{"id":63836,"date":"2013-12-18T11:14:52","date_gmt":"2013-12-18T16:14:52","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=63836"},"modified":"2013-12-18T10:15:05","modified_gmt":"2013-12-18T15:15:05","slug":"la-story","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/12\/18\/la-story\/","title":{"rendered":"LA Story"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"OLYMPUS<\/a><\/p>\n

I have just moved to Los Angeles from the Middle East, and everyone\u00a0keeps asking me if the city\u00a0is too quiet\u2014Am I bored? Is it safe?\u2014and the\u00a0answer is, No, I am not bored; yes, it seems safe,\u00a0and yes, that\u2019s fine by me. Mostly\u00a0I am in a state of awe, blown away by a grocery store, the\u00a0knock of the mailman\u00a0at the door, the speed of the Internet; the easy friends you can make on the\u00a0sidewalk or on the bus or while watching your kids play soccer or walking down\u00a0Venice\u00a0Boulevard, waiting for a light to change, en route to the University of\u00a0Southern California, where\u00a0I found myself the other day, seeking out the next\u00a0thing I might do with my life, right before\u00a0things went wrong again.<\/p>\n

I was facing new and mostly pleasant options. Such as: Should\u00a0I wish to travel across the east-west spine of Lost Angeles, in the fall of\u00a02013, from Venice to the urban campus of USC, did I\u00a0want to walk four or five hours,\u00a0doing ten miles on foot; drive thirty minutes; ride a bike for an hour\u00a0and a half; or,\u00a0as I ultimately resolved to do, take a city bus to the Culver City train line.<\/p>\n

Showering, lacing up a pair of suede boots, donning a clean shirt, loading up a satchel with books and water, I crossed Lincoln Boulevard, behind a smog-check shop, whose sign made it clear they\u2019s only do checks, not repairs, and then I followed an alley parallel to six lanes of heavy afternoon traffic.<\/p>\n

In front of a crumbling apartment complex, on a set of\u00a0concrete stairs, I admired a selection of\u00a0jars, bowls, fire-rimmed tin cans,\u00a0and handmade signs. Next to one pagan cup leaned a pair of\u00a0tongs, perhaps for\u00a0a hookah, and then I was accosted by a man who stood\u00a0beside\u00a0the open door of a midnineties Ford Explorer. <\/p>\n

\u201cYo, this is a brand new home theater,\u201d he said, gesturing\u00a0at a large brown box resting on a\u00a0leather seat. \u201cYou want this shit?\u201d\u00a0He tapped the box.<\/p>\n

Since leaving Beirut, my wife and I had been in Los Angeles for\u00a0about a month. It was true I\u00a0didn\u2019t have a home theater yet, but then I didn\u2019t have\u00a0much. The whirr of a car wash behind us\u00a0made it hard to hear the rest of\u00a0his sales pitch. Did he think I lived nearby? Could I carry the box\u00a0to USC and\u00a0back? In the roar of the car wash, it sounded like someone was screaming.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo thanks,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m good,\u201d I said, backing away. \u201cI\u2019m good.\u201d<\/p>\n

Next up was a bike shop and a massage parlor and a nail place\u00a0and a vacuum repair shop and a\u00a0shoe repair shop and in their presence I\u00a0considered my shoes and my nails and my muscles and\u00a0the condition of a vacuum\u00a0we left behind in Lebanon, and then I found myself standing in front\u00a0of a tidy burger\u00a0place, where all employees wore paper hats and some had white aprons secured\u00a0with\u00a0oversize metal pins, like for a diaper, yet the potatoes were peeled while I watched\u00a0and it\u00a0was all more than I might have imagined a burger place might be in\u00a0America, in 2013.<\/p>\n

Intent on not greasing up my clothes, I watched a regal woman as she peered through\u00a0sunglasses at a ketchup dispenser. Done, she walked\u00a0away, a sack in one hand, in the other a\u00a0small paper cup of ketchup. But in so\u00a0doing, she left behind a milkshake, which sat on the\u00a0counter, melting.<\/p>\n

Watching, too, was a man who looked like Kevin Costner, who wasn\u2019t sure what to do. First, he reached to grab the shake. The cup would have been cold to the touch. He paused, frozen. Hovering, he seemed to debate whether to make contact, or not. Then the woman came striding back in. The guy who looked like Costner tried to look away. In the bathroom, I washed my hands and hoped the soap would get rid of the smell of meat.<\/p>\n

On the train, there was a crazy lady and a madman. I was amazed at how sleek and silent the cars felt, and then I noticed all were made in Japan. The crazy lady started raving pretty much immediately, once we passed into South Central LA. There was Crenshaw Boulevard, and this woman was railing on about whether we were selling our mothers for crack. She\u2019d also really like some health care, she said, but she probably would\u2019t get any health care, she said.<\/p>\n

The madman was a tall white guy with a greasy\u00a0pony tail down to his waist. You\u00a0could tell when a guy like this was dangerous.\u00a0He had filthy shoes and long fingernails, a spoiled\u00a0gallon of coiled rage in\u00a0the pit of his belly. He balled his hands into fists, rocking over and over,\u00a0muttering. In his sight line, a nurse in scrubs laughed with\/at the crazy lady,\u00a0who continued to\u00a0rave.<\/p>\n

\u201cFuck you laughing at, bitch?\u201d the madman said.<\/p>\n

At the next stop, the nurse in scrubs got off, and I considered\u00a0going, too. In stepped a father in his forties\u00a0and his teenaged son, both of whom\u00a0wore sensible shoes and black T-shirts.\u00a0The madman turned on them, his mouth parting in a sneer.<\/p>\n

\u201cSup boss,\u201d said the father. \u201cHow you doing\u00a0today?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI am A-1 okay, brother,\u201d the madman said, disarmed.<\/p>\n

The three joked and laughed and the madman loosened up\u00a0enough to unball his fists. When the\u00a0father and son got off at the Natural\u00a0History Museum, the madman said, \u201cGod bless.\u201d<\/p>\n

On the USC campus, an orange balloon arced into a blue sky,\u00a0and everyone was young and no\u00a0one seemed angry. I canvassed a main quad,\u00a0looking for the right place to sit. More bikes than I\u2019d\u00a0ever seen were parked\u00a0on the sidewalk. A woman wearing headphones nearly ran me over.\u00a0Others rode by on\u00a0beach cruisers, a parade of identical jean shorts, while young men preferred\u00a0baggy\u00a0cut-offs and skateboards of various size and trajectory. Through the thicket of\u00a0wheels and\u00a0oiled chains and sandpaper gripping, a sleek undergrad with perfect\u00a0skin swished down the\u00a0sidewalk, wearing an elegant blue suit. His tan brogues made\u00a0a smart clapping sound as he\u00a0passed. Nonstudents were easy to spot, with their\u00a0posture, scuffed shoes, pale skin, and satchels.\u00a0I entered a campus coffee shop, where the line was thirty-five deep. I adjusted my satchel. Two young students in front seemed to know as much as anyone else.<\/p>\n

\u201cListen, it\u2019s all about King Fahad,\u201d the tall one said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI just totally can\u2019t remember how Jordan fits into all\u00a0this,\u201d the other said.<\/p>\n

Together, they worked to draw an extensive flow chart, blue\u00a0ballpoint pens working. At the\u00a0register, I couldn\u2019t understand what the guy was\u00a0saying. I did not want whip cream, no. There\u00a0was another line to wait for my\u00a0drink, so I leaned against a pleasant wooden table, beside a\u00a0redhead in a green\u00a0sweatshirt.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis is a great spot,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d I said. \u201cYes, it is.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTotally,\u201d she said. \u201cWe are smart.\u201d<\/p>\n

Our coffees came. Her name was Emily and then she was gone.<\/p>\n

That weekend, in Los Angeles, someone stole my wallet. In twenty-four hours, they racked up various\u00a0charges: $70.11 at a grocery store, $30.52 at a convenience\u00a0store, $31.75 at a music shop, $88.88\u00a0at a clothing store. At Day & Night\u00a0Food Mart, it was $21.03.<\/p>\n

I tried to picture that money in a pile. At a Day &\u00a0Night Food Mart in Venice, you could spend\u00a0$21.03. I allowed myself to get\u00a0angry. Nobody would ever pay for this. We\u2019d all pay for this.\u00a0Then I called the\u00a0credit card company. A careful man in Arizona told me I was good. His name\u00a0was\u00a0Xavier. If anyone was ever found, Xavier told me, I could press charges.<\/p>\n

Nathan Deuel<\/a> has contributed to <\/em>Harper\u2019s, <\/em>GQ, the <\/em>New York Times, and many others. His debut collection of essays, <\/em>Friday Was the Bomb, will be published by Dzanc in May 2014. He lives in Los Angeles.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I have just moved to Los Angeles from the Middle East, and everyone\u00a0keeps asking me if the city\u00a0is too quiet\u2014Am I bored? Is it safe?\u2014and the\u00a0answer is, No, I am not bored; yes, it seems safe,\u00a0and yes, that\u2019s fine by me. Mostly\u00a0I am in a state of awe, blown away by a grocery store, the\u00a0knock […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":411,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[419],"tags":[12398,217,123],"class_list":["post-63836","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts-culture","tag-adventures","tag-los-angeles","tag-travel"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nLA Story by Nathan Deuel<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"December 18, 2013 \u2013 I have just moved to Los Angeles from the Middle East, and everyone\u00a0keeps asking me if the city\u00a0is too quiet\u2014Am I bored? 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