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Jun
12
Today I go to work with Kipp. Well, not to work as in Take Your Mama to Work Day, not as in go straight into his office and be introduced all around and stand by his desk while he rolls over the chair of Joe who’s out on vacation this week. No, I’m just riding in with him and spending the day adventuring the Westwood Village area. His office is near UCLA, and I’ve actually visited this area before with Kipp, but today I am on my own. I’m up early, having donned my walking shoes and comfortable pants and t-shirt in anticipation. According to Kipp, there’s a Border’s about 2 blocks away, so not only will I get my walk du jour in, I have my safe place.
*
My niece, Amy, once honored me by asking if I’d go on The Great American Law School Search with her. We drove from Atlanta to Virginia, DC, New York, and I don’t know where all else in search of the perfect law school. Amy loves to travel. She’s not intimidated at all. Spacial concepts are not my strongest thinking suit, so I rather like to have someone go with me, even though I long to trek alone sometimes.
When we got into DC, Amy pulled over to the curb, whipped out the map, and once she’d gotten her bearings, she slammed the atlas closed and announced that she now owned the town. Oh were it that easy for all of us.
*
Today I am going solo, so I have to pay close attention. “It’s easy to get around in LA,” Kipp assures me, “because it’s on the grid. You always know where North is.” I wouldn’t know where North is if I had a compass in front of me. I just don’t think North/South/East/West. Any way I’m facing is north in my world of orientating. Feeling bolstered with Starbucks, I step out of the familiar and decide to explore the Village.
I feel less like a homeless person here than when I go to Charlotte every other week with Andy. Because I spend my day at the mall while he is in meetings, I carry my computer and other work items in my backpack . . . which makes me feel like a homeless person in spite of the fact that I take great pains to wear my nicest clothes in hopes of offsetting the backpack perception. Here, though, 3 out of 4 people carry a backpack . . . and most are bigger than mine.
It’s early, cool, the streets are empty, the stores still closed. Except for one that has a TMobile mat at the door. Perfect. I go in and ask for a cast for my cell phone that will allow me to have my phone within reach so I don’t have to put it down, turn it around, unzip, and grope whenever it rings. In this thick Hispanic accent, he compliments me on my choice of cell phones, then he whips out a black case that is made for my phone. I HATE it when somebody tries to sell me something that is their most popular seller or something that everybody likes. But the choices are slim, and I really need something. “Too bad they can’t make something cute,” I say. “Black is so boring after a while.” “It comes in red,” he said, and we agree that it’s still moderately uninteresting, but less boring than the black version, I pay for it (he gave me a discount) (without me asking) (not that I would have anyway), and he clips it to my backpack, swiveling it so it doesn’t hand sideways. He tells me about the blackberry pearl (my phone model) that is laying near the register. A customer dropped it in coffee, he says. Not good, I say. He thought it was going to be warmer today, I say it’s most comfortable, we bid each other a good day, and I leave, cell phone now within easy reach.
*
Before he walked off to the office, Kipp pointed to a building and said there’s a museum there. Maybe you’d like to go visit. After doing Westwood, I decide to go to the museum. But I have no idea where it is. The one thing about choosing Starbucks for a familiar touchstone of reference is that it’s a stupid thing to do. Throughout America there are Starbucks on every corner, and Westwood Village is no exception. In minutes, I am totally lost. I sit on a bench in front of a theatre and text message Kipp. One problem: I don’t really know how to tell him where I am. Deciding to retrace my route, I hoist the backpack and start out. I’d gone about 3 steps when I noticed 2 fellas sitting in an ambulance. With windows down.
“I’m from out of town,” I start out in my best Southern accent. “I’m visiting my boy, Kipp. He’s working at pricegrabber.com now, but not forever. Anyway, he told me there’s a Border’s Bookstore on Westwood, but I don’t know which direction it’s in. Am I close?” (I’d decided it was time for more familiarity.)
They tell me to go to Wilshire and turn left. That I’ll see it if I’ll just go to Wilshire and turn left.
“One more question,” I say, “where’s Wilshire?” I make it back to Westwood and the original Starbucks, the one with the stools in the window, and I keep going down the sidewalk. I see the Hammer Museum and am feeling confident enough now to venture into another adventure. I go in, it’s spacious and quiet and deserted. I ask the female guard which way, telling her about my visit to my son, of course, and she tells me the museum isn’t open on Mondays. She then suggests another museum that involves taking a bus, and I pretend to be listening - even repeat certain things as though I’m imprinting them on my memory - but there’s no way I’m getting on a bus. Not today anyway.
“Well, I’m going to find a bathroom,” I say because I know she’ll be watching me out the glass wall and notice that I don’t cross the street to the bus stop like she told me to do, “then I’m going to catch that bus to the other museum.”
“The bathroom? You need use the bathroom? You can go upstairs, go through those doors, then turn right. That’s bathroom. You not supposed to go there, but I let you.”
So up I go, through the double doors into the most peaceful oasis I’ve encountered in a long time. Bamboo. Tables, chairs. Hushed sounds. And they’re painting the women’s bathroom door. The painter sees me and beckons me to come on. He even holds the door open for me. The lights are off inside the bathroom - it’s not open today - but I don’t even look for the switch, I just duck into the first stall and fumble till I find the toilet paper and toilet. With the seat up. Okay, maybe I should have looked for that light switch.
I finish, go back downstairs, bid her adieu, and off I go in search of Borders.
*
All the streets have crossing indicators here - and I like that. I was hit by a car just before Andy and I got married, so I kinda’ doubt my ability to know when to cross a street. Is it when the light facing me is green or when it’s red? I just get confused and my leg starts hurting in remembrance and I usually just stand there on the corner till somebody else comes along and I can follow them and go when they go.
Good thing my mother never said “Oh yeah, and if Janie jumped off a building, would you jump too?” Cause I sure would if it involved crossing a street without a crossing indicator light.
*
I stand on the corner waiting for the light and I cross my legs just like I do sometimes because it feels good. This woman comes up and says, “You need go to bathroom?” and points to a building across the street.
Okay. That didn’t really happen.
But I imagine it could as I stand there on the corner with my legs crossed, so I uncross them and, just for good measure, I plant my feet shoulder width apart.
*
Kipp text messages me that he’s getting hungry, so I pack up my stuff and hoof it back to his office. There’s a great fountain at the front door. I go inside and wait for him by the front desk, texting him that I’m here. He texts back for me to come on up, so up I go. His office is really cool. Lost of concrete and metal and textured glass. I like it.
We eat at the California Pizza Kitchen, then hurry back to the office where I retrieve my backpack and strike out for an afternoon of adventures. Kipp walks me to the elevator and doesn’t appear to blush when I - without thinking - kiss him bye. I get on the elevator with this man who grins and asks “That your son?”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s my boy. In whom I am most pleased.”
He looks at me kinda’ funny, his grin fading fast. “That’s not original to me,” I explain. “Somebody else said that first. Not about Kipp, about his own boy, but it’s true for me, and yes, I’m paraphrasing. Updating the language.” I can’t be sure, but I think he gets off a floor or two early.
*
Bad news: the parking lot elevator is out of order - again - and Kipp’s company is relegated to parking on the roof. Yes: on the ROOF. No elevator. Oy.
“You want me to go get the car and come pick you up?” Kipp asks.
Fortified by a day of walk, walk, walking, I say “No, I’m going up the steps, but I’m gonna’ have to stop every now ‘n then.”
We start, and I make it up several flights before I have to stop and give my legs a vacation. We stop a third time, and I am about to give in and let him pick me up on his way down (he does, as he pointed out, have to come right by here), then I look to my right and there’s daylight. Two more flights and we’re on the roof. I did it: made it all the way to the top.
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