by James Frey
The 5 runs for 1,400 miles, from the border of the US and Mexico to the border of the US and Canada. It connects most of the major cities of the western seaboard: San Diego, Los Angeles, Sacramento, Portland, Seattle, Tijuana in Mexico and Vancouver in Canada. It is usually eight lanes wide, though in certain short sections around LA, it expands out to ten. All of them are usually jammed with traffic. Because of the 5’s route, which runs along the heavily populated Eastside of LA, there is no room for it to expand. Because of the rapidly growing population of southern California, and Los Angeles specifically, the traffic on it is getting worse every year. Maintenance of the 5 is incredibly difficult. If a lane, or two lanes, is shut down or blocked, it affects traffic on every other highway in Los Angeles in a negative fashion, creating giant citywide traffic jams. Maintenance has to be done in the middle of the night, between the hours of 11:00 PM and 5:00 AM. Projects take years, and by the time they’re finished, there is often a need to start doing repairs on the original work.
There’s no way to solve the problem. It’s getting worse, and will continue to get worse.
Like an Old Man, a Graybeard, a Granddaddy, the 5 is breaking down physically, wearing out. It was once glorious, the biggest and most important of the LA highways, now old age and a changing world are making it into something sad and beaten, unfixable and in a state of degradation. In a perfect world, the 5 could gracefully retire and wait for the day when it received a call from Highway Heaven. It could relax and look back on its own history and accomplishments with pride and a sense of achievement. Instead, it carries on, no way to change, no way to get better, no way to be what it once was. It carries on, it carries on.
California State Route 1, Highway 1, the Pacific Coast Highway, or, the PCH. In lieu of a standard description, a stanza from the work of a great poet may be most appropriate here:
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow’d to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
—LORD BYRON (1788–1824)
Yes, she is a beauty, some say the most beautiful highway in the world.
She inspires songs, films, paintings, photographs, people come from all over the world to see her, spend time on her, to drive her. Even in Los Angeles, a land populated with many of the most beautiful people in the world, she is considered extraordinary. So extraordinary that the unique numerical naming system used for every major road in LA County is discarded, and she is given letters instead. The PCH, how many times have those words brought a tear to someone’s eye, the PCH, better charge up the calculator.
The PCH was initially the vision of a country doctor named John Roberts, who lived in the northern California town of Monterey. Most of his patients lived up and down the coast, and there were no reliable roads for him to travel on when he needed to reach them. He sent his proposal, which was for a 140-mile two-lane road running between Monterey and San Luis Obispo, to his local state congressman, who put it before the state legislature, where it was approved in 1919 with a budget of $1.5 million. Within two months it was over budget, and prisoners from San Quentin State Prison were used as a labor force in exchange for reduced sentences. Ten million cubic feet of rock were blown away and as late as 1945, sticks of dynamite were found along the side of the PCH. Over the course of the next thirty years, the legislature authorized more construction, and certified more sections of other roads to be included as part of the PCH, and it now runs from Dana Point in Orange County to a small town in northern California called Leggett.
As is often the case with things of great beauty, not all is as it may initially seem. The PCH in LA County can be a mean, ugly, humongous pain in the ass. It enters LA County in Long Beach and runs north through San Pedro and Torrance, Redondo Beach and Hermosa Beach. Through most of this section of it, it is a four-lane road lined with mini-malls and fast-food restaurants, discount chains and car lots. The only true sign that the road is on the Pacific Coast is the air, which is heavy, salty, wet sea air. The PCH then passes by Los Angeles Airport, also known as LAX, and becomes part of Lincoln Boulevard, which is fondly known by its nickname, Stinkin’ Lincoln. Because of all the traffic lights, traffic is stop-and-go, and can be incredibly jammed. The road doesn’t become what one might think of as the PCH until it reaches Santa Monica, where it intersects with the 10.
Like the awkward, ugly-duckling teenager who blossoms into an elegant young supermodel, or the unsightly actress who emerges from the makeup trailer as a dazzling, magnificent movie star, the PCH leaves the surface streets of LA, strikes out on its own, and becomes immediately gorgeous. It spreads out to six lanes and runs directly alongside a 300-foot-wide beach, the waves of the Pacific crash to the shore and can be easily heard, for nine months a year there are sunbathers in bikinis, and for twelve months a year there are runners, rollerbladers and bikers on a thin, serpentine path that parallels the road. On the other side there are 200-foot limestone bluffs with white, pink and purple streaks that shimmer in the sun, that seem to glow as it falls, seem like they’ve been delicately painted. As the PCH moves north it continues along the coast, it curves with the inlets and coves of the Santa Monica Bay the bluffs are broken by canyons lush green overgrown canyons with houses built into their steep forested walls, the beach is thin at points thick at points there are volleyball nets with leaping players, surfers bobbing in waves, boats in the distance sailing, cruising, sitting, resting. Santa Monica becomes the Pacific Palisades the Palisades becomes Malibu. In the summer and on weekends traffic between Santa Monica and Malibu can be horrendous, wall-to-wall at three miles per hour. Beyond Malibu, the PCH thins to four lanes to two lanes there are fewer houses more trees less people bigger waves the curves more extreme the bluffs become mountains and aside from the concrete of the road, the land is as it has been since the dawn of the world blue hitting beige fading into sloping green broken large gray stone crags. For thirty miles it continues north each turn each slope each beach can take your breath away, make you question man god society your life your existence, it’s so beautiful it takes your breath, your breath, it’s so beautiful it can take your heart.
There are twelve men asked to participate each year. The Racemaster chooses them. Sometimes they know each other and sometimes they don’t, sometimes they have raced before and sometimes they haven’t.
Each of them has a spectacular car, it is one of the reasons they are chosen. Each of them drives the car in a way that defies federal, state, county and city laws it is one of the reasons they are chosen. Each of them has access to ten thousand dollars in cash for the pot, it is one of the reasons they are chosen. No one knows the other reasons except for the Racemaster, and he doesn’t share them with anyone.
They meet at 2:00 AM on April 1 of every year. The meeting place is in the parking lot of a fast-food restaurant on Olympic Boulevard near the entrance ramp to the 405, just north of the junction with the 10. There are twelve parking spots along the back of the parking lot. Each car is given a number that corresponds with a number in front of one of the spots.
The cars, which are high-end European sports cars, rebuilt and modified American muscle cars, and Japanese sedans tricked out for drag-racing on the long straight empty streets of the Valley, all park with their front ends facing out. The drivers are varied in age, race, religion and socioeconomic status. None of those things matter to the Racemaster. All that matters to him are their cars, their skills, and their cash.
At 2:10 they are given the route and the rules. The route is more or less a complete circle around the city of Los Angeles. It goes from the 405 North to the 101 East to East Los Angeles Interchange to the 5 Bypass to the 10 West to the PCH North to the intersection of the PCH and Malibu Road. There is a grocery store in the Malibu Colony Plaza called Ralph’s there are twelve spots in front of Ralph’s with
numbers identical to the ones in the fast-food restaurant. The first car to park face out within the lines of the same numbered spot it started in, wins the race. The winner takes the entire pot. There are no rules.
At 2:15, the Racemaster blows a whistle and the race begins. The cars blow out of the lot, on more than one occasion there have been wrecks in the lot and cars haven’t made it out of it. If they do make it out, and make it up the ramp and onto the 405, they fly, absolutely fucking fly. All of the cars, with rare exception, can move at speeds above 200 mph, and at this time of night, the roads are almost empty. The cars usually travel in fairly close proximity to each other, and the race is won or lost in the transitions from highway to highway, when the cars need to slow down to make it up and down the ramps. There is always at least one major accident, and every couple years, one, and sometimes more, of the accidents is fatal. On more than one occasion cars have been pulled over, or have led highway patrol cruisers on high-speed chases, though at this point, most of the cars have military-grade radar detectors and laser jammers that allow them to avoid problems with law enforcement. The total distance of the race is approximately sixty-five miles. The winning time is usually around 25 minutes. The fastest winning time in the history of the race was 19 minutes 22 seconds. The slowest was 31 minutes 11 seconds.
After the race starts the Racemaster drives directly from the starting point to the finish line. He loves the drive, it is his favorite time of the year. He thinks about the cars, the drivers, tries to imagine where they are, who’s winning, who’s wrecked, who’s been pulled over, what’s going through their minds. He places bets with himself as to who will win, and if he has done his job, and chosen the drivers well, with care and precision, he will be unable to guess. When he reaches the parking lot of the Ralph’s in Malibu, he parks his own car, a rather pedestrian Chevy that he has owned since 1983, and he sets up a lawn chair, cracks a beer and lights a cigar. As he sits and waits, and drinks his beer and smokes his cigar, he smiles and he thinks about what’s happening. They’re out there on the road, moving at speeds somewhere above 180 mph and most likely somewhere around 210, those fast cars and those crazy fucking drivers, they’re out there. He smiles, and he thinks, and he waits.
If the population grows at current rates, and the ratio of cars to people remains at the current levels, it is estimated that sometime around the year 2025, Los Angeles will experience something resembling permanent gridlock.
By 1895 there are 135,000 people living in Los Angeles. In an effort to sustain the Los Angeles River as the city’s primary source of water, William Mulholland, the commissioner of the Los Angeles Water Department, institutes a metering system to regulate overall water use. By 1903, there are 235,000 people living in Los Angeles and the Los Angeles River is failing. A search for other renewable water resources within Los Angeles County finds nothing.
Esperanza gets up every morning at 6:00 AM. She takes a shower and does her hair, which Mrs. Chase requires her to keep in a bun. Before she gets dressed, she spends fifteen minutes rubbing oil from the prickly pear cactus of southeastern Mexico on her thighs, one of her cousins buys it from a shaman, who claims to use the oil to shrink himself so that he can spy on his enemies, and sends it to her. Esperanza uses it with the hope that someday she’ll be able to wear normal pants.
When her thigh-rubs are over, she puts on her travel outfit, a gray skirt and white blouse, Mrs. Campbell requires her to present herself in a respectable way as she comes to and from work. When she’s dressed she walks to the bus stop, gets on the bus to Pasadena, gets off the bus and walks to the Campbell residence. She enters the grounds through a gate in the back of the property. She enters the house through an entrance near the back door that leads directly to the basement. She is required to be dressed and ready for work at 8:00 AM, she usually arrives around 7:45. She changes into her work uniform and walks to the kitchen, where she puts on a pot of coffee. Mrs. Campbell is very particular about her coffee. It must be a specific type (she only buys American products, so it’s Hawaiian) made in a specific way (two and a quarter scoops in a size 4 filter) and served at a specific temperature (warm but not hot) mixed in a specific way (two tablespoons of milk, one teaspoon of sugar). If it is not exactly to her liking, she either dumps it on the floor, and Esperanza is required to clean it up, or, if she’s in a bad mood, she throws it on her, and Esperanza is required to go back into the basement and change into a clean uniform. Esperanza serves the coffee at exactly 8:10, along with a copy of the day’s Los Angeles Times, on a saucer which sits on a tray that rests carefully, and in a stable manner, on Mrs. Campbell’s bed. While Mrs. Campbell drinks the coffee and skims the headlines of the paper, Esperanza draws her bath, which also must be a precise temperature.
After having hot water splashed at her, and after being pushed into the tub twice, Esperanza set the temperature for herself by scratching minute, almost invisible, marks into the porcelain that indicate the place to where the faucets should be turned. While Mrs. Campbell relaxes in the bath, Esperanza cleans away her tray and makes her bed. If the bed is not perfectly made, with stiff corners and no wrinkles, Mrs. Campbell pulls the covers and sheets from the bed and throws them on the floor and Esperanza must remake the bed from scratch. When the bed is made to Mrs. Campbell’s satisfaction, Esperanza goes back to the kitchen, where she makes two pieces of bran toast with tangerine jam and sets them on a plate at the kitchen table. Mrs. Campbell never eats them, but likes them to be there just in case. When the toast is properly made and placed, Esperanza goes back into the basement and gets her supplies, window cleaner, floor polish, a mop, a vacuum cleaner, rags, a feather duster. The cleaning of the entire house is spread out over the course of five days, each day is devoted to a specific section of it. Mondays are devoted to the living room, dining room and library. Tuesdays are for the kitchen, the breakfast room, the gallery, and the men’s card room (which hasn’t been used since her husband died). Wednesdays are for the guest bedrooms and bathrooms, Thursdays for Mrs. Campbell’s bedrooms and the bedrooms of her children (who tend not to visit). Fridays are for the guest house and touch-up work that might be needed for the weekend. If Mrs. Campbell isn’t busy, or doesn’t have plans, she follows Esperanza as she works and points out mistakes she’s making, or areas that might need more work, she’ll often make Esperanza do something, such as dust a lamp, over and over and over, until it is done to her satisfaction. If Mrs. Campbell is busy, or she has plans, she checks on the work when she returns, and she always finds something wrong with it. If she’s in a good mood, she will calmly point out what bothers her or what she thinks hasn’t been properly finished, if she’s in a bad mood, she’ll yell, scream, throw things and break things, the cost of which she removes from Esperanza’s pay. At noon, Esperanza is given fifteen minutes for lunch, which she takes in her area of the basement, and at 3:00, she is given a five-minute break, which she often spends crying in one of the bathrooms. Aside from her cleaning duties, she helps coordinate deliveries of flowers and groceries, and helps Mrs. Campbell communicate with two Mexican gardeners who work on the grounds, and who both speak perfect English, but don’t want Mrs. Campbell to know so that they can ignore almost everything she says to them. Esperanza leaves at around 6:00 PM. She takes the bus home.
When she gets home, she has dinner with some portion of her family. Because most of them are illegal, and find work when they can, often standing outside home-supply superstores and picking up day jobs from contractors, she never knows who she will or will not have dinner with.
They usually have Mexican food, made by the women in the house who aren’t working, though every couple of weeks they pool their money and buy a mammoth bucket of fried chicken with sides of baked beans and mac and cheese. After dinner, while the rest of the family migrates towards the television, Esperanza goes to her room, where she spends her nights reading or studying. She reads romance novels, often set in Europe, where lovely women fall in love with rich handsome men, wher
e their love is troubled and tortured, where there are always seemingly insurmountable obstacles to overcome in order to be together, and where love, deep true eternal love, always triumphs. When she isn’t reading, she’s studying for college entrance exams, which she has already taken once, and scored highly on, but wants to take again in order to score higher. She focuses on the math section of the test, spends hours poring over numbers, charts, graphs and formulas. It’s boring and awful, and sometimes she feels like throwing the books out the window or stuffing them into the trash, but she wants to go to college and needs the higher score to try and get another scholarship. Before she goes to sleep, she applies the prickly pear cactus oil again, and then she gets on her knees and prays, she prays for her mother and father, for her family, for all the Mexicans in LA, she prays for the ability to do well on her test, for her future, for some sense of contentment. Her last prayer is always for Mrs. Campbell, she asks God to open her heart, to set her free from her hatred, to make her a kinder, better person, to give her a period of happiness before he takes her. After she prays, she turns off her light and gets into bed. When he sees her light is off, her father often comes in and kisses her on the forehead and tells her he loves her. She loves it when he does, and at twenty-one, it means more to her than it did when she was eight, ten, twelve or any other age.
It’s another sunny day she applies her cactus oil gets ready takes the bus walks towards the house. There are other domestics walking the same route, maids and cooks and nannies, many of them are friends with each other. As they walk towards the back entrances of the homes where they work, they laugh and chat, smoke and tell stories. The stories are always about their employers, about their demands their routines, about their cheating husbands and spoiled children, about their lack of consideration and their sense of entitlement, about their superiority, their cruelty. Most of the women are significantly older than Esperanza, in their thirties forties fifties sixties, and in a couple cases, their seventies. They have husbands and children, grandchildren, they have lives away from their jobs. Most of them are not residents or citizens of the United States, which limits their ability to work in any other capacity. In one sense, Esperanza feels like she’s one of them, or is destined to be one of them. In another sense, the idea that she’s making this walk, wearing the same clothes, and working the same type of job when she’s older, so profoundly depresses her that it makes her want to die. Her parents brought her to this country to give her opportunities that they never had, and so that she could have a life that wasn’t possible for them. They didn’t come here so that she could spend her life cleaning the mansion of a nasty old lady.