Chapter 12

XII.

Outlined against a California backdrop

The Mojave Desert lined each side of the car, as we raced down expanses of land chartered by wagon wheel operators to Charles Manson’s followers and now three hungover travelers. I’m adding about two or three hours to my trip by stopping in L.A. to drop Eric and Marisa off.

When my car first reached the California border, I had mixed emotions. I hadn’t pictured the desert view I was seeing; where were the palm trees? Now my trip was almost complete. I set out for California about two weeks previous, and now I was there. A new start, a new life. I didn’t want my past to be ending though. The future was so open-ended, it scared the shit out of me.

I got the two of them dropped off at their hotel and we said our goodbyes. I don’t know if I ever could thank them enough for the company that they provided on the way. Of all the people in the world to make such a long voyage with, I counted my blessing that I got to do it with two friends that were long overdue for a visit. Regardless of where we end up in this life, I don’t think the trip from Joliet to L.A. will ever be forgotten.

The Massachusetts license plate on my car allowed me to drive ignorantly around Anaheim until I found the freeway, Rt. 5, south to San Diego. I wondered what people around me were thinking when they saw the old Mass plates. Was this person coming out to be a star? Just visiting? What an asshole! Once I found a clear path going south, the butterflies hit me hard. I would be at my new home in less than two hours. I called Brian.

I met Brian Dean the first day we stepped onto campus at the eastern university we both attended. He was hard to miss the first day of orientation in our group of twenty or so incoming freshmen, about 6’3 wild blonde hair, with an ostentatious laugh constantly bellowing from his stomach.

My older brother was also currently a student at the same university a couple years ahead of me. I had the convenience of already knowing a few people from coming up to visit him in the previous couple years, so I was coming into school with an outward brazenness of being a big man on campus, but with an inner sense of fear, knowing I had gone into high school the same way, finding it hard to make friends my own age.

From the onset, it seemed like Brian had already made a number of friends, all consumed with something I was yet to know about. When getting to know everyone in the group, he was always the loudest and most outgoing person. When bragging of my television show I hosted in high school, he was the first to respond. When we finally got a chance to talk one on one, I think we both realized we were going to be fast friends. We engaged in a conversation about college football, something I was passionate about, and something I would find out later is just one of the things he is as enthusiastic about as I am.

We stayed friends throughout college. I guess I can’t even say “friend” because it really wouldn’t do justice to how close we were. We lived next door, across the hall, or in the same apartment all four years of college. We shared the same interests, same work ethic, and same ideals. If one of us wanted to skip class, go out to the bars downtown, or some combination of things that would not exactly benefit our academic integrity, we found it pretty easy to convince the other to do the same. At the same time, we were both dedicated and intelligent enough to be amongst those with the highest GPA’s in our apartment, so we got along, too, by knowing we were the smarter ones of the group. At least that’s how we saw it.

When graduation came in the spring of 2004, it was hard to say goodbye to people that I had grown so close to. Mostly everyone else would be sticking around the east coast, a close enough drive for me to visit with friends. Brian was the only one was going far away, back home to San Diego. We had talked about visits, and jokingly about moving out there to be roommates again.

Eventually I conceded.

The weather and the prospect of the world’s prettiest women provided most of the allure towards southern California. Brian did a good job of sensationalizing his hometown throughout college, and the simple idea of living in an area ripe with palm trees was enough for me to grow an ignorant fascination about San Diego. One of my lifelong rules is that a person can only complain about one type of weather. In New England, or any of the other northern cold states, I would surmise, there are people who complain regardless if the weather is too cold or too hot. I feel this way of living is wrong. Pick the type of weather you like the least and complain about that. If you’re a winter person, then you should have to sign through city hall your weather affiliation. Just like you register with your political party, you must identify with a certain season. For me, I’d be a summer person. Though it gets outrageously humid and unbearable at times in Massachusetts during the summer months, I try my best to follow the rule. In the winter time, however, I have all the right in the world to express my disgust for the falling snow and temperatures, just as I have the right to denounce anything the Democratic Party says. Moving to San Diego, where the average temperature for the year is in the mid-70’s, would be a perfect solution to my winter-hating ways, though I’d still have to tolerate the California liberals.

Pulling into the driveway of Brian’s apartment complex was overwhelming. The rush of emotion was overpowering. In fact, the place was so much like I had imagined it to be that I felt as if I had been there before. The entrance was surrounded by palm trees, which in turn branched off to circle the pool and Jacuzzi area. About 50 yards in, there Brian stood, to the left, standing on his back porch, a place where we would spend countless hours laughing, joking, cussing, and smoking. He hopped over the fence towards my car. My friend with whom I had embraced good bye and good luck to on the other side of the country almost two weeks ago was standing in front of me, outlined against a California backdrop.

Reality had set in. I had been living out of my car, and relief came when I realized I could unpack for good. This wasn’t a vacation. This wasn’t a temporary stay. By arriving on Shoreline Drive in University Town Center, my move to the west coast was complete. Brian showed me around my new home, including the place I was to sleep, which was a pullout couch, but I cared very little about where I was to spend my nights. There were people to meet, and places to see, but switching the arrangement of the verbs in that statement would do it more justice.

#

When my stuff was unloaded, we hopped in Brian’s car to go have a couple of brews. By Brian’s explanation, I deserved one, and I didn’t disagree with him. We smoked a joint and headed off to a bar where we’d eventually spend incalculable happy hours. My recollection of the night is foggy, not because we were too intoxicated, but because I began ascending the crest of a memorable wave in my life that night. My adventures in California would involve unique serendipity and stress, happy hours and heartache.

Chapter 11

XI.

“Split them.”

We found ourselves awake pretty early on the next morning, a Friday, and we relocated down the strip a mile or so to Treasure Island. We tied up some loose ends as far as essentials – smokes, a new map because ours flew out the window on the trip down Rt. 15, some deodorant – at a local CVS. We intended to spend our day by the pool at Treasure Island, then heading off to dinner at Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville restaurant for some “boat drinks” to get the night started.

We did much of the tourist stuff early in the evening. We went to the wax museum and pondered whether or not we could convince people that Marisa actually met Ben Affleck, or more unbelievably Eric and I had met Britney Spears. The three of us squeezed as much activity into one day, including seeing a press conference for the weekend’s boxing match at Caesar’s Palace and getting kicked out of the Tiger cage at the Mirage for smoking cigarettes.

We followed the same strict rules for the second night as we did the first. We did as little gambling as we could unless we were drinking. In Vegas, a gambler can try his luck at the most elementary, but uncontrollable game of “war.” There is no strategy involved besides hoping your six can beat the dealers’ card. It, to me, seemed like a waste of $15 a hand. Regardless, I played.

Again playing blackjack, again playing $25 a hand, Eric and I sat down while Marisa ventured off to recreate the previous nights brilliant plan at the slot machines by the bar.

Eric was a great sport this night because of my luck and his lack thereof. I cleaned house, for an amateur, while he took the brunt of the beating, retreating for his wallet on a few different occasions. I asked him why he’s staying. He’s just losing more every time he brings out another $100 bill.

“Because you’re winning,” he said. “If I leave, it’ll fuck up your luck.”

I was at the $25 a hand table, but my arrogance was getting the best of my winnings, and I upped each bet to $50 each. My best score of the night came when I drew two eights.

“You have to split them,” said the bald Asian guy sitting to my right.

“Yea?”

“Yes, split them.”

I split the eights, meaning I needed to throw another $50 into the fray. When the dealer came back around to hit both of my eights, she threw another eight, which I “should split” says the same guy, so I do. To make the cycle complete, on the next eight, I drew another one.

Now I’m sitting with four eights and $200 in chips in front of me, a crowd now amassing because of the cheers from the helpful and encouraging, yet astonished group at the table. Inhaling a cigarette, I waited for the action to unfold. While I can’t remember exactly what all four hand in front of me ended up being, I do remember that the dealer busted on each hand, putting me up $200 on just those hands alone. The whole table and the surrounding masses applauded, and patted me on the back, and I felt like I had just won the Super Bowl as I thanked each person at the table for talking me through a game I still wasn’t completely familiar with.

When the dealer left the table, I tipped and thanked her, and waited for the next sucker to approach the hot table. After he arrived, I realized the karma at the table changing, and decided to step off the table, a grand total of $375 ahead. I opted to quit gambling while I was up, and offered to buy rounds for the remainder of the night.

Eventually we settled in for the night, as we were scheduled to head out early in the morning for a drive to Los Angeles, where I would drop my friends off in Anaheim at Disney Land, and I would continue my trip down the California coast to San Diego.

#

People go west for a variety of reasons. In the 1800’s, the expansion of the country was in full-bloom, and was helped invariably by the prospect of gold and riches. The Mormons headed west in exile of their previous homes in Kansas and Illinois, eventually settling in Utah. By the early 1900’s, people were drawn to the west coast because of the potential for land, which, by all account was outrageously picturesque, and the overgrowth of the eastern part of the country was making living much more modern. The “wild west” was an aptly named epithet for an area where the land expanded almost endlessly, and ruthless gunmen ruled the street.

Eventually, people saw the glitz and glamour emerge from Los Angeles, a place, ironically, built based on strict religious principles. Movie stars started to shine brightly, talking of this mythical place where anything can happen, and anyone can be someone. It seemed like a lie, boundless opportunities for stardom, perfect weather year-round, and beautiful people everywhere you look. They started building on the hills and by the beach. You didn’t know what you were missing.

Nowadays, people have the same image of Los Angeles in their head, though people are bound to feel either one way or the other. You’re either turned on, or turned off by the big city, the prospect of bumping into celebrities seen only in movies on a regular basis, and the fast life that accompanies living the stereotype that personifies the City of Angels. In my time spent in southern California, I went to L.A. on a number of occasions. I was awestruck by the size of the city and the famous landmarks. Everyone seems to know one another – or pretends to. “Yea, I’ve seen Leonardo DiCaprio out a bunch of times. He’s friends with my friend.” Everyone is an actress, an agent, a model, a writer. When partying along the Sunset Strip, one tends to sit in the role of a Paris Hilton or other celebrities partying as hard as you can. The rounds of drink accumulate and you don’t mind spending like you’re a millionaire because partying in L.A. is almost taboo, like you’re doing something that only a select few CAN do. And everyone acts like that, which makes the environment the place to be.

In Los Angeles, the people on the big screen are not the only actors in the city. The actors can be the men and women at a bar, dressing up in suits and dresses and in makeup, telling each other lies about what they do for work, or what kind of car they drive, all to end up in one another’s bed, all because this guy is an executive somewhere, or knows an executive and can get you on the way to millions of dollars.

Californians, by nature or by definition, are contradictory people. Though viewed as entrepreneurial and brave, the travelers of the westward march adopted a selfish attitude, marching forward despite illness and death even in their own family; husbands, wives, even to their very young sons and daughters. Upon the death of one, the burial would be immediate so the group could keep west, keep moving on to a life under the golden sun ripe with riches undefined. Nothing like finding the best piece of property to replace a dead child.

Despite the capitalistic ventures, the farmland seen so prosperous and ingenious was built on land so arid that the rest of America, through way of paying their taxes were the ones who funded the “dreamers of the golden dream.” I found this similar to the way that movie stars now make their movies in California, yet they have 49 other states to help put money into their pockets. The travelers, so inexperienced, let taxpayers fund the railroads, the distribution of water to their deserts for irrigation, and their levees to prevent flooding in areas like the San Joaquin Valley and the Sacramento River. Their “hard work and fortitude” funded elsewhere, like the girl who “pays her own rent” living on her own with a check from dad every four weeks.

The underlying theme, though, to all of these things is that the city in itself is a pretentious place. Everyone came from somewhere else, to find stardom or to escape in some way, to start anew. I could be counted among those, I guess, who wanted to find something else out there in southern California, whether it was in L.A. or down “The 5” about two hours in San Diego.

We started out of Vegas around 9 a.m. The drive to Los Angeles was only going to take us about five hours, all desert, but I wanted more than anything else to hold on to those last few hours with my friends who I had spent so much time with in the past week. At least I knew what to expect with them. I had no idea what was ahead of me.