The Crew on Yucca Street

If I hadn't seen his foot peeking out from the heap, I wouldn't have known there was a man asleep under the jumble of blankets. And, if I hadn't ventured into the roadway to call back a tiny dog that was sniffing Yucca Street and dodging cars, I wouldn't have heard a woman's squawk rise from another mountain of covers near the first spot.

 

After I had coaxed the dog out of the road, I heard its owner say. "Come back here." It wasn't a shout, because she had likely just been woken by my unfamiliar voice. Her own speech still has curtains of sleep blurring the words.

Once the dog returned to its spot and concocted shelter, I continued my walk, which was taking me from my Los Angeles apartment to Hollywood and Vine. Along with the dog and the pair under blankets, the sights on my route included the Capitol tower, which is shaped like a stack of records on a turntable and commemorates its artists, including Nate King Cole, Billie Holiday, and Ella Fitzgerald. The Yucca crew can also easily see the building from their jerry-rigged vantage point.

I am carless in my new city -- a decision based on funds, and a hunger for exercise and exploration - and take this road nearly every day. While I'm pleased how my move to the West Coast is turning out, scenes like the one on Yucca and similar encampments on nearly every corner, on bus stop benches, and under every freeway overpass and onramps, are dimming its gloss.

"What's with all of the homeless in L.A.?" I asked family and friends. Shrugs and raised hands of helplessness met my query. "Maybe it's because you all drive so you don't see them," I added. "But with my walking and bus rides, they seem to be everywhere."

In my former life in Chicago, where I lived in a downtown neighborhood, I had encountered panhandlers with out-stretched coffee cups or hand-written appeals. At one point, I prepped for these strolls with a pocket of dollar bills. When my $5 cache emptied, I'd have to turn a blind eye to pleas. That was about it for my aid.

The Los Angeles tableaus are different. They range from one ragged person propped against a storefront, to clusters of people and shopping carts piled with empty bottles, cans, mattresses, clothing, and stuff likely culled from dumpsters.

The question of how this came to be in such a rich and scenic city wouldn't evaporate from my brain, so I decided to investigate. If I could learn more about the downfalls that left people living on the street, and programs underway to address the issue, maybe I could find a way to be part of the solution.

 Here are some things I've learned so far:

+The Los Angeles Homeless Services Authority, a city-county agency, oversees $70 million in state, local and national funding for housing and other services.

+The federal homeless funding formula penalizes Los Angeles by factoring in the age of the housing stock. For example, Philadelphia gets $11,000 per homeless person, while Los Angeles get $1,500.

+On any given night in LA County, there are 58,000 homeless, of which 3,000 -- 4,000 are over the age of 62, with 33% of them women. (Could that ever happen to my friends? To me?)

+L.A. has the country's largest homeless veteran population -- 2,600 -- and Mayor Eric Garcetti has promised to house them by the end of 2015.

+Social Security payments and low wage jobs are barely enough to find permanent housing. Many landlords of subsidized units are reluctant to rent to those who are homeless.

+The absence of a permanent address makes it extremely difficult to get a job.

And, here are some steps I'm taking:

+I've volunteered on January 29 to assist in the 2015Greater Los Angeles Point-In-Time Homeless Count. This project helps determine how many people nightly sleep on the street.

+I'll attempt to meet staff of organizations that intrigue me, including Shelter Partnership, Homeless Health Care Los Angeles, and the Skid Row Housing Trust. This variety should broaden my knowledge.

In a few months after my research, maybe I'll introduce myself to the Yucca crew. If I learn their names, and that of their dog, I can call the pup back should he wander again. Perhaps when he hears his name, I can lure him home quicker. Who knows, maybe one day we can get his owners to safety, too.

Happy Holidays

I was the seventh resident to tape a greeting card to the wall of our building's elevator. The design I had selected, and affixed with double-sided Scotch tape, was as holiday-neutral as the others. Snowman, Santa, a sprig of holly (mine), and wintry scenes. No figure on the cross, crèche, or menorah

When I first saw the cards on the elevator wall, which bore people's first names only and their apartment number, I thought, how quaint. At the time, it didn't occur to me to join in on the display because I had only been a resident for a few weeks.

Although I had introduced myself to several neighbors on my walkway, and said hello to fellow passengers in this small elevator, I didn't feel long-term enough to post a greeting card. (I feel a need to explain the use of "walkway" rather than "floor," which would've been the terminology in a high-rise. But I live in a 24-unit building, which is square-shaped and overlooks a ground floor landscaped courtyard. To me, it's very film noire.)

But on this elevator day, after going up-and-down several times to do my laundry, I decided, why not? My card read, "Happy Holidays." I added in pen, "to all!" and signed Elaine, #21.

Some background: I have lived and adjusted, in a variety of neighborhoods; I count 15 since 1960, the year of my first marriage. This condominium building, which houses a few other renters like myself, is my latest challenge. I have a one-year lease -- enough time to plant myself and see if I flourish. Or, if I'm seasonal, like the holly on my card.

One nourishment -- along with my family -- is the fact that I have settled in a fertile neighborhood called "Beachwood." My daughters and her friends have told me that this is the place where they all docked when they first moved as a troupe from Chicago to L.A.

I like the idea that I'm in a setting of fresh starts, hopefulness, and even youthful enthusiasm, even though I've topped all newcomers' ages by several decades. Why can't this also be blossoming soil for the older set?

In an earlier essay, I claimed I wanted to find a place that was walking distance from my daughter Jill. I thought the proximity would ensure an easy transition from my former home and life in Chicago, and that I could untangle any familial knots and knit a new tapestry of family love so tight, it'd be impossible to unravel.

So, while I was temporarily housed in an Airbnb that was walking distance from my kin in Silver Lake, I reviewed half a dozen places nearby. Alas, none felt like home.

But, as soon as I stepped into this Beachwood apartment, I sent a text to Jill: "it's perfect." When she -- in a reversal of roles that had her playing the scrutinizing mother and me the silent daughter -- came for a viewing, she agreed and the year's lease was signed.

So, instead of walking distance to Jill, I'm a 30-minute bus ride (#2 along Sunset Blvd.) or a 10-minute Uber or Lyft car ride ($8) to her home. But in the swap of neighborhoods, while losing easy access to dear relatives, I gained a grocery store a block away (the amazing Gelson's), a comedy club, (Upright Citizens Brigade), and a second-hand bookstore (Counterpoint where I bought Alice Munro's "Friend of My Youth").

Another bonus of my new home -- that helps to make up for the distance from Jill -- is that I'm a 15-minute walk from buses that can take me to several favorites: Temple Israel of Hollywood, a reform synagogue for Saturday morning Torah study, to Target on La Brea, or to The Grove on 3rd and Fairfax with its Farmers Market and Apple store.

And recently, I walked 1.3 miles to The Trails coffee shop in lush Griffith Park. It's that benefit that has me grateful for my locale, for from opposite directions, mother and daughter recently met for coffee, conversation, and hugs.

Eventually, the holiday cards that are decorating the elevator will be tugged down. Perhaps before that happens, passengers will take a moment to flip the cover of each card and read the name of the signer. Most will have no clue about "Elaine." I figure I have the coming new year to correct that mystery; not only for my neighbors, but also for resident 21 herself.

Coin-Operated Laundry

I opened the lid of the Maytag Commercial, measured half a capful of Tide with Downy, and dumped into the machine, my shopping cart full of bathroom towels and rugs. Then, I pulled six quarters out of my change purse and slid each into the slot. When I heard the tub fill with water, I felt as proud as if I had just been handed my college degree.

"This is a scene I never expected to witness," said Tommy. I had conjured my deceased spouse for this episode because I knew he'd get a kick out of seeing his Jewish Princess in a coin-operated laundry.

My mother, a neighbor of his in heaven -- who evidently couldn't resist an opportunity to jibe -- weighed in. "Somehow I thought your relocation to Los Angeles would move you up a notch," she said. The tone was familiar, one I recognized from my childhood that usually accompanied, "Stand up straight," or "Comb you hair."

"Why have you two teamed up to rain on my parade?" I said. "Couldn't you let my pride sustain for at least one cycle? I'm pleased I'm not thrown by this humble chore after enjoying in-home laundry for the past three decades."

"You're right," Tommy said, "but I remember how sorry you felt for me when I told you I once spent every Friday night at the Laundromat. I can still see your tender expression after I moved into your townhouse and you escorted me to your washer and dryer."

I hit pause on this dearly departed dialogue to recall the setting he described. It was 1996 and we had enjoyed a whirlwind romance. Tommy, only a few weeks after our first date, transferred clothes and favorite furniture from the apartment he lived in down the block to my place. We were both singles in our 60's -- he a long-time divorcé, me recently separated after a 30-year marriage -- and our compatibility encouraged a leap.

Although we were compatible, and did have similar opinions in music, television, plays, and pets; Tommy and I differed in religion and income.

It was these two mismatches that I intended to remedy. I would groom my second husband to be a Jewish Prince. There would be no more Friday nights sitting in a chair at the Laundromat with his latest paperback mystery as companion. With me, came a willing laundress who was tickled to offer this perk to my sweetie.

Along with the in-home washer and dryer, I pressured my prince to accept a new suit for our wedding, a set of golf clubs to replace his vintage batch, and his own Honda Accord. I mention these, not to extol my generosity, but to emphasize that Tommy didn't request these gifts, didn't care about money, and would've married me with none of my perks. But, I was so delighted to be with such a low-maintenance guy, whose only goal was to make me happy, that it brought me pleasure to shower him.

"Such a sweet story," my mother said, yawning at my exposition. "I like Tommy, don't get me wrong," she said, winking at him. "But I had hoped that for your second marriage, you would've landed someone who would spend money on you. You can't blame me for that."

Then, she wrapped an arm around her son-in-law, and fixed a red-stained kiss on his cheek. Tommy, who appreciated attractive women -- and Mother was a knockout -- smirked.

"And now, we find you in a dreary laundry room off of the garage, feeding quarters into machines. This is not where I expected to find you," she said.

"Just like you didn't count on a life behind the counter of a mom-and-pop grocery store," I said.  Mother's face changed. I had erred in reminding her of those years when she struggled to keep our business afloat while my happy-to-lucky dad steered it into one debt-laden boulder after another.

"Sorry, Mom," I said. "I know you just want the best for me. But, despite this laundry room, I'm really enjoying my Los Angeles apartment and life. I get to see more of your granddaughters and great-grandchildren, and I don't have to deal with Chicago's winter."

This brightened her; Tommy was smiling, too. Now it was my turn to grin as he took his mother-in-law's hand and said, "Okay, Min, time to go back. So, she's down here doing her laundry. If she can live with that, we shouldn't complain." Then he added, "Love you, sweetheart," and faded from my imagination.

"Me, too," Mom said, and before she disappeared, gave my cheek the red twin of Tommy's.

Treasure Hunt

My favorite clue was "kitty in a tree." I think Felix liked that one, too, because he asked that the Hello Kitty key fob be used in three more games.

It all started with a text from Jill: "Can you come over and hang out with Felix for awhile?" The previous day, she had hosted a large Thanksgiving dinner, and was hoping to catch up on needed rest. "I'll try and get a babysitter, but are you available until then?"

Her query arrived while I was riding a bus that would get me to a hardware store. I was seeking a garage door opener that my daughter could use to park in the space allotted to my new apartment. Happy visions of her dropping over spontaneously were spurred by long ago memories of the times in Chicago when I'd return home to find either of my daughters' cars parked outside.

On the bus, I was studying directions to the store and was as focused as if I were a gold rush prospector. But after receiving Jill's request, I shifted to my attention to my iPhone and typed: "Happy to help. On way to Baller's on Hyperion. Will text when done. Pick me up there."

This new plan heartened me, because four weeks into my move to Los Angeles, I was intent on being an asset, rather than a burden. If I could be helpful -- by entertaining my grandson and providing a respite to my daughter -- my immigration could be considered a win-win.

When I completed my purchases, that included a dry mop and a just-in-case toilet plunger, I typed: "Ready to be retrieved."

"Isaac's on his way." This alert from my daughter was another perk -- a chance to see my 18-year-old grandson whose words, "Why don't you move to L.A.?" sparked my recent long-distance transfer.

"Can you get Felix off his screen?" were Jill's first words after her welcoming hug. I followed her gaze to my six-year-old grandson who was prone on the couch, his eyes focused on an electronic pad and his thumbs swiftly pressing buttons.

I put my hands on my hips and surveyed the indoor scene. I considered my daughter's challenge as one crucial for me to accept and win. But first, I had to lure Felix outside.

While he continued his game, I took a few moments to contemplate their backyard. It held a lemon tree, Ping-Pong table, hammock, outdoor sofa, potted plants, a coiled water hose, and other items I could foresee as props in a game.

"How about a treasure hunt?" I said to Felix.  He lifted his head to face me -- interested, but not yet ready to abandon his screen. "I'll hide things, then I'll draw a map with clues. You'll have to search to find them. If you collect all, you'll win a prize."

To be honest, I had never devised, played, or completed such a game. Also, I can only draw stick figures and animals that can be identified by humps, feathers, or wings. But, I was undaunted.

Felix must've assumed I was a whiz at this sort of sport, for he quickly rolled off the couch to round up paper and markers. "You stay inside and close your eyes," I said, as I walked around the living room scouting potential treasures. Along with the kitty key fob, in a jumble of small toys, I found a plastic boat, a cotton stalk of celery, and a mini motorcycle with one wheel missing.

I quickly placed the kitty in the crook of the tree, the boat near the water hose, the motorcycle along the Ping-Pong net, and in what I considered a flash of inspiration, tucked the celery behind Isaac who was lounging on the hammock.

Then, I sketched out the map, and listed clues. Along with "kitty in a tree," I wrote, "boat needs water," "cycle gets a paddle," and "celery loves a boy."

"Come out now," I shouted to Felix. He ran from the house and grabbed the map, which looked to me as if one of his kindergarten pals had drawn it. As he raced through the yard, I'd shout an occasional, "you're warm" or a more helpful "turn around."

When he had successfully gathered all of the hidden toys, he raised his hands in triumph, and then continued for three more rounds with new objects and clues.

From the corner of my eye, I could see Jill watching us. Her face bore an expression reminiscent of the one I had when I had spotted her Honda outside my home all those years ago. It appears we all struck gold.

Public Transit

The patch on her right sleeve read "78866." Using the Pilot pen I had tucked into the notebook's spiral, I wrote down the number. "Let me repeat it," I said, "78866."

The conductor smiled as I continued, "I'm going to send a compliment to Metro. You've been terrific."

This was the second operator of a #2 Sunset-PCH bus that I had praised since my arrival in Los Angeles. The first driver, per my request, called out my stop, even though the audio system alerted me several streets prior to reaching the corner of Hollywood and Poinsettia.

The episode with 78866 began when my Tap card was out of funds, but my Senior Citizen Pass could permit a 35-cent ride. "I don't have change," I told her, pulling a dollar bill from my wallet. (The day before, my grandson, Felix, had showed me his treasure chest of coins, so I emptied my change purse into it.)  "Just take the dollar; my fault for being unprepared," I told her.

"Just ask one of the passengers for change," she said. "Don't waste money."

"No, that's fine. My mistake."

But, 78866 insisted; so curbing embarrassment, I called out my request, which was quickly answered by a mother cuddling her baby. She nimbly used her free hand to extract coins, at first refusing my paper bill, but accepting after I pressed it into her palm.

Of course, there have been hiccups on my use of Metro. On Sunday, after alighting from the #704 at Santa Monica and Fairfax, I asked a friendly woman where I would catch the #218. It wasn't until my 35-cents had plunked that I had learned I would've been travelling in the opposite direction of my destination in Studio City.

I relate these experiences because prior to moving to Los Angeles, various people warned me against its public transit system. "Dicey passengers, unreliable service," they cautioned. "You'll need to buy a car."

However, I had received my Carless Basic Training in Chicago and was determined to avoid the expense. Uber had successfully been my option for short trips, but for longer excursions, I turned to Metro.

My initial reasons to go carless in L.A. included: a desire to save money, to get exercise walking to bus stops and coffee shops, to learn its landscape via window seats, and to prove my independence. But I now realize it was my childhood adventures that bonded me to public transit.

It started in the 1940's, with the red Pullman streetcar that stopped on tracks outside our mom-and-pop grocery store. Here are excerpts, via my memoir, that may help you understand our relationship:

"Once on board the streetcar, Mother took a quarter from her purse and handed it to the conductor who made change for the ten-cent fare with the coin holder he wore on his belt. Then, with the car in motion, we lurched through the aisle until we found two empty spaces. After we landed on the cane-backed seats, I tugged at Mother’s coat sleeve and said, ‘Look, there’s Mrs. Schwartz, she’s going into the A&P.’"

Okay, that particular passage is a bit dour because it previewed the coming demise of our small establishment that couldn't compete with supermarkets. But there are other paragraphs that can enlighten.

Here's one from Chapter 7 of "The Division Street Princess":

"I recalled the first time Estherly and I rode the streetcar, on our own, to Wabash Avenue downtown for dance lessons. Dressed in outfits a step up from school clothes and carrying our tap shoes in drawstring sacks, we thought we were big shots.

"My cousin and I had a shtick back then that we ad-libbed every time the streetcar approached the bridge over the Chicago River. 'It’s going up,' Estherly would cry out, as the trolley paused at the water’s edge. While we’d watch the jaws of the bridge unfold and reach for the sky, and the tall sails slip below the open bridge, Estherly would add, 'What if it doesn’t shut back down tight? What if it falls apart when we cross it, and we plunge into the river?'

“'I can’t swim,' I would wail, and clutch Estherly’s sleeve as if I were a starlet in a B movie. 'Save me!' Once the streetcar made it safely over the closed bridge, we’d laugh at our pretend terror."

So, to all those who warned me against Los Angeles' Metro, you should know that once the red Pullman, streetcar tracks, and overhead cables, have been imprinted on your childhood brain, it's useless dissuading the rider from the joys of staring out the window, watching her world -- old and new -- pass before her enchanted eyes.