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