L.A.’s whereyou end up when you have nowhere else to go.
A long time ago I’d driven west from Missouri,a sixteen-year-old high school graduate armed with a head full of desperationand a partial academic scholarship to the U.
Only son of a moody1, hard drinker and a chronic2 depressive. Nothing to keepme in the flatlands.
Living like a pauper3 on work-study and occasional guitar gigs in weddingbands, I managed to get educated. Made some money as a psychologist, and a lotmore from lucky investments. Got The House In The Hills.
Relationships were another story, but that would’ve been true no matterwhere I lived.
Back when I treated children, I routinely took histories from parents andlearned what family life could be like in L.A.People packing up and moving every year or two, the surrender to impulse, thedeath of domestic ritual.
Many of the patients I saw lived in sun-baked tracts4 with no other kidsnearby and spent hours each day being bused to and from beige corrals thatclaimed to be schools. Long, electronic nights were bleached5 by cathode and thump-thumpedby the current angry music. Bedroom windows looked out to hazy6 miles ofneighborhoods that couldn’t really be called that.
Lots of imaginary friends in L.A.That, I supposed, was inevitable7. It’s a company town and the product isfantasy.
The city kills grass with red carpets, worships fame for its own sake,demolishes landmarks8 with glee because the high-stakes game is reinvention.Show up at your favorite restaurant and you’re likely to find a sign trumpetingfailure and the windows covered with brown paper. Phone a friend and get adisconnected number.
No Forwarding. It could be the municipal motto.
You can be gone in L.A.for a long time before anyone considers it a problem.
When Michaela Brand and Dylan Meserve went missing, no one seemed to notice.
Michaela’s mother was a former truck-stop cashier living with an oxygen tankin Phoenix9. Herfather was unknown, probably one of the teamsters Maureen Brand had entertainedover the years. Michaela had left Arizonato get away from the smothering10 heat, gray shrubs11, air that never moved, no onecaring about The Dream.
She rarely called her mother. The hiss12 of Maureen’s tank, Maureen’s saggingbody, ragged13 cough, and emphysemic eyes drove her nuts. No room for any of thatin Michaela’s L.A.head.
Dylan Meserve’s mother was long dead from an undiagnosed degenerativeneuromuscular disease. His father was a Brooklyn-based alto sax player who’dnever wanted a rug rat in the first place and had died of an overdose fiveyears ago.
Michaela and Dylan were gorgeous and young and thin and had come to L.A. for the obviousreason.
By day, he sold shoes at a Foot Locker14 in Brentwood.She was a lunch waitress at a pseudo-trattoria on the east end of Beverly Hills.
They’d met at the PlayHouse, taking an Inner Drama seminar from Nora Dowd.
The last time anyone had seen them was on a Monday night, just after tenp.m., leaving the acting15 workshop together. They’d worked their butts16 off on ascene from Simpatico. Neither really got what Sam Shepard was aiming for but theplay had plenty of juicy parts, all that screaming. Nora Dowd had urged them toinject themselves in the scene, smell the horseshit, open themselves up to thepain and the hopelessness.
Both of them felt they’d delivered. Dylan’s Vinnie had been perfectly17 wildand crazy and dangerous, and Michaela’s Rosie was a classy woman of mystery.
Nora Dowd had seemed okay with the performance, especially Dylan’scontribution.
That frosted Michaela a bit but she wasn’t surprised.
Watching Nora go off on one of those speeches about right brain–left brain.Talking more to herself than to anyone else.
The PlayHouse’s front room was set up like a theater, with a stage andfolding chairs. The only time it got used was for seminars.
Lots of seminars, no shortage of students. One of Nora’s alumni, a formerexotic dancer named April Lange, had scored a role on a sitcom18 on the WB. Anautographed picture of April used to hang in the entry before someone took itdown. Blond, shiny-eyed, vaguely19 predatory. Michaela used to think: Why her?
Then again, maybe it was a good sign. If it could happen to April, it couldhappen to anyone.
Dylan and Michaela lived in single-room studio apartments, his on Overland, in Culver City, hers on Holt Avenue, south of Pico. Both theircribs were tiny, dark, ground-floor units, pretty much dumps. This was L.A., where rent couldcrush you and day jobs barely covered the basics and it was hard, sometimes,not to get depressed20.
After they didn’t show up at work for two days running, their respectiveemployers fired them.
And that was the extent of it.
1 moody | |
adj.心情不稳的,易怒的,喜怒无常的 | |
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2 chronic | |
adj.(疾病)长期未愈的,慢性的;极坏的 | |
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3 pauper | |
n.贫民,被救济者,穷人 | |
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4 tracts | |
大片土地( tract的名词复数 ); 地带; (体内的)道; (尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的)短文 | |
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5 bleached | |
漂白的,晒白的,颜色变浅的 | |
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6 hazy | |
adj.有薄雾的,朦胧的;不肯定的,模糊的 | |
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7 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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8 landmarks | |
n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 );目标;(标志重要阶段的)里程碑 ~ (in sth);有历史意义的建筑物(或遗址) | |
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9 phoenix | |
n.凤凰,长生(不死)鸟;引申为重生 | |
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10 smothering | |
(使)窒息, (使)透不过气( smother的现在分词 ); 覆盖; 忍住; 抑制 | |
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11 shrubs | |
灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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12 hiss | |
v.发出嘶嘶声;发嘘声表示不满 | |
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13 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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14 locker | |
n.更衣箱,储物柜,冷藏室,上锁的人 | |
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15 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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16 butts | |
笑柄( butt的名词复数 ); (武器或工具的)粗大的一端; 屁股; 烟蒂 | |
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17 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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18 sitcom | |
n.情景喜剧,(广播、电视的)系列幽默剧 | |
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19 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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20 depressed | |
adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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