Lost in LA

by Amy Craig

  “Wait. Did I give you that advice?”

  She smiled. “More or less.”

  “That sounds like terrible advice. He must be a dick if you’re still out here with me.”

  “He offered me a job at his new club.”

  The woman nodded. “But nowhere to sleep. Typical man.”

  “He has a new girlfriend.”

  Penny Lane counted the cars in the parking lot. “Larry never knew what was good for him either. He should have kicked me out and found someone who could do more than take care of him. He should have found someone to love him.”

  Maybe he loved you, even if you didn’t love him back. She remembered the days she had spent trying to mold Rusty into the man she’d thought she wanted, someone full of energy to pass the time. Rusty had always barged into his apartment with a loud declaration. ‘Honey, I’m home.’ Half the time, Wylie had jumped up to greet him, but the other half of the time, she had felt annoyed when he’d interrupted her meditations and Savasana pose. I need a man with quiet intentions, but right now I need to eat this sandwich. “What are you going to do next?”

  “Either find a job or find a way back home. That man’s benefits spoiled me. I’ve been thinking of life back at the camps, wondering if I could do it again. He kept me out of that environment.”

  “It wasn’t so great?”

  Penny Lane polished off her sandwich and pulled her hood over her hair. “It had its perks. I got attached to the beach, but I don’t want to see any more friends drink themselves to death. I don’t want to spend my days collecting cans and bottles for recycling or relying on donations.” She gestured to the groceries and the small plastic utensils they had used. “Not that I’m not grateful.”

  Wylie smiled and imagined Penny Lane in Rusty’s beat-fueled club. The woman would probably sit at the bar with canned beer and get a kick out of the pretentious customer base. “What kind of job could you do?”

  “I’m more of a caregiver without the right credentials.”

  “Tell me about it.” Wylie wiped the crumbs from her athletic wear. “I don’t know why we need licenses to be good human beings.”

  “Lawyers.”

  Wylie laughed. “Well, you can sleep in the SUV with me tonight. There won’t be any cause for litigation. I’ll even let you tune the radio.”

  Penny Lane looked at her for a moment but shook her head. “It’s a generous offer, but I figured I’d just take the seven-twenty back to downtown.”

  “And do what? Do you still have Larry’s apartment?”

  Her gaze focused on the horizon. “I have friends.”

  Wylie started to pack up the groceries. “Lucky you.”

  “You could come with me,” Penny Lane said.

  She looked toward the ocean. “I’d rather take my chances on the beach.”

  “Just stay up at the state park where there’s more darkness and cover. The police sweep the beach, so you’ve got to stay in your car or hide in bushes. Watch out for the bugs and ground squirrels…or just keep moving. I can’t tell you how many times I heard about people waking up in their vehicles to find a police officer rapping on the window or shining a flashlight in their faces. ‘Just keep moving’ can only get you so far.”

  “Just keep moving,” Wylie repeated, wondering how much sleep she could get if she had to move her vehicle every two hours.

  Penny Lane closed her eyes and took a deep breath like she was summoning a buried memory. “You need to find one of those ‘safe parking’ programs. I think they cater to veterans, but some of the sites even have showers and bathrooms and support staff.”

  “I don’t need support staff,” Wylie said.

  Penny Lane raised her eyebrows.

  “Come with me?”

  The older woman shook her head. “I’ve been out here for a long time. Whatever you do, just don’t leave your vehicle parked on the street for more than seventy-two hours. They’ll tow it and you’ll be shit out of luck.”

  Wylie laughed, hoping she wouldn’t find herself stuck on the streets for that long. “This is just temporary,” she said.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Hide in plain sight.” She looked toward the ocean. “Keep my head above water until I figure out how to get a room or an apartment.”

  Penny Lane nodded. “You’re young and pretty. You might be able to do it.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  The woman gestured toward the crumbs from their meal. “Well, you’ve already got one friend on the streets.”

  * * * *

  Wylie woke with the sun, thankful that she had been able to grab a few moments of sleep between her dark stretches of paranoia. Within the confines of her SUV, the sounds of the Los Angeles night had fueled her fears. Every human voice had seemed ominous, jerking her awake and pushing her to check the locks on the vehicle’s doors.

  As she stretched the cramps from her muscles, she began to respect the cautious wariness in Penny Lane’s eyes and wondered how the woman had survived so many years of sleeping rough. I made it through one night because I lucked out in plain sight and nobody bothered me. What happens on nights two and three? Night twenty-three? I told myself I could last two weeks, but she’s living in a whole different reality.

  A bench with metal strips disguised as armrests caught Wylie’s eye, and the anti-homeless design and hostile architecture of the surrounding neighborhood no longer looked benign or intended to thwart skateboarders.

  As she stretched and began her yoga flow, she began to see the green space south of the Santa Monica Pier with a whole new perspective. The park where Ocean Park Boulevard met the ocean had given her refuge for the night, but she realized that the leaning palm trees and open lawn near lifeguard tower twenty-six would not open their arms for everyone.

  I have the morning to myself. She stood, craving the warmth of the sun and the open freedom of the beach. Raising her arms above her head, she realized that she needed a shower as much as she needed food and freedom. Okay, if my class meets every other day, I’m going to have to make sure my ‘on’ days start with a shower.

  She eyed the wide Pacific and wondered how cold the water would feel if she risked a swim and pretended her body odor took second place to washing her clothes. February had passed in a blur of hearts and decreased class attendance, but Wylie’s childhood swims had taught her the temperature of the seawater peaked in September. There’s a reason the surfers wear wetsuits.

  A woman wearing wedge sandals stopped walking and struggled to sip her coffee while her Chihuahua pulled at a narrow lead. Wylie smiled. That’s not my life right now. I have sandwich materials and it’s easy enough to find a shower to rinse off, but I need to wash my clothes as well.

  She scanned the park and thought of Dottie, ensconced in a dated apartment with every creature comfort she needed. I hope she and her cousin are bonding over botulism, but I need to find a laundromat.

  Chapter Three

  The complications of life without a fixed dwelling filled Wylie’s day with boredom and frustration, but at five o’clock sharp, she arrived in front of Rusty’s new club to start her first shift. The old brick PG&E power station by the railroad tracks filled a city block, but strings of patio lights and a private security team promised curious Westside gawkers that the Social Club had opened for business.

  Wylie parked her vehicle behind the building and considered its location in Chesterfield Square. Twenty miles from the coast, the obscure Los Angeles neighborhood had a reputation for high crime and a heavy minority presence. She knew residents worried about gang violence, but palm trees surrounded the litter-free park and she wondered if heart disease and cancer were the bigger threats. What’s Rusty doing out here? she wondered as she checked her makeup in the rearview mirror. Whatever it is, this commute had better be worth the tips.

  She walked toward a back door where the smells of a kitchen combined with the fumes of fresh paint. “I’m looking for Rusty,” she said to the ki
d smoking a cigarette. “Today’s my first shift.”

  The man took a drag and examined her black pants and V-neck shirt. “You’re overdressed for the floor.”

  She looked at the man’s spotless white apron and gel-slicked black hair. “I doubt you’re in charge of the front of the house.”

  His eyes narrowed, but he shook his head and moved aside. “Good luck, mamacita.”

  The industrial kitchen gave way to a huge space with exposed ductwork and smaller nooks furnished with leather finishes and gleaming chrome. Workers ignored the blaring house music as they polished the bar and swept the floor, waiting for the sun to go down.

  Wylie scanned their faces, looking for her ex-boyfriend’s reddish-brown hair amid the clusters of black-clad servers struggling to talk over the amplified feed of a local radio station. She eyed the waitresses milling near the bar and realized the busboy’s assessment of her clothing had been correct.

  The women’s skirts barely covered their assets and most of their tops could have passed as bras. Wylie felt like a rookie auditioning to join the cheer squad amid a sea of midriffs and exposed cleavage. She looked at the DJ assembling his gear and laughed when he stood up and revealed an oiled chest and leather armbands. They’ll take me as I am.

  Rusty waved from the front door and beckoned her over. “You made it.”

  “I did.” She looked around the room and locked eyes with a private security officer. The man’s dispassionate expression made him look like a musician whose advertisements peppered downtown billboards. The images of a square-faced, jacked-up musician from Columbia promised to fuse traditional music with catchy, guitar-driven pop-rock, but Wylie doubted the bouncer knew how to carry a tune. She focused on Rusty. “How did the soft opening go last night?”

  Her ex-boyfriend paled. “We had some trouble.”

  She exchanged looks with the bouncer, but he remained mute and waited on a bar stool, one foot resting on the stool’s chrome supports while he cradled a tablet device.

  “Not quite the clientele we were hoping to attract,” Rusty said.

  She thought of the neighborhood surrounding the railroad tracks and wondered what outcome her ex-boyfriend had expected when he had invested in a glittering spotlight near Chesterfield Square. Shouldn’t you build to meet the community’s needs? How would you even know the community’s needs unless you asked them or lived there?

  Rusty smiled at his hired help and slapped the man on the back. “Don’t worry about it, though. We’ve posted a dress code on social media and taped a copy to all the public doors. It’s covered. It’s cool.”

  “Is it?”

  The bouncer raised his eyebrows and handed Wylie the tablet.

  She scanned a recent post on the bar’s landing page.

  Out of respect for all our guests, the Social Club has expanded its common-sense dress policy to require that all guests maintain traditional grooming standards, wear appropriate attire—e.g. collared shirts are preferred for male guests—and avoid sagging or culturally incendiary clothing. Patrons wearing overly casual and overly revealing clothing will not be admitted.

  Wylie glanced at the gaggle of waitresses waiting to make cash from exposing their assets. “This dress code leaves a lot of room for interpretation.”

  Rusty laughed and jerked his head toward the bouncer. “I’m counting on Jed to enforce the code as he sees fit.”

  She met the bouncer’s gaze.

  He rolled his eyes.

  “I’m curious to see who he lets in.” She exhaled and balanced her feelings toward Rusty against her new appreciation for life without paid utilities. She needed this job, but she also knew that most proprietors stopped at ‘no shirt, no shoes, no service’. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  Rusty nodded and jerked his thumb toward the waitresses. “C’mon. Come meet the girls. They’ll show you where you can get changed.”

  “I didn’t bring any other clothes.”

  Rusty considered her outfit and shrugged. He waved off her objection and pulled her toward a bleach-bottle blonde whose black skin shone beneath the overhead lights. “I’m sure the other girls can find you something to wear.”

  Wylie took a deep breath and wondered if she would fare better asking for donations along the beach path.

  When Rusty assigned Wylie to Dede, the other waitress took a good look at her understudy, nodded and led her to a locker in the employee changing room. “How you know Rusty?”

  “We dated for a while.”

  The waitress stopped and crossed her arms, barring the door. “And?”

  “And I called him and told him I needed a little extra cash.”

  Dede raised her eyebrows at the honesty behind Wylie’s answer. “It happens to the best of us.” She led Wylie inside the spare room lined with lockers and vanities with 1980s round lightbulbs.

  Another woman sat on a stool, her lips pursed as she took selfies beneath the flattering lights.

  Dede shouldered a metal locker and spun the dial until the mechanism released. “Kolinda didn’t like the haul last night, so I doubt she’ll be coming back for a second shift. You can borrow some of her stuff.”

  Wylie stared at the open locker. “How’d you open that?”

  The woman looked at Wylie and glanced at the woman applying makeup. “Were you ever this green?”

  The second woman laughed but declined to answer.

  “Okay. So, thanks for the clothes,” Wylie said.

  “You might want to add some more makeup too. The customers pay for flash. Do you have body glitter?”

  Wylie thought of the organic cotton cosmetics bag stashed in the SUV. She shook her head and Dede pointed toward a woman applying black liquid eyeliner. “Jeanie will loan you some.”

  When Jeanie failed to blink at the request, Wylie decided the communal makeup had a better chance of transferring pink eye than luring Wylie’s customers into bigger tips. “I’m good. I’ll pick some up tomorrow if this works out.”

  “Nothing in Chesterfield Square works out,” Jeanie said. She put down the eyeliner wand and toyed with her red highlights. “You have to make shit happen in this part of town.” She turned to face Wylie and evaluated her blonde hair and stretchy black pants. “What do you know about this neighborhood?”

  “Not much,” Wylie admitted. “I just followed the directions on my phone.”

  Jeanie raised an eyebrow that carried more liner than natural curve. “Nothing rang a bell when you punched in the address?”

  Wylie scanned the two women. “I had to take the freeway to get here?”

  “The 54th Street Massacre? The riots?”

  She felt the limits of her age and confined experiences. “I guess I wasn’t old enough to pay attention when all that happened.”

  “Shit,” Jeanie said. “All that’s been defining my life since I was a kid.” She met Dede’s gaze and took a deep breath. “Not that it was your fault.”

  “What happened?” Wylie asked, hoping the story had a happy ending.

  “Gang violence erupted between men who should have known better than to be in the same place at the same time. The tension killed a bunch of fourteen-year-olds in 1984, but the painful part is, it happened again and again. We’re going on thirty-five years of being ‘that part of town’. If people mention something else about this neighborhood, it’s the Grim Sleeper, and that ain’t good either.” She rolled her eyes and turned back to the mirror. “So we’ve got a reputation for gangs and serial killers. That’s all anybody ever talks about when they mention our home.”

  Wylie struggled for an appropriate response.

  Jeanie met her gaze in the mirror. “Except for Rusty. He said he’s going to try to build something new. Boy doesn’t understand what he’s getting into, but Dede and I ain’t going to blame him for trying.” She raised her eyebrows. “Ain’t going to blame you until you screw up, either.”

  Wylie glanced at the door to the main floor and nodded, hoping the woman’s view
of Rusty as a shrewd businessman was a better casting choice than the lead she would have picked. He’s always been a temperamental, romantic fool. Her new coworkers’ allegiance to the man said something about the circumstances of the club that Wylie must have missed. Like a family, the waitresses were suspending their personal interests and working together to get something done. This isn’t the Tragedy of the Commons, but what kind of something is it?

  She held up Dede’s black top and wondered how the web of straps and ties would support her breasts.

  Jeanie and Dede swapped neighborhood gossip, oblivious to her concerns.

  She got the distinct impression that the women had known each other from another venue. A venue with poles, she added before the judgmental thought made her blush with embarrassment. We’re all here trying to make a buck. She faced the metal lockers, pulled off her V-neck and considered what to do with her bra.

  “Take it off, girl. You’re young enough to handle it.”

  Wylie shook her head and unclasped the garment. She pulled the black top into place and realized the bulk of the fabric belonged to a hood. The two triangles in front crossed over her cleavage and ended in ties that would anchor the top behind her neck and at the small of her back.

  These had better be very good tips. She anchored the strappy top on her shoulder and wondered how many shifts it would take to pad her account balance and secure an apartment lease with her name on it.

  “Did you guys know Candy before you started working at the Social Club?”

  Jeanie and Dede looked at each other and laughed. “Girl, everybody knows Candy Cane.”

  Wylie blew out her breath and wondered how much her ex-boyfriend knew about his new business partner. Then she considered her situation and shrugged. Who am I to care?

  Jed opened the doors at seven o’clock and a slow trickle of suited office workers and off-duty drivers pooled around the bar for happy hour prices. Wylie and the other waitresses lingered on the periphery of the room, waiting for darkness and the South Los Angeles neighborhood to turn toward the allure of nightlife.