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| In the Billy Wilder theatre, Westwood |
In the early 80s the band, Missing Persons, released a song titled "Walking in LA" which essentially, was about nobody walking in LA. I remember once, when I was much younger and I think we were living in LA, my mother told me a story about two LAPD officers who shot a man dead. Apparently the man was deaf and when asked for identification, the man reached into his pocket to show the officers that he was deaf. Thinking he was grabbing a weapon, the officers shot and killed the man. Why did LAPD wish to speak with the man? He had been walking in LA and they thought that that was suspicious.
For a brief while there, I was living in my girlfriend's soon to be foreclosed upon house in North Hollywood, or NoHo as the locals call it. The result of a failed marriage, a betrayal of trust and business and some seriously poor decisions, she was losing control of the little '20s adobe. After her ex-best friends moved out and that after they trashed the house, attempting to turn it into a pot house by ripping holes in the walls and ceilings in order to reroute the HVAC, I moved in while my girlfriend was still in Sweden and began a long and arduous process of repairing and cleaning the house. A friend drove up from Orange County one day and together, we put in 11 hours. For the next several weeks I continued repairing and cleaning until my girlfriend returned from Sweden. Separately and together we attempted to rent the house out. There were several promising bites, but nothing panned out. We, well at least I, did not have very much money (I was only working part time then), so we stayed at her place. However, as she was trying to rent the house, she did not want it to appear as though anyone was living there which meant that we had no furniture and other than the stove and refrigerator, washer and dryer, no appliances. Every night after I got home we would meet at the Panera on the corner of Lankershim and Chandler, get dinner somewhere, usually either the little Thai place in Burbank or the Indian place in NoHo then return to the house, go out to the garage and get our bags and beds. My bed was a roll of curtains, hers a borrowed cot, sleeping pad and sleeping bag. Every morning we would wake up, shower and change, take everything back out to the garage, go to Denny's where they had free WiFi, check our email, I'd look for jobs, then around 11 I would kiss her goodbye and walk to the Metro station where I would catch the Red Line. Twenty minutes later I would be standing at the corner of Wilshire and Vermont where I would take either the 720 or hopefully, the 920, into Westwood, usually about 50 minutes or so away, depending upon traffic. My commute back to NoHo was usually a little longer and I usually took the 761 to the Valley where I would hop on the Orange Line back into NoHo.
Those commutes were long, but they only cost me $17/week and I had ample time to sleep, read or watch TV shows on my phone. I actually didn't really mind taking the bus, but it did take a large portion of my day away.
When I began looking for an apartment I had a list of criteria, one of which was either proximity to my job or to public transportation. Ever since I moved to LA to go to graduate school, I have been determined not to commute by car. I was very excited when, after over two months of searching, I finally found a little place in Westwood at the corner of Brentwood and Santa Monica, just over a mile from work and 2/3rds of a block south of two bus stops. If I walk it takes around 25 minutes, bike takes about eight and the bus can take 5-10, depending upon traffic. Most times, I ride my bike which is great, especially when I zoom by stuck car after stuck car. However, my route takes me east on Wilshiire Boulevard, underneath the 405 and because of that, I have to cross the on and offramps on both my way to work and my return home. The return home is usually not so bad, but the way into work is always a little dicey. It's on these journeys that I am introduced to the LA motorist's mindset.
Every city's got their fair shore of asshole drivers. When I was living in Salt Lake City it was the uncanny instinct for all drivers to increase their speeds and to go from tailgating to NASCAR drafting as the weather got worse. In Saudi Arabia, they're all terrible drivers. In LA however, and I believe that it's due to the fact that so many people commute by car and that so many of those are stuck in traffic for hours a day, that there is an inherent douche bag selfishness. An attitude of "Fuck you, I'm not letting you in front of me. I've been in this position for the last two miles and 30 minutes and I'll be fucked if you're getting in front of me." prevails, even towards cyclists.
On Wilshire, passing the VA (largest in the US), things are generally smooth as most traffic is at a standstill. Problems begin as I crest the little rise which is the underpass for Bonsal and begin the slight dip down to the 405 overpass. It's here where the merge lane for 405 south begins. As the lane broadens and turns more towards the onramp, an access road from Bonsal and the VA merges. Many, many LA douche bag drivers use this little access road as a cheat to cut off about 20 cars and 15 minutes of waiting. At the top of the rise is a bus lane which accesses the bus pad. Many, many LA douche bag drivers use this as a cheat to cut off about ten cars and an equal number of minutes waiting. It is here, at the confluence of these three lanes, my morning adventures usually begin.
As people come up from Bonsal and the VA, they either stay to their right and get onto the southbound onramp, which means they are no concern of mine, or they attempt to merge left into the near-stopped traffic of eastbound Wilshire. Then there are those who are attempting to merge right from Wilshire and get onto the southbound onramp. These two sets of peoples inevitably come to logger heads as one tries to go right, the other left. Normally what this means to me is that I have to weave between them until I can get onto the small pedestrian island that connects the two crosswalks across the southbound onramp and the southbound offramp.
I really have to pay attention to the people getting off of the freeway because they're usually hopped up on caffeine and anger and the offramp is the first time in the last two hours they've been able to go over 15 miles an hour. Usually they do not look to their left and see me trying to cross. Or they do see me and simply do not care; "Fuck you, I'm not letting you in front of me."
The next two, really sketchy spots, are merging left across the northbound onramp and back onto Wilshire. There is only one lane for the onramp and often people who are in that lane don't realise this until the last moment and suddenly finding themselves having to swerve left to get out of the onramp. Sometimes there are others who either didn't realise that there was only one lane or, usually, were trying their best LA douche bag driver attempts to get ahead of all the people who had been patiently waiting their turn in the far right lane by going around them in the next lane over and swooping across at the last minute. It's these assholes who scare me the most because I am convinced that one of these days, some douche bag is going to be screaming at his girlfriend through his Bluetooth, Star Trek Borg earpiece, holding his Starbucks in his right while he cranes his neck trying to get over to his right as quickly as possible, all this while not using his turn signal, n'est pas. This guy, in his black 500 S Class will be the guy whose front bumper clips my back wheel and sends me cartwheeling into traffic.
The final spot of doom is the northbound offramp. Like their brethren in the southbound lanes, they too have not been able to reach speeds above 15 miles and hour for the past two hours, however, the big difference is that the offramp onto Wilshire for northbound 405 is straighter and longer, curving hard right with two lanes, the far right lane with its own dedicated lane onto Wilshire. Which means that those people, if they've done that route enough times, know that they do not have to stop nor look to their left. Which they often don't.
My troubles arise from many directions. First there are those people who simply do not see me. One time, a guy in a large moving van was coming hot onto Wilshire in the right hand lane of the offramp, the entire time staring straight ahead as he wrestled the boxy van around the band and down to lower speeds, merging onto Wilshire. It was not until the absolute last moment, just before his front tires crossed the white line representing eastbound Wilshire did he look to his left. And directly into my eyes. His window was down so I wished him good morning. I saw the realisation in his eyes that he had no idea I had been there and that he could have hit and possibly killed me.
Then there are those who do see me but their inherent LA douche bag driver instinct takes hold and even though I am on a 30 pound bicycle, not capable of exceeding much over 20 miles an hour on the flats and all I'm trying to do is merge right so that I can be on the far side of Wilshire, as I'm supposed to be, I can see them see me, I can see the gears turning in their heads, and I can see the flash of, "Fuck you, I'm not letting you in front of me." Some of these dickweeds cut me off without so much of a hello. Some, at the last moment, realise they're being dickweeds and attempt a half-assed gesture of apology. Some realise, at the last moment, that I am on a 30 pound bicycle, not capable of exceeding much over 20 miles an hour on the flats and all I'm trying to do is merge right so that I can be on the far side of Wilshire, as I'm supposed to be, and slam on the brakes at the last moment. However, their timing is such crap that by the time they do stop, the entire left side of their car is blocking my path and I have to go around.
Then there are the people on the far right hand lane. These budding Michael Schumachers often don't look to their left at all. Many times, the car of the douche bag who suddenly had a last-minute conscience has blocked their vision to their left and so can't see me as I'm trying to get around said last-minute conscience douche bag's car.
Finally, there are those who see me, slow at the last minute, but don't seem to understand that I am just trying to get over to the far right of Wilshire, where I'm supposed to be, and then start racing with me. I have to take my right hand from the handlebars, look back at them as angrily as possible and gesture with my open palm that I'm trying to get over. Usually they slam on their brakes, jerk their steering wheels to the left and floor it past me, speeding towards the stopped traffic at the lighted intersection just yards away.
As much of a pain in the ass it sometimes was, I do miss commuting to and from the Valley. I have a stack of Vanity Fairs that I have yet to get to because my commute is so short. And I would not have to have been exposed, so closely and vividly, to the mindset of the LA douche bag driver.
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