On a temperate, sun-kissed Sunday, I pulled up to the Ocean Towers in Santa Monica, ready for anything, I guess. The valet seemed to give a disapproving look to my T shirt ("We Just Ruined Baseball") but I stood and waited. I was then given a luggage cart and directed upwards. I was politely greeted, and I entered a room with a view. Me oh my, what a view. You pay for a room with that kind of view, as you know, and that's why I was there.
1 year prior, not far from smoldering ash, this was even more prized real estate. After a year of bouncing around, housesitting, whispered conversations, and finding out that no, you're not in good hands, she was able to return home. I dragged out what I could for the first trip, and off we went in near silence.
The glorious drive on PCH isn't usually filled with any negative emotion, but when I turned up Sunset, I realized I had to brace myself. A banner that reads "Palisades Strong!" still stood a year later across the street from a former Mexican restaurant that still looks bombed out. The turn up Palisades Drive was a bit different. The swanky mini mall was repaired and open as if nothing had happened. The Autumn rains had brought greenery. Barricades were up for possible mudslides - nothing unusual. I was nearly in a historic place when I was snapped to attention. "Remember those buildings on the left?" I did not. All I saw was what looked like light poles. In the flash of driving by, I was told "yeah, there were 2 condo buildings there. They are going to rebuild one of them, I heard." What I saw was, apparently, remnants of a parking lot. On the way back down, I focused to see a bit of wreckage yet to be bulldozed out. A magic trick vanished to time.
From the vantage point of her condo (and immediate surroundings), however...if you didn't know any better, nothing happened. My mind was fooling me. It was, until I walked in...bracing for the smell of old smoke, but instead it was that of new carpet and whatever scent is used by Stanley Steamer. Most everything is still here. I hauled up suitcase after suitcase. A dinner menu from that evening just days before everything else went down still sits on a table. I wonder if it's specifically there as a moment in time, or if she's afraid to toss it out.
"You know, for a while I didn't want to come back. Just find me a studio in Santa Monica or something. But I've done a 360. I wanted to get back here when I could. It's home." Fully understanding, I made a bed while she attempted to amble around. Chores done, back for round 2. I tried to relax but realized my attempt to help turned into a hostage situation: no food, no drink, no talk. The ladies of my house asked why I was doing it. I'd normally say no, maybe just volunteer money...but she's been nearly homeless a year. I'm continuing to revisit that decision.
Back down the PCH after round 2, exhausted, I reiterate that I can't stay as she was already told: the Rams game is at 3:30. "Are you sure you can't come Tuesday?" Darn my full-time job. Mentally, I broke right then. Everything else was a "no." She was dropped off and another valet could see my annoyance levels overdone.
Well, what do I have to be annoyed with? Shit, my house still stands. Nothing has really changed for me over the past 12 months; I haven't had to move a family around. Winding through Brentwood on the way back, eating "in case of Earthquake" food from my car, I eventually realized this was the kind of shit that used to happen, that had always happened. I thought it'd be different post-fire, but no...this was "the usual." And that's what I get for wanting the usual and "normal" back in my life: spending all day in the car, passive aggressive statements galore. I allowed it to happen. I shouldn't have expected any different.
Speaking of passive, I then tried to passively watch the Rams game, realized I couldn't, and then ate like a madman at dinner afterwards in "celebration." Action on one's own terms, I suppose. There would be no return the following day, so instead I sat with my neighbor's dogs, drinking iced tea, soaking in warmth. All the dogs wanted was an acknowledgement of yes, you're a good pup. That's good, because it's all I had left to give.
