Moorpark Palms - 3. Chapter 3

The building was called Montalvo Palms, the name written in black plywood script tacked at an angle out front, just above the ground-floor stonework. There were only two palms. Once there may have been more. Each rose forty-feet, less majestic than spindly. The first was in the courtyard, and its raggedy twin anchored the bramble fronting our curb. Rumor also had several dogs buried there. Montalvo was the street. Long before it was sheared into suburban dead ends – “Cul-de-sacs” a real estate agent might say – it twisted wistfully through the San Fernando Valley. Now a ten-lane freeway slammed to the overbuilt farm town that had once been Montalvo.
Compare: Montalvo Oasis – the next building east. Subterranean streams? Animated neon camels? Montalvo Manor. Mutinous walled-up serfs? Montalvo Lodge. Clandestine home of Teddy Roosevelt? Nearby apartment buildings were named for Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals, no doubt under the influence of smog. And while I understood the yearning for the South Pacific or nostalgia for Oklahoma! Why Flower Drum Song?
Each apartment in our building was slightly different, as though drafted by an apprentice. Each should have had a doppleganger directly above it – or below, depending on your egalitarian view. But where an upper apartment boasted an arch, the lower one sported a pocket door. The upper, a recessed cabinet. Lower, a cubby hole for religious statues. Some tenants praised downstairs living – their cats leapt cleanly through holes scissored in the screens. Others were upper-floor-dwellers, possibly larger-brained. The main advantage of living upstairs seemed to be that, in an earthquake – always a subtext in LA – the apartment below you couldn’t fall up.
After going back to Doug’s to offer the happy news – to which he responded with a twitch – I quickly packed. I didn’t have much, having given away nearly everything before driving cross-country.
“Are you sure you won’t to need furniture?” my newly-endowed sister asked.
“They have stores in California.”
“You don’t have money.”
“I have enough. And I don’t need much to live.”
She’d had to accept that. She’d often encouraged me to “Stop writing short stories, and put together a book telling how you manage to live so happily on what little you earn.”
“I don’t want much.”
To which my youngest brother – a budding lawyer – replied, “I can’t believe we’re genetically related.”
In my six months with Doug, I’d accumulated only the basics: a futon and frame, some utility bookcases I’d customized with a saw, and a folding table to use as a desk. Also: a third-hand rolling chair, a couple of drafting lamps, a cheap Indian rug, and a half-dozen framed black-and-white posters. Doug, who in nine years mainly added smut to his apartment, couldn’t understand the posters: “The babes’re dressed.”
They were classic film posters. The “babes” were Stanwyck, Davis, and Crawford. In addition to what I bought, I’d hauled some things west: my computer, an old stereo, a TV and VCR, and maybe half of what I’d previously considered my wardrobe. Foolishly thinking I wouldn’t need sweaters, I charitably also gave them to my sister. She was used to borrowing them anyway. Of course, I didn’t realize that in the desert LA originally was, once the sun goes down – except maybe in August – the heat goes, too.
It took two hours to get out of Doug’s, including a nanosecond to say “goodbye.” He never left his chair, his headset a tiny tether. I spent another hour carting things up the stairs and stacking them in my new home, all the time foolishly feeling I was being watched.
Of the fourteen apartments in the building, seven opened at ground-level, directly onto the courtyard. Three more shared a balcony in the short, closed end of the U. The remaining four, divided in pairs, were reached by two stairways, each halfway down the U’s long sides.
My apartment shared its three-foot-square landing with number 3, and all the time I carried things, as quietly as possible, up the steps, I was sure I heard someone breathing behind that door. As I set down my last suitcase, the door cracked opened.
“Hey,” said Boo Radley – at least, he may as well have been.
I reached to shake hands. “Jake.”
“Jack?”
“Jake,” I repeated clearly, aware I sometimes mumble.
“‘Jack’s’ more masculine. Why don’t you change it?”
I still had my hand out. He finally acknowledged this, opening his door slightly further and briefly touching my palm.
“I guess we’re neighbors,” he announced.
“‘No denyin’.’” I was suddenly quoting obscure Eugene O’Neill, for reasons even I didn’t understand. Fortunately, the guy didn’t try
“Are you Steve Allen?” he asked instead.
That threw me, and for a moment, I blocked on who Steve Allen was. I knew there was a 60s connection but kept picturing Tennessee Ernie Ford – “Sixteen Tons.” Next, I had to figure out why anyone might think Steve Allen and I looked alike.
“He’s older than I am,” I said.
The man studied me.
“You could be him,” he decided.
“But I’m not.”
“But ya could be.”
I stalled, unsure which way to go. “He’s kind of rich.” I finally explained. “Why would he live in a two-room apartment?”
I’d almost said “seedy two-room.” But the guy lived here, and I was new.
“Could be an office,” he suggested.
I nodded. Then smiled. Then started inside.
“Getting a piano?” he asked abruptly.
I’d have been less surprised if he’d asked, “Are you a monk?”
“Why?” I questioned.
“You write music.”
I wasn’t sure how to handle this. The man could just be crazy, but he was going to be my neighbor. Finally – slowly – I said, “Steve Allen’s a composer. I’m not.”
There was a long pause. Then: “Oh.”
That settled, again I started in. But:
“He lives near here, ya know. I went to school with his son.” A short pause, then: “Are you his son?”
I looked at the guy and asked, reasonably, “Wouldn’t we know each other then?”
He seemed to think. “Not necessarily. There were two sons. You could be the other one.”
I shook my head. The guy nodded. Once more, I turned to go.
“Nice meeting you,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Why are you moving into a building they’re tearing down?”
That stopped me.
“What?”
“They’re putting up condos. Like the ones behind us.”
He thumbed past his shoulder, actually towards his kitchen, though I knew what he meant. Behind our building, past the carport at the dead end, was a block of red-tile-roofed, three-story, freshly-constructed “deluxe” apartments.
“It won’t be all bad,” he went on. “They’ll pay us to move out. It’s why I’ve stayed.”
I studied him. He was almost my height, though slightly heavier, and maybe ten or fifteen years older. He had a round face, shaggy brown hair heading toward grey, and he seemed completely untroubled.
“Who told you this?” I asked.
“Everyone knows.”
“Gabe?”
“Sure.”
“Why wouldn’t he tell me?”
The guy shrugged and seemed to smirk slightly. Or was that my imagination? “Maybe Gabe’s doing you a favor,” he went on. “You’ll probably make six-or-seven-hundred bucks.”
“I’d rather have a place to live.”
“Tough beans.”
I quickly slipped my suitcase into my apartment and started down the stairs.
“Where ya going?” he asked.
“To see Gabe.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Why?”
“It’s late.”
I glanced at my watch. “It’s barely past nine.”
“But it’s dark. You never see Gabe after dark. He works early.”
I thought about this, then considered the trouble of finding yet another place to live. I continued down the steps.
“You’ll be sorry,” the guy warned.
My apartment was maybe twenty feet from Gabe and his wife’s – the weird guy’s studio filled the space between ours. From the courtyard, I could still see lights through Gabe and his wife’s windows.
I went up the center stairs, turned left on the balcony, and tapped lightly at their door. I tapped so quietly it wouldn’t wake them if they were sleeping. After a moment, Gabe’s wife appeared.
“Is something wrong?”she asked.
Impatient as a kid, I blurted, “Are they tearing this place down?”
She looked at me for a moment then called, “Gabe!” Almost immediately, I repeated my question to him.
“Not soon,” he answered. “Maybe not ever – I told you before, they’re always making threats.” He grinned as if to assure me. “You know that place on the corner? The one that’s all boarded up?”
I nodded. It had thrown me when I made my first wrong turn. I thought the whole area was condemned.
“Back in the 80s,” Gabe said, “early 80s, when real estate boomed – well, people bought up everything more ‘n’ twenty years old. Tore ‘em down. Built condos. Sold ‘em for all kinds of scary money. Then came ‘87. Crash! Market went bust! No one’s built much since.”
I sorted this out, searching for the pea-sized truth. “So they’re not tearing down the building?”
His wife looked uncomfortable. “It is for sale,” she whispered.
“Nothing’ll come of that,” Gabe scoffed. Then, to me: “It’s been for sale all the time we’ve lived here.”
His wife shook her head.
“Well, almost all the time,” Gabe allowed. “And it if really does sell this time, it’s only ‘cause old Mrs. Heldigger’s sons want out.” He shrugged, then went on. “She’s in a home now. Used to be the sweetest lady. Always so generous at Christmas.”
“Her boys are mean,” Gabe’s wife said, as quietly as before.
“Cheap!”
“Mean.”
“What about the building?” I gently put in. “What’ll happen?”
Gabe looked at his wife. She shrugged. “We’ll just have to see,” he told me. “Anyway, it won’t happen tomorrow. They’ll have to move us all out first. That’ll take months.”
“And they’ll pay us off?” I asked.
Gabe laughed. “You’ve been talking to Vic!”
I nodded. “Is that his name?”
“His full name’s ‘Crazy Vic!’ ‘Loony Vic!’ ‘Head-Up-His-Asshole Vic!’”
“Shhhh!” his wife warned. She pointed toward the wall.
Gabe grinned. He faced the shared wall between their apartment and Vic’s, cupped his hands to his mouth, and shouted, “Crazy Vic’s probably listening right now! Glass to his ear! Not that he needs it, the wood’s so thin.”
He seemed ready to go on, but I interfered. “What about the building?” I asked again.
“Don’t worry! Live here while you can, then take their money! That’s why I didn’t ask for a deposit. No point giving anything to those bastard Heldigger brothers!”
“They did put in new carpet,” his wife pointed out.
“Trying to pretty up the place!”
“Why?” I asked. “If they’re just gonna tear it down?”
“That’s what I mean!” Gabe laughed. “No one knows anything! There could be an earthquake in ten minutes! We could all be dead!”
His wife knocked on the nearest piece of wood.
“Superstitious.” He laughed again. Then, under her gaze, he knocked on the door frame. “The point is,” he went on, “the ‘What Ifs’ will make you crazy if you let ‘em. Screw ‘em!”
He continued to laugh. His wife seemed to smile slightly, and I had to join her. “Screw ‘em!” Gabe repeated, and we all laughed.
“‘Night,” he told me shortly.
His wife offered me more cookies.
“One more won’t hurt,” Gabe insisted, slipping me three. “And don’t take Vic seriously. He’s bonkers.”
His wife silently indicated the wall.
Gabe squarely faced it, then shouted, “HE. WON’T. HURT. YOU!”
Before I even reached my landing, Vic’s door opened.
“I told you,” he said.
“You told me lots of things,” I said, grinning.
He acknowledged that. “I didn’t think they’d be so friendly,” he conceded. “Maybe ‘cause you’re new.”
“Have you’ve known them long?”
He needed to think. “All the time I’ve been here.”
“How long’s that?”
It was a slow calculation. “Four years. Since McDonnell went bust, and I got laid off.” He suddenly turned to his door. “See this?” He pointed to a three-inch Mickey Mouse decal pasted just below his peephole. My door didn’t have a peephole, and I later learned Vic had put in his himself. Along with triple locks. “This Mickey reminds me of my old boss,” he said. “I haven’t had one since. He was completely Mickey Mouse, and I never want to forget that.”
Nor would I, as long as I lived there. Every morning, Mickey waved his little gloved hand at me.
I smiled at Vic. In a way, he was probably far worse than Doug. But we didn’t have to share an apartment.
“You got food?” he asked as I started inside. “Didn’t see you carrying any.”
“I need to go out again.”
“I got hot dogs.”
“Thanks. But no.”
“They’re kosher.”
I smiled. “That wouldn’t matter. And, really, I need to go out.”
“I’ve lived on hot dogs for years,” he boasted. “They’re great!”
Now he was Tony the Tiger.
“I’ll see you,” I said.
He nodded, closing his door.
I closed my own door. Locked it. Checked it twice. Maybe I’d get triple locks.