The Leisure Seeker (21 page)

We’re supposed to shift onto Santa Monica Boulevard, but Sunset is so interesting I don’t want to get off. My map says that Sunset intersects with Santa Monica Boulevard a few miles up, so I decide that we can stay on a bit longer.

The signs keep changing languages—Spanish, Armenian, Japanese. We pass tiny shopping centers crammed with foreign restaurants. I see Hollywood dry cleaners and Hollywood pizza joints and Hollywood wig stores. We pass TV stations and radio stations and movie theaters and guitar stores and nicer restaurants. Meanwhile, traffic keeps getting worse, but I don’t mind it because there’s so much to look at.

At the corner of Sunset and Vine, I see a sign that makes my breath catch. “John, look! It’s Schwab’s drugstore. That’s where Lana Turner was discovered.”

John turns to me. “Boy, she was built like a brick shithouse.”

“She was sitting at the counter when some Hollywood big shot saw her and decided to put her in the movies.”

“Probably wanted to get into her pants,” says John.

I laugh. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” I look for the drugstore, but don’t see it anywhere. I guess only the sign is there now. We pass an old Cinerama domed theater, then a place called Crossroads of the World.

We’re getting closer.

West Hollywood is very flashy. There are huge billboards up and down the street, most of them with pictures of women dressed a lot like the ones I saw walking the street. There are fancy hotels, expensive-looking restaurants, giant heroic statues of Kermit the Frog and Bullwinkle the Moose. I see nightclubs with names like “The Laugh Factory” and “The Body Shop,” but these sure don’t look like the factories or body shops we have in Detroit. I get the feeling that people in Hollywood like to make people think they’re actually doing work for a living. I see a lot of limousines that must be taking people off to do that alleged work.

By the time we turn back onto Santa Monica Boulevard, traffic is bumper to bumper, and the discomfort starts to come on strong. I crush a little blue pill between my teeth and wash it down with coffee dregs.

Frustrated, John sits back in his captain’s chair, breathes loudly through his nose. I watch him creep closer and closer to a convertible in front of us.

“Take it easy,” I say. “We’ve just got a bit more to go.” Out the window, I see a homey-looking little restaurant with green awnings called “Dan Tana’s.”

“That looks like a nice little place,” I say to John. “Like Bill Knapp’s.”

He breathes loudly again, says nothing, looks ahead at the traffic. I glance up at a billboard and see an enormous picture of two half-naked men embracing and frolicking in the surf, with these words under it:

GAY CRUISES FROM $899!

We’re in Hollywood, all right.

After a long boring stretch of malls, storefronts, and construction, we finally arrive in Santa Monica. It looks like a nice town, but we’re not here to see the sights. We’re here for one thing only—to get to the end of the road. As the street numbers get lower, I detect the clean salt smell of the ocean. Even mingled with the exhaust fumes, it clears my head and replaces my discomfort with a trill of excitement. Up ahead, a sign over the street reads:

OCEAN AVENUE

In front of us, there are palm trees and a park, and I can see straight through to the flickering luminous Pacific. Above it, the sky glows white and blue. It looks every bit as glorious as I thought it would.

“John. Look. There it is,” I say, pointing ahead of us.

“There what is?”

“The ocean, dummy.”

“I’ll be damned. We made it.”

I am amazed and pleased to hear that John has some understanding of what we’ve been doing. I thought he only knew
that it was his job to drive. I reach over and put my hand on his arm. “Yes, we did. We made it.”

“
Hot
damn,” he says, scratching his head.

“You got us here, John. You did a good job, darling.”

John looks at me with the widest smile I have seen on that face in years. It makes me wonder if I have been too tough on the old boy. I guess I don’t tell him that he does a good job very often these days.

“Turn left here, John.”

Along the avenue, the shoreline park gets wider and I notice hobos milling around, doing nothing in particular. Even with their perfect suntans, they seem out of place here at the ocean, so clean and endless.

A few blocks later, we are at the Santa Monica Pier. The sign looks like it does in all my books, like it’s been the same for years, an old-fashioned arch with letters like from an old Fred Astaire movie.

SANTA MONICA
* YACHT HARBOR*
SPORT FISHING*BOATING

cafes

“Turn right here, John. And go slowly.”

We pass under the sign and I feel my heart flutter and lighten. I was not sure we could do this, but we did. I’m proud of us. Up ahead is a yellow-and-purple Ferris wheel, the one
they used in that movie
The Sting
, so I’ve heard. I decide that this would be a fitting ending to today’s journey.

“Come on, John. We’re going for a ride.”

We find a place to park and John pulls out the You-Go for me. The walk is not too far. The sunshine, the ocean air, and the fact that there are people around somehow steadies my gait, straightens my back ever so slightly, sharpens my wits. Then again, maybe it’s just the dope.

Luckily, the line is short. The carny at the Ferris wheel, an unkempt man who looks like he just finished a three-day bender, says he’ll keep an eye on the You-Go while we go up. I don’t really have any choice, so I believe him.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “It won’t end up in a chop shop.” He laughs and reveals brilliant white teeth that look too perfect to be real. I can smell sweat and cheap hooch oozing from his pores. His periwinkle qiana shirt is grimy around the neck. He gives both John and me a clammy mitt to hold on to as we stumble into our little two-seat bench. I wonder if he expects us to tip him.

“Have fun now, you two,” he says, flashing those Hollywood choppers at us. “No necking.”

He pulls a safety bar down. We are locked in.

As we slowly rise into the air, the Ferris wheel makes a
tat-tat-tat
noise that is vaguely disturbing to me, but apparently not to John. I look over and find him asleep.

“John,” I say gently.

He tips his head back, opens his eyes wide, then closes them again and lowers his head. I let him sleep. I watch the
palm trees as they lift and fall with the breeze. The water is moving just enough to make the reflection of the sun warp and ripple, creating inky ridges in the surface. We rise and rise. This height and all this open air would have terrified me not long ago, but not today. I am a daredevil today. I am Evel Knievel. I am that Intimidator fellow from the NASCAR. I look down and locate the Leisure Seeker in the parking lot.

All the sounds from the amusement park fade now. I hear only the wind and the creaking of the machinery that holds us here. I have my hair pulled into its little pygmy knot at the back, but there are loose strands whipping my face. The higher we go, the more the air pummels me, keeps me from taking a full breath. Just as I start to grow dizzy, it dies down.

I can see the back of the Santa Monica pier sign. I remember that the Pacific Ocean wasn’t actually the official end of Route 66, that the original end was somewhere else in Santa Monica on Olympic Boulevard. The Santa Monica Pier was later accepted as the unofficial ending because it made sense to people for the road to end at the Pacific Ocean. I would have to say that I agree.

I take a long deep breath of clean ocean air as our box seat on the Ferris wheel reaches the tippy-top. It’s just about then that John awakens from his nap.

He looks around and starts screaming.

Later, back in the van, on the freeway, on our way back to the trailer park, I can barely keep from panting from the discom
fort, which is back in force. In fact, on a scale of one to ten, it’s about a fourteen.

“Are we on I-10, John?”

“Sure.”

I don’t believe him. I frantically search for an interstate sign, even though I’m almost positive we’re on the right freeway. I directed us there, after all. I think I’m frazzled from our little incident on the Ferris wheel, not to mention the wrenching discomfort.

Just before we have to slow down for yet another traffic jam, I spot a sign that says I-10 East. I would breathe a sigh of relief, but I don’t seem to be able to.

Finally I inhale. Loudly. John turns and looks at me when he should be watching the traffic.

“What’s wrong?” he says. “You got a stomachache?”

“Yes, I’m going to take some Tums.” I open my purse and fish out two of my little blue pills. I should have taken two before, but I wanted to be at least fairly clearheaded when we finally reached our destination. I try to wash it down with a swig of flat Pepsi from a bottle I find under the seat, but the pills stick in my throat. Everything almost comes gushing up. I take another swig and somehow manage to get them down.

“That wasn’t a Tums,” says John.

“It’s better than a Tum. Watch the road.”

Great. Now he’s paying attention.

It is only when I wake up that I realize that I’ve been sleeping at all. I’m feeling more comfortable now. I lift my head slightly to look over at John who is staring at the road in his very own trance. Traffic is backed up and we’re going about 25 mph. I wonder how long I’ve been conked out, how far we’ve gone.

“Where are we?” I say, still groggy.

John says nothing. I look at a sign on the side of the freeway and realize that we are no longer on I-10 at all. We are on I-5, just approaching an exit for a town called Buena Park.

“How did we get on this road?”

“You said to get on it.”

“I did not, John. I was asleep. Don’t lie to me.”

“Aw, shit.” I don’t know if he’s swearing at the traffic up ahead or at me.

“Damn it, John.” I choke down another sip of Pepsi and look at my map. When I locate I-5, I see that maybe he hasn’t screwed up so badly. We are about to approach the exit for Anaheim. And though I had my heart set on staying back at the good trailer park, I see that this probably makes more sense. We were headed here, anyway.

“Get off at the next exit, John,” I say, smiling at what I’m going to say next. “We’re going to Disneyland.”

Of course, we’re not going to Disneyland
today
. I’ll settle for finding us someplace to stay for the night. Which turns out
to be surprisingly easy. Disneyland is located not far from the freeway and there are billboards everywhere for motels, campgrounds, you name it. I choose one and we get off the freeway, as simple as that.

The Best Destination RV Park is only about three miles or so from Disneyland, but it’s away from most of the congestion. Los Angeles was bad enough, but this area is everyone trying to get to one place. Us included.

As we check in (no curbside service here—I almost fall on my doped-up hind end getting out of the van), the woman in charge mentions that they do have shuttle service to Disneyland. That’s for us.

After we find our space, I make sure John drives in so the back of our van is facing the back of our neighbor’s RV. Then I sit at the picnic table and give him directions as he sets up camp.

This place is not as nice as the good trailer park in Claremont, but it’s not bad. The only problem is that everywhere you look in this campground, there are kids running around like wild Indians. (I guess it’s wild Native Americans these days.) This takes some getting used to.

After my inspection, I happen to look up to see that we are directly in the shadow of a giant two-lobed water tower with a deep roundish base, completely covered with polka dots. It is ugly beyond all my powers of description. Yet another closer look reveals the secret: its silhouette looks suspiciously like a certain cartoon mouse.

After John finishes, I get my You-Go and take a lap around the van to make sure everything’s in order.

“Good job, John,” I say.

“I want a beer,” he says.

It’s 3:20 in the afternoon. Late enough. “Okay, you’ve earned it.”

John just stands there.

“Go get it,” I say. “You’re not crippled.”

“Where do you keep it?”

“It’s in the fridge. Where it always is.”

John disappears into the van.

“Get me one, too,” I yell after him. I think for a moment and realize that I’ve been saying “You’re not crippled” all my life. My mother used to say it to me. Now we’re at the point where we actually
are
crippled.

But I’m still not going to get John a beer.

It’s dark now and the campground has quieted down. Before, you could tell that there were a lot of oversugared, overstimulated kids all worked up from a big day at Disneyland. (That’s how my Kevin was when we took him. We had to dose him with Pepto-Bismol before he could sleep, poor thing.) They’ve all collapsed into bed by now, stomachs souring, churning up bad dreams of looming giant rodents.

After sandwiches (I force myself to eat to keep up my strength for tomorrow), we set up the projector next to the van for slides. Tonight’s show is Disneyland 1966. It wasn’t the last time we were there, but it was the best time. The kids were both young enough to think it was the most wonderful place
on earth. And John and I were plenty young enough to go on rides and enjoy it all through our children’s eyes.

The first shot is Main Street swarming with people, the castle in the background. In the foreground, I am standing there with Kevin and Cindy, holding both of their hands, all of us smiling our biggest smiles. I notice how nicely dressed we all are.

The entrance to Tomorrowland—flagpoles and a little cart selling ice creams. On one side is a pavilion with a gigantic atom on it, but my eye is drawn to the huge red-and-white rocket ship straight ahead. That must have looked so futuristic then. Now, even to these ancient eyes, it looks ridiculous and old-fashioned. I doubt if that’s still there. Is there even still a Tomorrowland?

The next shot is of Goofy kneeling behind Kevin and Cindy and giving them both a squeeze. The kids are ecstatic, but I notice that Goofy’s oversized hand is behind Kevin’s head. Looks like he’s about to give him a good smack.