as a compliment . . . until I met some of the other guys.  Another Crazy on the floor above me routinely attracted police and emergency vehicles.  He saw alien spaceships.

Overdoses, as rumor in the building had it.  

One night, around three in the morning, Carol came knocking on the door of my very small studio apartment whose finest feature was its cheap rent ($415 a month in a nice neighborhood in Los Feliz in 2000??  Not bad.)  The apartment's worst feature could be credited to the brown shag carpet that had become flat and matted over the years.  (I took great pains to keep my bare feet off its surface.  I tried floating, but when that failed, I went with an area rug and 24/7 socks and slippers.)  So, Carol knocks on the door of this studio, which, because of its layout, essentially means she is knocking on my bedroom door.  I had to get up at 4:45 or some shit because I had to work at a coffee shop in Studio City before going to my non-paid Warners Bros. internship, the both of which were supplemented by the aerobics classes I taught throughout the week from west Hollywood to Glendale.

I chose not to answer the door.

In the morning, I discovered a note which had been slid through the crack under my door, on which, in Carol's scrawled handwriting, she explained that she'd had a horrible nightmare about me and was checking that I was all right.  I turned the paper over, write the word "yep," and pushed it under her door on my way out of the building to go make sugar-free soy lattes for the shitheads and celebrities of Studio City.  I thought that by using the 5th-grader's method of communication, I could avoid an actual crazy conversation with Crazy Carol, but being crazy she, of course, waited for me to come home, and upon hearing my key turn in the lock of my apartment door, suddenly appeared -horror-movie-style- into the hallway.  I can only imagine the Herculean effort it must have taken for her to move that fast from Pillow-hill to Hallway in order to explain to me further of aliens and murder and me.

Awesome.

At some point in my first few months residing there, the kitchen in that apartment flooded.  Two inches of murky water spread all over the tiles and began seeping into the brown matte-shag (not sock-friendly.)  Bad enough problem as it was, communicating  it to Carol made it even less bearable.  That was around the same time that I experienced my first earthquake.  My friend Rob was living with me at the time, residing neatly, for the most part, on a fold-out futon about one foot shy of his six-something height.  We each sat straight up in our beds and looked at each other the way possums look at headlights.  

ROB:  I think that was an earthquake.

ME:  Maybe, but it felt to me like a Giant picked up my bed and shook it.

You decide.

This was also the year in my life that I got the grand idea to go out with anyone who asked me.  While this led to some interesting material that I could later exploit in my blossoming writing career, it also crudely taught me the realities of crazies and freaks.  It was in sunny L.A. that I was stalked by a dude named Joe.  The exchange began when I handed him his beautifully frothed latte over the counter at the coffee shop: 

ME:  Here ya go.  It's a work of art.  

JOE:  As are you.  

Later, with little persuasion, I gave him my number.  I know, that sounds crazy, but get this:  that wasn't enough contact info for Joe and later that week he gave me a beeper.  (???)  Talk about nutso. . . Eventually I had to change my phone number and my friend Rob did me the favor of tracking an address for Joe and mailing the beeper back.

So, life was no 90210 for me.  The cherry on the top of the fat-free, dairy-free, sugar-free sundae that is L.A., was that my coffee job was situated in Studio City, just blocks from some major film studios where some major films and television shows were shot.  I saw a lot of celebrities.  I was always impressed with how fine their little facial features appeared.  For the most part, they struck me as small, attractive people who cared little for making conversation and a lot about the ingredients of their caffeinated, or non-caffeinated beverages.  Unless . . .  a celebrity wanted attention, in which case she could smile broadly and engage all the hormone-brimming boys behind the counter in mindless cheery banter.

…such was the case for our shop’s Celebrity Regular, Sarah Michelle Gellar.  Ms. Gellar stopped in frequently on her way to shoot Buffy the Vampire Slayer which she affectionately referred to as “my show.”  The guys I worked with nearly maimed each other in an effort to be the one to mix her special beverage, or ring her up (which might even require more dialogue than mixology does.)  And who can blame them?  Sarah Michelle was, to my eye, a perfect physical being.  It was like looking at a Barbie come to life, but with soft skin and accurate proportions.  Her face seemed flawless, even at 6:00 A.M.  I was keenly aware of her appearance as I shuffled around behind the counter in a baseball cap bearing the coffee shop’s logo and a matching albeit messy apron, muttering silent affirmations to myself:  “I have a degree in Acting!  I’ve read Hamlet!  I was on the Homecoming court in '92!” etc. etc. 

Who’s certifiable now?

My self-talk was of little help, as SMG was generous with her chatter, and on the very morning that my kitchen was flooded with two inches of water, she divulged -with mild annoyance- to her sympathetic coffee-boys, that she too was having an awful morning.  My ears pricked up . . . Now, I can’t remember all the circumstances that contributed to her strife, but I do remember that it culminated when her hired Driver was late!!!  He was going to have to step on it so she could get to The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf on Ventura Blvd. for her sugar-free, vanilla, soy, frozen fucking fuck-fuck.

SMG:  I can’t be late for my show!
ME:  I totally understand, Sarah.  I, too have difficult mornings sometimes.  But right now, I want to shove the whole Complete Works of Shakespeare up your nose.

I lasted a year in L.A.  I just couldn’t hack it.  I am not pretty enough to call myself an actor in that town, and let’s face it:  theatre is what I know, and there are better places to be a part of that.  So, in applying for grad schools I looked for programs further east that would connect me to New York, which would be the final destination, I decided.  I emptied the studio apartment of all its contents, packed up the Honda and headed East.  

When I say that L.A. was fucking nuts, I am still not sure if I mean them or me.