Los Angeles, City of Angels, the city of my Grandma, my personal guardian angel in life and in death, a woman so inextricably intertwined with LA in my mind that I can’t write about the city without her memory taking over. She believed there were guardian angels watching over her. A psychic healer by trade, she believed in a lot of things, things she passed on to my mother– on to me– along with her strong intuition, wide, toothy, over-bitten grin, and a sensitivity that refused to be sanded and calloused by the bluntness of the world. She was magical in her way, but followed no specific spiritual school of thought, instead specializing in a new-age patchwork of miscellaneous elements from various practices, cobbled together into something all her own.
Everything about her was like that; uniquely hers in a way no one else could touch, right down to her name. Her given name was Mary, but she’d never liked it, and in her 40s she gave herself a new name: Solemei. I’ve never met another Solemei, and I doubt I ever will. She was a woman of many names, but to me, she was always my Grandma, and what a thing to be. Anyone who’s ever had a Grandma knows how truly special it is. She was a frizzy mop of fiery, fly-away hair atop a soft, swaying cascade of multicolor shawls and caftans, with swathes of indigo-bedecked bangles around each wrist, that jingled against one another at her every move. Her wiry, blue-rimmed glasses were the same pale, watery shade as her eyes, which, magnified behind her thick prescription lenses, reminded me of an owl. She was rather short, but to 5-year-old me she was a giant, and when she swooped me up into her arms it felt like flying. She was invincible in my young eyes, and still only in her late 50s. She was going to live forever.
I always looked forward to visiting her in the summers, stepping out of LAX and into the fray of shuttles and cabs and endless, endless traffic that made New Orleans rush hour seem almost pleasant by comparison. Standing there and soaking in the bustling kinetic charge that pulses through Los Angeles like lifeblood, the first thing to hit me was always that heavy scent of exhaust, belching from a thousand tailpipes, out into the bottomless blue sky. To this day I love the smell of exhaust. On some level, my brain still associates it with those trips. The smell of stretching as you take that first step off of an hours-long flight, the smell of blinking in the brilliant, unrelenting California sun, the smell that meant, we’re almost to Grandma’s house.
My Uncle Robert was always the one to pick us up from the airport. Uncle Robert wasn’t my actual Uncle, but rather my Grandma’s boyfriend, who was roughly a decade her junior and didn’t take kindly to being called Grandpa, so Uncle it was. Leaving LAX in the rearview mirror of his car, we’d follow hills and highways I knew by sight before I could even read road signs, each one a landmark leading up to the cozy, hilltop cul-de-sac my Grandma called home. As we flew down the freeway I would press my face against the glass and marvel at the glittering sea of neon that spilled out across the San Fernando Valley, as the sun sunk low behind the hills. You never saw too many stars at night in LA, but looking out over the valley you’d think the whole solar system had fallen to Earth.
By the time we’d finally pulled into the garage, with its deeply nostalgic garage smell, that comforting yet stuffy sawdust and motor oil aroma that I’d buy out of stock if only someone could bottle it, I was about ready to burst. My small heart would hammer away like a hummingbird, the kind that hovered around my Grandma’s backyard, pausing every so often to delicately perch upon the edge of a red plastic bird feeder in the shape of a hibiscus, sipping sugar water through a long, straw-like beak. When we got through that final door I would run at full toddler tilt, only stopping once I’d smacked face-first into Grandma’s stomach and was up into her arms at long last.
That was heaven — Grandma’s house, with its low, 70s popcorn ceilings that sparkled slightly in the warm lamplight. Grandma’s house, with its reams of shimmering, metallic wind chimes hung along the porch, clinking softly against one another as they swayed gently in the blessed summer breeze that made the L.A. heat bearable. Grandma’s house, and the smell of banana hotcakes, sizzling on a cast iron skillet. Grandma’s house, with its tea room, all cozy carpeting and plush, filled to bursting with stacks upon stacks of tarot decks and crystals, hallmarks of the spirituality that permeated every aspect of her life. Grandma’s house, with its little glass candy dishes full of peppermints on the mantle and the coffee table that was never empty. Grandma’s house, with its beautiful back garden, where she grew white sage and yellow roses, always alive with the sound of the hummingbirds and the soft whirring of the miniature, decorative water features she collected; the back garden where it never rained, not even once. Grandma’s house, with the angel who was going to live forever, until one day she didn’t.
Los Angeles was still there, of course. The shuttles kept running, the sun kept shining down from the clear, bottomless blue each day, and still sunk low behind the hills each dusk. The stars still fell from the sky and littered the streets of the San Fernando Valley, and the coyotes still sang to the moon each night in the desert. Maybe nobody told them.
We didn’t go to LA that summer, or the summer after that, not for the next eight consecutive summers up until last year when we finally went back to visit my Uncle Danny. Los Angeles was still there, but it was no longer the City of Angels.
November 9th, 2012
Dear small giant,
We regret to inform you that your unauthorized attempts at adopting a sparrow have proved wholly unsuccessful. Yes, we understand that we are very small, round, and fluffy, particularly in the wintertime, when we puff ourselves up for maximum insulation against the elements. We are well aware that we are adorable; this is a given. We also know that there may be misconceptions on your part as to our friendliness, it’s true, our 2D animated counterparts are far more forgiving, but unfortunately we are living flesh and feather, far from fictional, and you are no Snow White. The faster you sprint towards us, greedy, pudgy, toddler-hands outstretched like the talons of a hawk, the faster we’ll fly away from you, leaving you to sulk and curse your earth-bound inferiority. It’s time you learned some respect. Remember, despite our frequent appearances at your local playground, we are not toys.
Regards,
– The Sparrow’s Union of City Park
September 17th, 2015
Dear weirdo,
Thank you for your application for elementary-aged friends. Unfortunately, there are no available matches at this time. The truth is, we just don’t like you. We don’t really know why. We, like you, are young, and our rejection of your friendship is not done out of cruelty, but rather the pure and simple selfishness of small children. There’s just something about you that rubs people the wrong way. Maybe it’s how easily you cry? You’re so sensitive, you can’t seem to take a joke, and when you cry, you get us all in trouble. Because you’re such a (for lack of a better word) crybaby, you’ve put a bit of a target on your back. You always give us a big reaction when we pick on you and it’s pretty entertaining. Maybe if you took the teachers’ advice and just ignored us we’d leave you alone, but, personally, we doubt it. Aside from that, we’re currently unsure of what this unfortunate x-factor that makes you so utterly unlikeable is, but we suggest you work it out sooner rather than later, lest this become a recurring theme in your life.
Wahhh-wahhh,
-The Elementary Students Assembly of Homer Plessy
January 27th, 2018
Dear prospective girl-kisser,
We regret to inform you that we are, generally speaking, heterosexual, and as such will be rejecting your advances. You have eagerly held your position as friend for several years now, some might even say too eagerly. Unfortunately, your application for promotion to middle school girlfriend has received a resounding no. Truth be told, now that you’ve made your deviant desires known, we’re considering revoking your friendship status altogether. You’ve made things kind of awkward between us, and now we just can’t seem to see you the same way. Let’s just say you won’t be getting invited to any sleepovers any time soon. We’d wish you luck in finding friendship employment elsewhere, but, of course, we do tend to talk, so you’d be best advised to reassure future potential takers that you have no interest in dating them, as this is likely to raise some concerns.
P.S. Ewwwwww
-The Middle School Straight Girls’ Association
October 3rd, 2019
Dear quiet kid,
We’ve received your application for middle school friendship, and said application is pending; likely indefinitely so. To be clear, we have no intention of explicitly rejecting your application (at least not to your face), as that would only be too easy. We’d prefer that you simply stew in isolation for some time, at least two more years give or take, and wonder what we think about you. If we think about you at all, that is.
In all fairness, you haven’t given us much of a chance. Out of all the other applicants, you appear to have put the least effort into your application. Not for lack of loneliness, mind you, no, never that, you’re one of the most desperate cases we’ve ever had. We see you, you know, crouched against that back wall in the cafeteria, watching us like a stalker with a look of longing in those big, sad, puppy-dog eyes. It’s creepy, and frankly, a little pathetic, so much so that if we ever did deem to talk to you, you’d probably just brush us off anyway, assuming we were doing so out of pity. You truly are your own worst enemy. Maybe if you had the guts to talk to anyone we’d actually hit it off, but you’ll never know.
That is all, we have nothing else to say to you. And besides, whatever you’ve imagined we’d say is likely far crueler than anything we could hope to conjure up.
Unspoken,
-The International Committee of Middle School Friend Groups
May 14th, 2023
Dear applicant,
We understand that good men are hard to find, and we appreciate all the trouble you’ve gone to in seeking out our prestigious organization. Unfortunately, we currently have so few units in stock, that we simply cannot fulfill the vast majority of orders at this time. That may seem hard to believe, after all, you often bemoan your plight to friends of yours, friends who’ve long been loyal patrons of our business to great effect. You don’t want to come off as bitter, but the fact remains; you’re surrounded by our satisfied customers, and painfully aware of it. Nevertheless, though many have tried, a girl has yet to meet a decent guy simply by lamenting their seeming nonexistence. We know this better than anyone because if it was only that simple, we’d all be out of a job.
You seem to have a misunderstanding of the application process. You go out nearly every weekend, looking your best, hanging around places and events where you expect to find like-minded people, and yet your efforts remain fruitless, only garnering the attention of the slimiest of the slimy, the creepiest of creeps. Why is it, you wonder, that the people who tend to approach you are those who only seek to sexualize you? You begin to recognize a pattern, to draw an unfortunate, misguided conclusion: that you are hot, but not pretty, not loveable. In your mind a clear divide begins to form, a through-line connecting all your past relationships, platonic and otherwise: those who respect you are not attracted to you, and those who are attracted to you do not respect you. This is a dangerous false paradigm brought about by a common miscalculation, one of the most prevalent pitfalls among those unfamiliar with the application process. You see, you neglect to consider the most important step of finding a good man, which is, of course, approaching one.
“But how can I tell?” you may ask, “How am I to be sure that the guy I’m approaching is good?” Here’s a little trade secret: you can’t. The only way to find out is to get to know him. Awful, we know. But if the only encounters you have are with those who approach you, not the other way around, you weed out one of the best demographics of guys. Guys who truly respect you may notice you from afar, but unlike the creeps, they’re far more reluctant to shoot their shot, because they’re empathetic enough to take into consideration that their advances may make you feel uncomfortable, or unsafe.
If you wish to receive our services, you must be willing to take risks, you must put yourself out there more. In our professional opinion, your fear of rejection is the rotten root from which all your life’s troubles seem to stem. However, you have potential. If you ever make peace with vulnerability, see the return address.
Respectfully,
-The Society for Decent Guys
