Welcome to the Jungle

Leslie flew out while I drove with Paul, his little brother, and one of his friends. We had all of the stuff that five people couldn't stand to leave behind. Jammed into my Chevette and Leslie's Ford Fiesta, we were a little laughing circus. The Chevette had the better stereo, and that was important, so we took turns and explored. There was a drunken night kissing strippers at a club outside Parris Island surrounded by Marines. At some point, we followed Birmingham, Alabama bikers to some shack in the woods. That's all I remember. I guess we wanted drugs. Or sex. Or something we'd only wondered about. It was always about drugs for me. It took us a week to drive straight across. Later I'd make it from Boston to Echo park in less than two days, but in '87, we were still kids and mesmerized by each new state sign. 

Leslie got there in hours and swung into action, based from her big sister Lynn's apartment off 3rd somewhere around Western. Lynn was the first of us to make the giant leap from horse farms and humidity to vague celebrity proximity. She'd fallen in love with Nigel, who was a big deal. A director of music videos when music videos meant everything. An Englishman and a truly good guy with an unfortunate last name.

I remember approaching LA on the 10 and sorta recognizing various exit signs. I kept telling Paul that we were so close for what seemed like hours. It took forever; the 10 never ended. The sun was setting into that beautiful tie-dyed haze that only smog can produce. We drove straight into the heart of it. God forbid we ever end pollution. Such a sight.

We had an address to find. Leslie was already in our new apartment in the Via Carlotta, right across from the Scientology mansion on Franklin. Only took her 4 days. We landed and fell about the place. A storied building from the 20s with floors and floors of aging fat grandmothers who all knew Andy Warhol, gay guys wanting to be painters and painters wishing to be anyone else. And a beautiful interior courtyard that our studio apartment opened into. All of us drinking and laughing and waiting to slay our dragons.

I think it was a Tuesday. Maybe not, but I know that whatever day was next was my first day on a film set. 

I was supposed to get a job as a newly graduated electrical engineer with a backup physics degree. I was supposed to waltz into TRW or Hughes and pretend this is what I wanted to do. Just make my dad proud. We weren't so close then. Not like we'd become before he left. Calamity brought us together, but that was a year away.

Leslie told me we had jobs for the next day. She would be doing craft service on Nigel's next video, and I would be a PA. That was it. I had no idea what any of that meant, but I swallowed the tab and barged right into it. And on this second day in LA, I found myself standing on scaffolding in the Park Plaza ballroom, waving a spotlight onto the top-hatted guitarist of a band I'd never heard of. At some point in the next year, I'd fall asleep with this character in an unlocked car in the parking lot of a 24-hour shoot. And we'd never say a word to each other. Such culture shock. Such exhilaration. And it just kept going. We all found our way to working for what seemed like a small fortune. 75 dollars for prep days. 100 for shoot days. Rent was 400. Heroin was yet to be found. Life was weird and idyllic. Leslie made potato salad, and I made egg rolls. And we fucked on the roof outside of that odd little hut that we never knew if anyone lived in.

About a week in, I got an interview at TRW. I remember going and just feeling like a fraud. Who would want to hire me? I seemed to remember nothing from five years of college. I sat in that cubicle fielding questions from some guy in a suit like a dog being punished. I made a choice. I told the next guy calling for another interview that I was sick and never returned. I was free.