Morning In the Valley

Walking down the sidewalk in an unknown direction I see the sun bouncing from the distant hills as another day begins here in the San Fernando Valley. It is a warm glow and it helps. Next to me on this sunrise sidewalk are eight lanes of steadily increasing traffic. Already I am surrounded by more automobiles than I have experienced in the entire year just past. But I am happy enough to be here. Right now I am on foot and in search of coffee. This is California: there has to be a Starbuck's close by.

The coming day is a mystery. As near as I can tell it involves carpentry work repairing a rickety old deck perched precariously on the side of a steep hill in Laurel Canyon. I had originally misunderstood that it was attatched to a house once occupied by Jim Morrison, but that is not the case. Instead, the Lizard King connection is that two guys who work for my son live next door to the old Morrison House there in the heart of the Canyon behind the fabled Canyon Country Store.

The traffic is getting worse as I trudge along looking for coffee. The Hilton where I am staying is located in one of those heavy-handed office developments. There is no horizon, only the stark face of the next building in front of you, and the growing and growling and honking line of worker-bees in their generic automobiles heading for the hive. I am out of place  at six a.m. and wondering why my son would think that I would be comfortable here. I was very unprepared for this trip. I live in a shabby trailer park and I look the part. Passing through the lobby on my way out this morning the desk clerk was not quite able to cover her surprise at the hobo that somehow had sneaked into the gilded palace.

I cut around a corner and there are the hills again, positively alight with morning fire and they look good to me and I wish that I was up there in those hills and out of this damnable noisy concrete canyon, trapped here with these stupid cars. I haven't really slept since leaving Florida and I feel shabby and poor and out of my element.

I can't find a coffee shop. I could go into the restaurant in the hotel but I looked in there this morning and definitely didn't feel right about going in. When did I become such a bum?

The house in Laurel Canyon where I am supposed to save the day is on a street that I remember. I was a young buckaroo gunslinging carpenter working with a crew building a house there. That was over thirty years ago and I never sold a script and the novel from those days is still in the bottom of my trunk. It wasn't very good.

And it would be quite something if I were called forth from the trailer park to salvage a broken script for Travolta or Cruise or any other Scientologist that needs help. But instead I seem to have been called here to the Other Coast for a different kind of saving.

I give up on the coffee search. This is more walking than I have done in a long, long time. Any trek outside of the Whispering Pines is done on two wheels and indeed, I have almost lost the ability to simply put one foot in front of the other for a sustained period. Man, I wish I had my bicycle.

Whispering Pines Trailer Park on location:  Back To LA!
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