The Real Deal

More funerals than weddings or bar mitzvahs these days.  This one honors the husband of one of my first principals and for the many years, a Mount Washington neighbor.  I’d chat with Adolfo, as deemed in eulogy, the “Mayor of the Street,” on my daily walks.  The service starts with the song The Shadow of Your Smile and culminates with a son’s wonderful eulogy.  In the middle, the priest assures us that we will meet Adolfo in heaven, where he will have been reunited with his mother.  He demonstrates with a coin, one side being the sorrow that we experience at the loss of a loved one and the other, our elation that the deceased is now trouble free and basking in God’s love.  “Heaven is the real deal,” he proclaims.  “See you later Adolfo.”

White gloved pallbearers wheel the casket toward the altar, the family’s raw grief naked.  But other rites worth Bob traveling from Santa Cruz, are infrequent.  I witness our friends’ despair, also guiltily delighting in Bob’s company.  I met him in the eighties at one of my first adult school assignment and he is, in many ways, my most kindred of spirits.

We tool around L.A.  He’s been away over twenty years. We whine about our aging bodies and exchange medical updates. We agree about eschewing attempts at tight parking places and both admit to relying heavily on our phones to look up stuff that we really should remember. We weigh the pros and cons of growing old, the scale tipping back and forth between serenity and terror. One of us has to resort to a gas station bathroom.

The funeral mass is followed by a reception at the L.A. Athletic Club.  There are people that I haven’t seen for nearly thirty years.  Sarah was a clerk but early computer adapter who worked herself up to a high-level district position.  Her mother would wait in the street to save her a parking place every night.  Bob had a couple of fraught years and bounced around from us and a couple of other good friends.  He landed at thrifty Sarah’s, and in her complete no bullshit fashion she took over his finances, handing him cash for verified expenses. She called me, concerned that Bob may have lapsed back into profligacy.  He had requested $20 for a haircut, which in the 80’s would have been like $100, and was referred by Sarah to Supercuts. Sarah is now fifteen years retired and divested of some very prudent real estate investments.  She takes cruises all over the world. 

Jessie was a secretary but when Bob introduces me, I have no recollection of her whatsoever.  But she has been to Morton Walk, where she recalls that Bob and I smoked marijuana, for her, an indelible memory.  I can literally picture brain excavation, as tortuously I summon Jessie.  I can barely picture her presence in an office, but the face of the beaming girl has morphed now into the handsome woman who'd years ago we'd traumatized.

I report my struggle with the Wayback machine for Jessie to Himself. I note how remarkable I find it that she remembers me.  “People remember you, says Himself.  Given the nature of Jessie’s memory of myself, I presume that this is stated pejoratively.

Bob and I swing by Morton Walk, given the theme of the day, the scene of the crimes. Spuds isn’t home and I don’t open the downstairs.  He reports later that we could have, and other times I’ve stopped by on short notice, the place is neat as a pin. But not necessarily single occupancy. 

 The upstairs, where I lived, now is woebegone, but the old stove reminds us of meals and parties on the front porch.  The cottage was filled with music and vhs tapes of film noir, and Dumbo for when we took acid.  And in another altered consciousness danced to X’s “4^th of July,” in the sunroom, illuminated by fireworks.  I think that they were real fireworks.

Spuds has set up a barbecue and entertains friends.  He walks to Dodger games and often down to Echo Park Lake to sit beneath a tree to read and write; some writing having been positively acknowledged of late, by other than his parents.  

Nearly two years of my life was upended by a nightmare that started when a mentally ill tenant stopped paying rent.  I’ve lost count of court appearances and police welfare checks (but only a single death threat).  I am grateful that the denouement of Dark Age of Morton Walk is Spuds thriving in the sweet place of my young adulthood.

I am disturbed by the HBO dystopian drama, Years and Years but will continue watching faithfully.  While I am appreciating a summer of good experiences, all is infected by Trumptime..  At least one more of the dwindling number of summers in my life left will be spent in Trumptime. My Midterm lather will balloon to full blown rabid as the election crawlingly approaches.  While, as bleak as things seem in 2019, Handmaid’s Tale, feels far-fetched.  Year and Years’ foray into the near future is a horrifyingly plausible reminder, that unless there’s a reversal of direction, the real deal might be a very bad one.

Years and Years somewhat bookends another HBO summer offering, Euphoria, is set in the very present featuring a protagonist born on September 11, 2001.  I was seven when my parents divorced.  It was an oddity worthy of Ripley.  There was little single parenthood.  Abortion was illegal and my mother couldn’t get a credit card without my father’s signature.  Blue movies were all hush hush.  Half a century later, many teens, apparently, frequently send each photos of their genitals.  The sex in Euphoria mostly feels perverse and dirty, as I realize hippie free love must have felt to the Great Generation. 

To end on an upbeat note, for a complete retreat from Trumptime, turn to Phoebe Waller-Bridge.  In Phoebe’s creation Fleabag she stars in a darkish comedy with delicious ensemble of character actors and the most nimble breach of the 4^th wall in the history of comedy.  Killing Eve, is created by Waller-Bridge but stars Sandra Oh and the astonishing Jodie Comer. A murder thriller, in the spirit of Dexter, it is great fun.  It’s beautifully shot all over Europe and the costume and set design are sumptuous. 

No matter what, a scary shadow hovers over the next eighteen months.  It makes me more intent on focusing on quality of life improvement but also bitter that no matter how much satisfaction the next few years bring, it will be tarnished by living in these times. The priest at Adolfo’s funeral reminds us that we all have an expiration date.  But St. Peter will unlock for us the gate.  I am much more of the “spirit living on in people we love” philosophy. And I assume that all of us can wait a nonce for my spirit to live on in them.  But I watch the news compulsively, desperate for signs that, in addition to a bit of my spirit, my loved ones will inherit a world worth living in. 18 more months.  At least there’s good tv.