Redflame ~ My Take

ARRIVAL ~ DAY 2

Awoke to the sound of cars honking on Figueroa Street.   I sat up and the first thing I noticed was the spider webs hanging between the floor joists.  They were old and dusty and didn’t seem to have any spiders.  Nevertheless I wiped away all those in reach with a folded newspaper.  I crawled to the outer porch and seeing no one in the early dawn light, crawled on out and stood up.   Walking quickly, I headed east on Sixth Street.  I needed a restroom and I had heard that at the rail depot there were wash-up facilities.  I was to learn there were two depots –one for Southern Pacific and one for Santa Fe but the former was my destination this morning.  The washrooms required a coin, save one which was free for those who couldn’t afford a nickel.  That certainly included me.  I had to wait for two others in line but when I finally got in, it was such a joy to wash-up and shave.  Carefully brushing my clothes I felt ready to interview Rockefeller himself.

Still had thirty-five cents left.  A nickel went for a candy bar for breakfast.   That left me the price of two fifteen-cent dinners for two days.   By then maybe I would have a job.  A job?  The city was filled with the unemployed.  Where to find out about jobs?  The newspaper.  Where do  you find a newspaper for free?  I decided to try the library.  In 1934 The Los Angeles Library was just recently built.  I was awed by the beauty of it, the murals, the shelves and shelves of books, the room for periodicals, the clean restrooms, and the newspaper room.   There were newspapers from all over but I soon learned that my interest would be in the two morning papers, the Los Angeles Examiner and the Los Angeles Times–especially the former which boasted the most ad coverage at that time.  it was obvious that I was not alone in my interest.  The wait for a paper could be considerable if the holder of it chose to read the news instead of look at want ads as most would do.  Finding nothing, I was tempted to settle down in one of the reading rooms but decided to go out exploring.  

Walked east on Fifth Street.   This led me to the wholesale produce district.  It was a noisy, exciting place filled with trucks and workers and endless stalls of fruits and vegetables.  While walking about I saw an apple in the gutter.   I took it to a faucet and washed it.  That apple tasted so-o good!  Later I found a potato.  As a kid back on the Wyoming ranch I used to like to eat raw potatoes.  Out came my "two-blader" knife.  I found other things which I peeled or washed.  I even found several nuts.  

My hunger satisfied in the produce market decided to forgo my 15-cent dinners.  Shouldn’t have spent the fifty cents for the movie the night before.  I was going to need my nickels for the telephone to query a job ad.  I went up town on Seventh Street.  Bullocks– so many beautiful things in the windows!  I went back to the library and escaped for several hous in reading until it closed.  Just a block or so away was my  church "hotel."    Crawled under and was soon asleep on my newspaper pallet. 

POLITICS

Charley Gibson and George Stephanopoulos in my opinion did not shine brightly for the media in the recent Clinton/Obama debate.  I thought Obama did a pretty good job of deflecting the criticism.  Clinton, not being picked on as much, was a little smug.  But where was the discussion of issues?  The media was more interested in mosquito biting the candidates than in evoking a clear vision of what each candidate stands for.  We know candidates have these small vulnerabilities–all candidates have them–but they generally do not affect performance.  Go back over the presidents of our yesteryears–you will find  flaws in every one of them.

POETRY

     RED LADDER TO HEAVEN

     The red ladder stands to the high, high ceiling

     Does the workman pretend he’s climbing to heaven

     As he disappears roundly through the square crawl hole?

     A false step on the false ceiling    

     Will see him crash to the floor

     So close can he come to plunging to hell.

                            From "Blue Flame~Selected Poems by R. Dean Tribble 

Have a good life.  Dean     

Day One

It was late afternoon when the big truck rolled into the city and came to a stop at the corner of Fourth and Los Angeles streets.   The first thing I noticed was the smell of oranges–fresh oranges but also with that peculiar smell of oranges not so fresh.  I had watched the setting sun bouncing off a high tower–"City Hall," the driver said–as we topped each rise in the road and now it was only three blocks away!  I was excited by all the sights and sounds but I was also hungry.  I fingered the last dollar in my pocket.  Holding my little black suitcase –it had a few pieces of underwear, socks, a couple of shirts,  a spare pair of pants and a notebook–I set off in the direction I figured Fifth Street ought to be.  I had been given advice by a fellow worker in the lettuce fields of  Avondale, Arizona to go there and find a restaurant serving meals costing only fifteen cents.  I found it easily.  People were lined up briefly at the door as they waited to be seated.  Soup, salad, vegetables, meat, drink, and dessert.  A full meal.  I looked at the people.  A few were scruffily dressed but many of the men were in coat and tie dress, women in dress neat enough for church.  This was 1934 and at eighteen I did not fully understand what had happened to people in the cities.   With little money to spend this eatery and others like it made it possible for them to get by.  I would later learn that these places were supplied by the day’s leftovers from the major restaurants of the city. 

With my belly full, I "sallied forth" as they say of knights of old.  This would be my LA!  Already I was on familiar terms. Hollywood was down that way.  A good long walk but in walking distance.  But Hollywood would have to wait.  I began to walk up and down the streets,  Main, Spring, Broadway, Hill on to Figueroa. I learned their names and their order.  They had wonderful stores with huge windows with things you could buy if you had the money.  The lights were everywhere.  My city!  I had fallen in love with it head over suitcase!  I found myself under the the marquee of a Broadway movie palace.  Again I fingered the remaining eighty-five cents in my pocket.  It was no contest. Fifty cents?  The movie won out.  For the next four hours I let Hollywood woo me. 

When I reluctantly came out of that magic place the reality of night hit me.  Where was I going to sleep?  I remembered a church I had seen earlier at Figueroa and Sixth.  It runs in my mind it was a Christian Church but no matter.  It had a platform entrance that was open underneath on the side wide enough for me to crawl through and get under the main building.  The place was dry with plenty of headroom.  I spread out a newspaper,  lay down on it and pulled my raincoat over me.  No one could see me walking by.  The sound of  cars going by seemed far off.  It had been a great day.  Sleep came quickly.

POETRY

This is the place to give you my paean to Los Angeles:

REMEMBERING CLARA BOW

When first I saw Los Angeles

Shimmering at long distance like a mirage

On burning deserts, I shouted, “I’m coming!”

The shimmering turned to substance

As the wheels brought me closer

And, torched by the setting sun,

The City Hall flamed gold, flashing

Its pyramid crown beacon-like above all.

I stood on the steps and shouted again,

“I’m here, why do you smell of oranges?”

I walked down Hollywood Boulevard

Looking for Clara Bow. I was eighteen

And now I’m eighty remembering

When first I saw Los Angeles.

You were kind to me then, O City of Angels,

You fed me at your fifteen-cent cafes,

Your Chili Bowls, your Big-O Doughnuts

And yes, even at your Brown Derby.

You pampered me with sweet buns

At windmill bakeries and carried me

On toonerville trolleys and big red cars.

Many a footstep I left on your sidewalks

As I explored your sights by sun and moon,

Your streets hummed with the spin of my wheels,

Griffith Park was sanctuary to my soul

And often have I meditated in your holy temples.

I have brushed the sand of your beaches

From my ankles and tasted the salt of your oceans.

On flip-over seats at the Turnabout Theater

I laughed at puppets, and on hard benches

At the Hollywood Bowl I wept

For the beauty of Beethoven.

In nights warm with the flesh of bare shoulders

I rocked at the Palladium, did the Carioca at the Mocambo

And at Ciro’s danced the passion of the tango.

I could not know when first I saw Los Angeles

How easily the city could slip into my heart.

I was eighteen then and now I’m ninety

Remembering—remembering Clara Bow.

That’s thirty for today.

Dean