The epiphany, that affection in my current relationship is unevenly distributed, struck me at about the I-5/405 split. I felt a shaking to the innermost part of my being although, on reflection, it could also have been that “Cammy,” as I’d named my beloved ‘63 Camaro coupe, was in dire need of new shocks. Lucy, my girlfriend of the past six months, sitting over there in the passenger seat, had named Cammy “Lurch.” A blatant demonstration of disaffection if there ever was one. Any hesitancy in forward movement on Cammy’s part was entirely due to vehicular caution. I admit that it made for a rather episodic transition from point A to point B but saw it as no different from most vehicles on the 405: LA having elevated “stop and go” traffic to high art. Stop and Go’ played to Cammy’s strength.
Upon finally getting some speed up, I noticed Lucy paying rapt attention to the mostly high-end foreign cars as they whizzed by. She seemed to be actively calculating speed and distance, possibly with the thought of jumping ship at the next slowdown. This would be a commuter version of over the air upgrading or maybe updating her phone over the air. Instead, she’d be updating her ETA, her current partner, and her ride. The trifecta of LA living! Well, the other being status, income, and media exposure, if I want to be brutally honest.
I know that disaffection can cut both ways. Lucy had, perhaps realistically, expected me to have an education, an income approximating a living wage (if such a thing exists in California), and a circle of friends of passing interest to her; she had also indicated that personal hygiene would be appreciated. I, on the other hand, would be perfectly fine with a woman who had a passing interest in me. Age would be negotiable, up to a certain point. The President of France married a woman 25 years older than him, so I shouldn’t get niggly about a potential girlfriend’s age. Liking beer, European football, and fast food round out the requirements. We were on the same page regarding personal hygiene.
I suppose the fact that I’m currently economically inactive, a British euphemism for being unemployed, plays a role in Lucy’s emotional ennui. Also, the fact that she’s gainfully employed, albeit at a Chinese fast-food place, after having blatantly claimed a distant Chinese grandmother, the veracity of that claim obscure, and, at the end of the interview, saying “Xie Xie” just to seal the deal. The woman has no shame. Being blond and blue-eyed obviously didn’t register with her interviewer, or, in the interest of diversity, didn’t matter. And, let’s face it, $21.50 an hour does not markedly elevate one’s status in current times. However, being a glass half-full guy, at least I’ve been getting free Orange Chicken for the past six months.
So, possibly in the last mile of our relationship, we entered West LA and West Hollywood, or: We Ho-adjacent by way of Beverly Hills. My only expectation for this trip was to grab a burger at the Sunset Grill in We Ho, but, at this point my anxiety increased in direct proportion to the attentiveness Lucy was paying to other cars. At any minute I expect to hear Cammy’s door be an open and shut demonstration of her busting a move to the next available money car. We are now in a bubble where food is twice as expensive as clothes, and half as interesting, to paraphrase Richard Kadrey. Once she gets a whiff of We Ho I fear all will be lost, and she’ll become one of the high and hopeful, in that one must be high to be even remotely hopeful in West LA. The city is akin to the Savanna, where prey and predators exist in a delicate balance.
I could just see Lucy striding down Hollywood Boulevard, hop-scotching down the walk of stars, dodging tourists, the un-housed, and the street corner proselytizers, echoing Val Kilmer as she texts “We Ho, I’m your Huckleberry,” to her entire contact list, maybe tossing in a TikTok short or Threads update, and not understanding a thing about what she just said. She could be We Ho’s savior, its pallbearer, or its prey; time will tell. At present she’s both the epitome of cluelessness and a vessel of hope and, unlike Val, certainly not the fastest gun in the West. It’s possible I’m just suffering from premature separation.
Pondering this, while keeping an eye on the passenger side, I resolved to return to San Diego and start anew. Perhaps, if she achieves her dream, I’ll read about Lucy at some point. In the meantime, I have Cammy. I will get her some new shocks; because she is my huckleberry, in the nicest sense of the word.
Stone, a San Diego resident, enjoys all things satirical, fantastically romantic, and referential to that place up the road: Hollywood. His particular attachment is to flash fiction and very, very short stories, with an occasional deviation into novellas.
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