| no car in los angeles |
| 2003 was a bad year car-wise. It started off in Jan with two accidents, I served as victim in each and there was more bad news in Feb by way of a power steering problem. Sometimes you have a problem and in goes the car to the mechanic and he fixes the problem and a week later you have the same problem but the mechanic says its not the same problem, it only seems the same, he explains why and you must pay again. In this way I had to fork over $900 for the power steering problem. The year continued. Its an old car—an ‘88 Honda accord plagued with the usual nagging minor repairs--any thing under $200. For example: to replace a fan belt switch. Why does it cost $200 to replace a switch? The mechanic was Arman--the Armenian. I liked the guy. I’d had him for a few years, he knew his stuff and, very important, he was reliable. If he said today it was today and not next week and if he said tomorrow it was tomorrow. He seemed honest—for a mechanic. I leave it for you to interpret the implications of that remark. From time to time—following some gigantic bill--he would throw in a minor repair or adjustment gratis In this way I finished out 2003. Into 2004. 2004 started out the way 2003 ended. I got a speeding ticket to the tune of $160, plus $60 for traffic school, plus $3 for an atm charge over at the bank across the street from traffic school because traffic school doesn’t accept credit cards. The registration was due. It was a smog check year and I had misgivings about this one that proved correct. I failed the test and turned the car over to Armen for an upgrade--$250 worth. Back to the smog check guy—referred to by Armen, by the way—and I failed for the second time. On the bottom of the smog test printout were highlighted the words “gross polluter” Back to Armen. “Armen—what gives?” He said: “Its Sacramento. They have beefed up the specs on these old cars”. He made some adjustments—gratis—and back to Antal—where I failed the test. I stood there looking at him. He looked at me. It was the blank look of a smog check guy to the owner of an ‘88 Honda with 140,000 miles that had failed his third smog check and there was nothing to be said. But I said it anyway. We went back and forth for a bit and I could feel my arteries plugging, growing another few centimeters of gunk. I got in the car and didn’t return to Armen. I wasn’t in the mood. I drove around for a bit. I drove into Hollywood and down Fairfax and had a coffee at the Farmers Market. I reviewed the situation. Maybe I should buy a new car. I had the money. I could fork over $20,000 for a snappy Volkswagen Passat with a splendid warranty and my car problems were over. I briefly visualized inserting myself into one of these machines every morning and when I turned the key in the ignition the car fired up at once— brilliantly. But there are ways of spending money and there are ways of spending money and to dump 20 grand into a new car that turns into 15 grand the minute you drive it off the lot was a loser. What about another used car--a good used car. But was there such a thing? The Honda was a good used car. The mileage was 100,000 when I bought it. But I bought it from Joanne, a librarian who worried about things like air pressure in the tires and an oil change every 3,000 miles. 100,000 miles on a car driven by Joanne was like 10,000 miles driven by someone else. So I bought the car and as soon as I bought it it forgot it had ever been driven by a librarian. It was one thing after another starting with a brake job for $250, followed by a cooling system problem for $350, followed by a suspension problem for $450. Then I almost got killed when a tire blew on the freeway. Put it all together and its called: bad luck. Time passed. I got word of an agency in Sacramento—BAR—Bureau of Auto Repair--a division of Consumer Affairs that was sponsoring some type of smog check amnesty program. All you need do is fire off a few e-mails and fill out a small mountain of paperwork and pay a visit to the smog check test facility down at LA Trade Tech to be interviewed by a “referee” and then wait two months for the verdict. Meanwhile a plan was evolving. I had a friend—Paul the painter. Some years ago Paul was in the same boat—car problems-- and he got the bright idea to forget the car and bus it for a while. A stunning concept: no car in Los Angeles. There was a consensus on this one which was: it could not be done. But it could be done. It was done by Paul. He did it for a year and it was during this time, the sabbatical from the car, demanding a radical shift in the routine, and one result was: he discovered a different city. He was bussing it and taking these walks and there was a process involved that suggested some painting ideas—-a landscape series-—very cool. I bought one for myself. That was the first time. There was a second time a few years later. I said to him: “Its possible you will be remembered more for this one—to bus it in Los Angeles—than for your paintings”. Time passed. I was still waiting for word from Sacramento and meanwhile my registration had expired and I was driving around without tags. One day the letter arrives and miracle of miracles my application is accepted, I am legit, and all that remains is to send them $25 for the fee. There were two letters that day, both car related—the other an insurance invoice from 21st Century for the premium due (semi-annual)--$475 I thought about Paul. I was a senior, the price for a monthly bus pass was $12 and now we had a subway, the red line, to factor in another variable to the mass transit equation Over I drove to the metro transit center corner LaBrea/Wilshire and got my picture taken and a card issued and forked over $12 for my first monthly pass. I was actually excited. The first ride. This was a ride I was to take many times—the #16 west on Third from Kenmore to the Farmers Market at Third and Fairfax I had the advantage, bus-wise, of living in a poor neighborhood—where the average couple produced 3.67 children but owned 0.67 cars. What it added up to was: good bus service It was 7pm and, according to the schedule, a nine minute interval between buses. This meant I could leave the house at a random moment and the average wait time for the bus would be 4.5 minutes. I walked to the corner, up one block to Alexandria and here was the bus. I boarded and flashed my pass and took a seat up front in one of the triples reserved for senior/disabled. I squeezed myself in between two women and this was my first bus riding thought: whose ass was it to serve as template for the design of these seats? It was the ass of a 12 year old boy. Later I would see women of such size in this dept, the ass dept, and they would plop down on a double and one cheek went left and the other right and it was still a tight squeeze. Off we went. I sat observing my fellow passengers. It was a classic LA mix-- Mexicans, Koreans, blacks, Filipinos, Armenians, Cambodians, a Hindu, Samoan, etc—and me—whitey On with the ride. the driver was a young guy plugged into a cell phone talking to his girlfriend. Traffic was light and this guy was flying. He was behind schedule. That was my thought. But—as I was later to learn—he wasn’t behind schedule. they all drove this way. On with the ride. Not much of a ride. There were stops at Normandy and western but once past Wilton and into Hancock Park, yuppie country, where the average family owns 3.67 cars—it was a blur. There was a stop at Larchmont and another at La Brea and there we were at the market. Time elapsed-- 13 minutes. In my car it was nine minutes. I had a coffee at the Market and farted around the Grove. Nordstrom was having a shoe sale. Here was a pair of shoes—Allan Edmonds, marked down at 30% off from $240 to $180. Nice. To buy or no? I had this extra $475 burning a hole in my pocket due to the non-payment of car insurance. It was a thought. I left the store and crossed Third, over to the stop in front of Ross Dress For Less—and here was the bus. This time there were no seats. We were jammed in like sardines--providing me with my first insight bus-wise: to avoid the eastbound 16 on Third st just before closing time at Ross Dress For Less. The second ride: I went to the library-- downtown. I never went to the library downtown because parking was a misery and I didn’t take the bus because I had a car. It wasn’t done. You stayed home. But now the car was a non-issue and I could take the bus. I jumped on the 16 eastbound that—13 minutes later--dropped me off corner Sixth/Hope—1/2 block from the library. Ride #3:—Eagle Rock. I had friends in Eagle Rock and there was a birthday party. They offered a ride but I said no: I will bus it. I grabbed the 344 south on Normandy for four blocks to Wilshire, jumped on the Red Line to Union Station. I never went to Union Station in the car. It was a pointless thing to do. But there I was in this amazing building—-more than a building: a space. The light was gorgeous. I wandered around for a bit. Onto Eagle Rock. I took the Gold Line to Highland Park, walked over to Fig and caught the 181 north into Eagle Rock and got off two blocks from the house. Time elapsed: 55 minutes. By car it was 25 minutes. Now I posed a question: what was my preference—to spend 55 minutes on the bus in a meditative state--reading, thinking, napping—or 25 minutes behind the wheel of the car in a vicious mood with one thought percolating in my skull: kill So it went—riding the bus. My thought was to give it a year. It was an experiment. But it didn’t take a year to appreciate the wisdom of this decision. Money. Take gas, insurance and maintenance/repair, the odd traffic citation, etc, and I was saving $300 a month. I could have done this 5 years ago and to take the money and invest in a couple good small cap stocks and I would be sitting pretty. Convenience. The bus covers the city, there are 435 routes plus the subway, and you have DASH--the little neighborhood buses. They run every twenty minutes and the average passenger count is 6. Service. Here it helps to live in a poor neighborhood. Service is more frequent in K- town than Brentwood. But for myself, following a year of taking the bus on many different lines to many different parts of the city I would put the average wait time at 7 minutes Stress. I wont comment on the incidents of road rage I no longer had to involve myself with because you can supply your own. You will never be bored. I was a writer. What does a writer do? They watch people. For example: I took my usual seat, the senior/disabled behind the driver, studying the woman opposite, sitting on a large mouthful of gum carefully placed by a teenager. We didn’t know this at the time. Then she rose to get off and the chewing gum followed her—-still stuck to the seat and her bottom both but no one points this out because its embarrassing. Gum is a resinous compound with amazing properties of elasticity but this was spectacular. Out this wad strings itself--out, out, out and to loop around the post and follows her out the door and the doors shut themselves on the gum and the bus continues on. The precocious child. It was raining--a downpour. Across the street a man and young girl running for the bus. The driver waits. The street is a river. They scoot across dodging a few cars and scramble aboard and plop down on the seat opposite myself. The girl is 11 or 12. They are drenched--soaked to the skin. The girl looks at her father and says: “That was quite an adventure!” The woman with the healthiest gums in Los Angeles. I board the bus at the Market, returning home east on Third St. Here is a woman opposite flossing her teeth. She is flossing away with a piece 18 inches long. Back and forth she flosses, stops for a bit, begins again. So it went, with her flossing along and she was still at it when I got off at my stop 23 blocks later. To counsel a drunk. The drunk gets on and launches into a rambling conversation with the driver—a big mama type. Now the drunk says: “Should I get married—what do you think?” Pause. And now the driver says: “I’m not walking in your shoes”. Another pause while this one sinks in and he continues with the monologue. His stop arrives and he gets off and to the driver I say: “That was the perfect reply”. She said: “I decided to be kind. What I should have said was: ‘get married if you like but don’t, under any circumstances, have children’”. Time passed. I was desperate to play some golf. The Mexicans crossed themselves when the bus passed a church and I crossed myself when it passed Wilshire Country Club. That was the downside of this project. My regular course was Brookside in Pasadena where there were no lockers to keep my gear. I switched to Rancho in West LA—-a terrific course but slow. The average round took five hours and sometimes six. Rancho routinely copped the award for the most heavily played course in the country—-155,000 rounds/year. One weekend I jumped on line and Enterprise was offering a special, 3 days for $9.99/day. This was interesting. Thanks to the Internet car rental rates had plunged and now every weekend there was some sort of special going on and you could rent a car for three days for $10 or $12 or $14/day plus free milage and—get this—no insurance. The insurance was covered by Visa. I rode the bus but I carried in my wallet six credit cards-—all platinum. I reserved a car and picked it up Friday morning and headed east to Ontario to play a round at Goose Creek. Saturday I played Lost Canyons in Simi Valley and Sunday it was up to Santa Barbara to play Robinson Ranch and the golf was great but nothing about driving the car had changed: it was all still there-- the hideous traffic and the revolting behavior of the people and the vast amount of time pissed away in a vicious mood trying to get from point B to point A. I sold the Honda. I got $1,200. I began to think of the bus as a giant cab. The difference was: you went to meet the cab instead of vice versa and you shared the ride. Some observations: The bus driver. The job is generally thought to be a horrible job. That was the way I conceived it. But I rode the bus and as I did my attitude changed and a different perspective on the job was revealed. It was a good job—even cool. Think of it this way. There you are behind the wheel, up high, comfortably installed and the street spread out in front of you panavision style and you’ ve got your cell phone, I-pod and bottle of water, the pedal is to the metal hurtling along at 70 km/hr in this beast--14 tons of beast not including people—and you are the boss. You are king of the road. It isn’t you that concerns yourself with the car. The car concerns itself with you. Don’t mess with the bus! The drivers were great. I took hundreds of rides with hundreds of drivers and I found them to be polite, helpful, patient. Many times I saw the driver take the time to counsel some befuddled soul--lost, confused, drunk, or all the above, patiently doing his or her best to help Passengers. You get a cuckoo-head from time to time and if you are a photographer of the Diane Arbus type the opportunities are unlimited, but the people are cool. Its 95% working stiffs and women shopping with their children. They are concerned with one thing—the getting to point b from point a in a timely manner with a minimum of fuss. I rode the bus for a year and failed to witness one stabbing, incident of gunplay, punchout or the being covered with vomit from a drunk. The cell phone. cell phone abuse was less than anticipated. Plus 90% occurred in a foreign tongue. Shopping. Shopping is not a problem. You cant get a futon aboard but I have seen people come close. There was the woman at Target who came aboard lugging a comforter and two 12 packs of paper towels Where else do so many opportunities for a good deed present themselves? To spring for a fare for a homeless type or give your seat to a pregnant woman with four small children or to aid the blind, crippled, deformed, aging, retarded. A large percentage of my fellow riders seemed to be suing people. Now that I had no car I did more things. I have mentioned the library and Union Station. Also: Chinatown, Long Beach, the Biltmore hotel, the Getty, Venice Beach and a few others. On the bus listen in on a conversation between two homeless types on the subject of world affairs. It’s a pitiful thing to hear. Now compare that conversation to another conversation on the same subject between two of your friends—-your highly educated and extravagantly living yuppie friends of exquisite taste. It’s the same conversation. Some dos and donts Always greet the driver upon boarding the bus and thank him or her at the end of the ride. I always say: “Thank you—-driver” They like that. If there are no seats move to the rear of the bus. Why people insist on jamming themselves together like sardines in the front of the bus when there are seats to be had in the back of the bus remains a mystery. Don’t take the aisle seat if the window seat is empty. Its rude. When coughing, cover your mouth with your hand. If you must speak on the cell phone try using One of those ear piece devices with the tiny mike you can press to the lips to speak in a soft voice and in this way we can be spared the intimate details of your miserable life. On a crowded bus the wallet goes in the side pocket. Don’t look for the bus. The watched pot doesn’t boil. Don’t run for the bus. There will always be another. Conclusions The car was invented and perceived as a symbol—of freedom and liberation. And indeed it was—magnificently so. But somewhere along the line this vision has been perverted and no longer applies. It has become some other thing—quite a different thing—that you can call what you will but never liberation. So I have taken action, to deliver myself from the tyranny of this machine and everything that associates with it—the traffic, the price of gas, the relentless creeping upward of my blood pressure, the insurance premiums, the miserable clutches of Armen and the smog check Nazis in Sacramento, etc, etc and it turns out to be an inspired thought—-brilliant and even sweet. I am a new man. |
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