The next day I returned to find a note on the table: “Leave the keys here.”
So my muse vaporized out of my life. I was on my own.
* * *
Looking at this period over the crest of the years, I’ve tried to figure how I could have been so passive, given my habit of determined resistance. But throughout Sylvia’s conceits and recriminations, anger never ignited in me. How could this have been? Usually I was the non-accepting one, slicing a critical sword through every false or threatening gesture that came my way. But in this case I raised not a syllable of protest. Why didn’t I yell out “I don’t need your teachings or your ideas. If you don’t like how I do things, look elsewhere.” I can only guess. I had shifted from the accuser, in the security of home territory, to the accused, unanchored in space.
Maybe the leap to complete independence was further than I imagined. Or maybe I knew nothing about relationships and negotiation and compromise. One thing was clear: I had sunk to a level of total dependency. I was adrift in the middle of an ocean in a vessel piloted by Sylvia, existing in her environment, ruled by her network, unable to alter course. To confront her or to strike out under my own sail was not yet within my power.
I allowed it. It was a lesson well learned. Little did I know how many others awaited me as I coasted to the next port.
Chapter 14: Roommates
I was on my own. Each day I walked to class, down Jefferson Boulevard, along Trousdale Parkway, past Founders Hall, and Bovard Auditorium. Winding around pink and white stone buildings spaced with lush green grass and thick-leaved oak, palm, and bay fig trees, I beat a familiar path down a tree-lined walkway to the Boheny Library. The sidewalks stretched dry and dull, blanched by the eternal sunshine. If only it would rain—but it never rained, never let up the bland sameness. Occasionally Sylvia’s voice would filter through my mind from some faraway place: “The beadwork in that tapestry is fantastic. Come on, maybe we can find some remnants,” and “Oh, let’s do go to the beach. I know a guy who lives in Venice.”
I seemed to be made up of empty space, and a feeling of deficiency weighed my every step. Something must be wrong with me. I stopped at the bakery for donuts and without thinking consumed the entire dozen. I shriveled in the relentless firing of the sun.
One of my routes crossed the university’s Exposition Park, along a profusion of yellow hibiscus, red and yellow roses, and pink sweet ladies blooming in the sun. But after a while I took to avoiding the rose garden. I could no longer bear the pungent scents, the sweet tang of fresh grass, or the stream of bright colors. They were a reminder of how split I was from all that earthy abundance.
It was time to get a grip. I could do this, finish what I had started, make it work. After this semester, only my senior year remained. I liked the invigorating class discussions, the challenging assignments. The coveted degree was within reach.
In June I set off for Mexico.
* * *
Accompanied by Benjamin and Ed, two boys from my German lit class, I took a bumpy train to Mexico City, where the boys settled into a large apartment while I rented a room with a Mexican family for forty-eight dollars per month, including meals. My next move was to enroll in classes at the University of Mexico City—drawing, beginning Spanish, and the newly deciphered Mayan language. Living in a foreign culture and attempting Spanish with the aid of a purse-sized dictionary, gradually I came to life. I traveled to Acapulco on a third-class Mexican bus with chickens squawking from the luggage rack, explored the mysteries of the ancient Mayan ruins, and learned to do a snappy cha-cha.
Every time I turned around I met a new friend. One of them named Lorena introduced me to her Mexican family and took me to parties swarming with young people and loud Latin music. An architect who frequented the Archeological Museum gave me several clay artifacts unearthed on his recent dig in Guatemala. I was continually thrilled by the vibrant colors of the markets and horrified by the bloody brutality of the bull fights and cock fights.
My parents, despite my raving reports, were not so sure about the whole thing. They frowned on a single girl alone in a foreign country, especially an ancient one lacking the restraints fostered in the northern climes. Mother urged me not to go out at night by myself and to be wary of foreign men. She told her friends I had gone to Mexico with two girlfriends as she couldn’t bring herself to admit they were boys. I was to be sure and write every week, even a postcard, so she could sleep at night.
By the end of two months Benjamin and Ed had returned to Los Angeles, and I had dyed my hair black and was wearing three malachite rings and a flared turquoise-and-black Mexican dress. In my suitcase was an obsidian Chac Mool statue for Mother and linen Mexican shirts with embroidered collars and trim for Dad and Harold that they wore once with sheepish expressions.
* * *
It was the beginning of the 1955 school year. I needed a nucleus, a place, a foundation, some structure to delineate my place in life. Since the split with Sylvia, the bohemian life on Park Grove Avenue had vanished off the face of the earth. I was no longer approached and asked if I were one of the girls in the Park Grove apartment. My tendency to remain detached and allow others to discover my potential was no longer enough. What had I to offer now?
One lazy California afternoon when the only place to be was outdoors, I took a stroll near the U.S.C. campus. Passing a row of small bungalows, I came upon a Spanish courtyard surrounded by one-story stucco villas, each fronted by a low stoop. The central courtyard blazed with blue and purple flower beds, and two palm trees dozed in the September sun. Seeing a For Rent sign tacked on the front trellis, I turned in. Each villa consisted of two separate apartments with bedroom and full kitchen, along with its own entrance front and back. A small plot of yard in the rear was big enough to hold a few chairs and my dark oak wooden table. Captivated, I signed a six-month lease on the spot.
Several weeks later, I walked to the gym and spent half an hour doing laps in the university pool. Lingering at the pool’s edge afterward, I stirred the water with my feet, musing that a plate of enchiladas would taste really good about then. I barely noticed when a young girl dove in and came to rest close by, one hand on the drain. She sent me a friendly smile and I soon learned that she’d been a member of the synchronized swim team in high school, had just entered U.S.C. as a freshman, spent several evenings a week at the pool, and didn’t really know anyone. We ended up eating enchiladas together and the next day I showed her my new apartment.
Before the month was over April Patterson had moved in.
April was nice, but I was dubious. The courtyard apartment would be tight for two people and we were very different. I spent hours with my nose in a book, stretched out on the bed in black leotards, black Capezios, and an Italian tunic. Based on what I considered my idiosyncratic beliefs, I proclaimed myself a member of the opposition. In contrast, April adhered to a conservative tradition with her breezy rose blouses, gray skirts, and sweater sets. But since April visited her parents in southern California weekends and we sustained full class schedules during the week, I thought we could manage. It would be a relief to share the bills and hear someone in the kitchen stirring pungent dishes on the stove. April’s youthful freshness made for easy company. I could get used to living with a pretty girl with a bouncy pageboy cascading around her face, like one of those platinum blondes in the Lifebuoy soap ads.
I commandeered the desk and portable typewriter, while April took over the armchair and table in the corner of the living room and set a picture of herself on the bureau—a close-up showing her flowing blonde hair and sweet, retiring smile. Once, as we sat in the little yard in the evening twilight, she confessed to harboring thoughts of becoming a singer.
Before a month was out reality began to seep in. April had never lived away from home before. Used to being pampered by a doting mother and indulgent brother, she hadn’t followed through on ou
r household arrangement, and the work she had agreed to didn’t get done. It was up to me to see to the dusting, sweeping, cleaning, and small needs like buying bulbs for the stove. A written work schedule didn’t produce any improvement. Nor did she follow through on the bills. Because she imagined I was flush and made it clear that she was poor, she felt I should contribute the most while she contributed the least. The bills went mostly ignored and I had to practically poke her nose in the red ink to get her to pay up.
Sometimes we fell into an easy camaraderie, exchanging stories of April’s costume falling apart during an aqua show, and the interesting boy from New York I’d run into at the Cinema Department that morning. April loved to giggle and if I happened to be in a silly mood she joined in and went around singing, happy as a lark.
The pressure to carry on a running stream of small talk and be pleasant at all times became wearing. She chattered in sweet tones, bidding me good-bye with a sprightly, “Have a good day.” I didn’t see how she could be constantly saccharine and upbeat. It was too phony. On top of this April never said anything remotely interesting. She waited for me to initiate the conversation, making enough idle comments to uphold an atmosphere of pleasant harmony. Then when I started something she would chime in and be off and running, flying into a topic that never went anywhere.
I couldn’t keep it up.
* * *
I was taking eighteen credits. It was my senior year, and I spent most of my time closeted at Doheny Library. Between classes I joined a cadre of students in the lounge of Founder’s Hall, where we hung out on couches and contested the state of American society, the ramifications of the cold war, and the oppressive nature of tradition. Drinking Tabs and filling pewter ashtrays with cigarette stubs, we probed existential philosophy on the meaning of man and existence investigated by Knut Hamsun, Miguel de Unamuno, Samuel Beckett, and the Beat Generation.
Occasionally, a few of us drove to the Santa Monica beach and baked in the sand, sprawled in our bathing suits. One of the boys, Cretin, carried a copy of Nausea in his pocket and argued hotly that the supreme power of the individual to create his or her own destiny overrode the life of despair life dished out by life. We analyzed the French philosophers and the existentialism of Sartre and de Beauvoir until the sun dropped into the ocean. The sporty Trojan types accused us of living in an ivory tower, above the petty sand and gravel of life. I joined in when I was able. I found the sessions intoxicating.
One evening after a dinner of fried egg sandwiches smeared with ketchup, I reclined in a canvas swayback chair reading an article in the Los Angeles Times. The piece featured the arrest of Rosa Parks in Alabama for refusing to relinquish her bus seat to a white man. Massive Southern vigilante groups were forming to keep blacks in their place. I had just finished the article when April entered the room. She sat on a chair, hands griped in her lap, and informed me that she was unhappy.
“You don’t seem to like anything,” she said. “I feel criticized, nothing I do seems to be right.” Her tone became more confident as she warmed up. “The atmosphere is—well, cold. You never have time, I’m swept aside . . .” She wanted to be appreciated and respected.
I looked at her in astonishment. But I couldn’t disagree.
“I know my mind’s elsewhere,” I said. “I guess I’m not very good company.”
The oppressing thought hit me that there was nothing I could do to change things. April said she understood I had a full schedule. I promised not to read the paper while she was talking. She agreed to take charge of paying the electrical bills. By the time we’d hashed out our differences it was ten o’clock. It felt clean to get things out in the open. Surely improvement was bound to follow such frankness. We were filled with relief as we slipped into our twin beds savoring the feeling of good will that flowed between us.
Three weeks later April moved out. This came as something of a shock. There was no way around it—here was another failure. I sat by the window and took stock, filling several pages of my journal with probing rationales, trying to revive my self-esteem. Was this a huge loss? Well, no, we didn’t have much in common. But I had tried to revise my attitude towards her and believed our intentions had fallen into alignment.
The fact was I had ignored April, seeking no more than the comfort of having her around. It hit me that I had been treating her in much the same manner as Sylvia had me: welding a critical superiority and erecting exact standards for her to live up to. No allowance made for petty traits and weaknesses. I held an image of the ideal existence and April had not lived up to it.
A new word showed up on the page in front of me: acceptance. The word didn’t seem to be in my repertoire. But how could I accept traits I detested? There was a blockage somewhere, and I couldn’t see it in the bright stucco walls beyond the window where the brilliance blocked out all distinction.
Journal Entry
I am living alone in earnest. I acquire a Siamese cat and name it Zigane. I exchange long letters with Jean Paul and Heinz. I sit on the front step and chat now and then with my neighbor Joan Aquino, a painter. I put on cha-cha, mambo, and calypso records and dance around the apartment until exhausted. I soak in a hot tub until I am a noodle. I see few people socially and no one often. I think about changing my first name.
Maybe I am too much alone. But I am too sad to be good company. Besides, being with others has presented some difficulty. When someone comes close to me, I begin swallowing. This makes me nervous. I am afraid the other person will notice and I become even more uncomfortable. I have taken to sitting apart from others so the reflex doesn’t kick in.
There is nothing I can do, no one I can tell; it is too horrible. There is no remedy.
My soul mate is Franz Kafka. I read him over and over and understand him like no one ever has.
It was about this time that I discovered the Cinema Department. Chester claimed he’d first been drawn to me by my funky outfits. During geology class he would squeeze his slight form into the chair next to me and stayed by my side during a class field trip to Solana Beach to witness mansions along the California coastal bluffs sliding into the ocean. Extremely verbal, Chester would grasp a topic on the fly and run with it until all possibilities were exhausted. There was no subject in which he didn’t possess a store of knowledge. He’d transferred from Cornell to U.S.C. to learn filmmaking. With his small intelligent blue eyes, generous mouth, groomed goatee, and tweed jacket, Chester did not resemble the run-of-the-mill undergraduate. His earnest eyes held me as he talked, and his air of friendly chivalry soon won me over and we became good friends.
One afternoon he led me across Figueroa Street to a one-story building with a sign above the stone-framed doorway: Cinema Department. This was Chester’s hangout, where he took in one film after another and crafted his scripts.
“You must see it,” he urged. “It is the best film school this side of the Statue of Liberty. People come here from all over the country because of its reputation.”
The low plain structure stood in stark contrast to the stately Romanesque buildings that dominated the U.S.C. campus. At one time a stable, the building retained a rural, scrappy look. Beyond the entrance a bare-floored courtyard was filled with rickety picnic tables, the kind with an attached bench on each side, and a few miniature trees grew right up out of the hard-packed earth. Encircling the courtyard a raised platform stretched along the walls, and from it a ring of doors opened to various classrooms and offices. Attached to the wall in one corner I spied a thick iron ring that Chester said had once been used to tether horses.
The courtyard was scattered with students in jeans and loafers sipping from paper cups at the tables, or heading for one of the production rooms in the back of the building. Some were transplants from out-state, some Korean War vets, and some grad students with vocational backgrounds drawn by the department’s focus on the emerging field of educational and documenta
ry filmmaking.
Perhaps because of the lack of females—I was the only one visible at the time—the department gave off an air of casual, almost careless informality. I doubted if such laxity could result in any serious work, but later I was to find that, on the contrary, productivity was the main focus around which a continual hodgepodge of activities revolved. The production process of making films outranked any concern of dress, decorum or other non-essentials. This was an engine of creativity.
I decided to enroll in Mr. Sloane’s camera class, where I ran up against the technicalities of lens structure and focal lengths, that required heavy study. Editing and cinematography I found fascinating and actually managed to shoot a short film with an 8mm Bell and Howell camera, trying to copy the social-oriented documentary style being ground out by the advanced students. Many film students hung out in the dusty rooms at all hours of the day or night looking for a film to view—there were constant new arrivals—or pitching in on someone’s production project. There was always a chance Frank Baxter was lecturing on his televised series about Shakespeare, or James Ivory was polishing his film Venice: Theme and Variations for his master’s thesis. Anyone looking for company could wander in and find strobe lights flashing, a Motorola running, or at least someone lurking about.
I became a regular. As a female I was something of a novelty, which suited me just fine. The boys invited me to their parties where discussions on films, Hollywood, and politics lasted into the wee hours. Chester carted us around town in his prized black 1929 Packard limousine, huddled behind the tinted windows, to see film after film. Phil, a recent graduate from the University of Wisconsin, set up a campus-wide showing of the French New Wave films—Jean Renoir, Claude Chabrol, Francois Truffaut, and the rest. We attended them all. Then there was Joel, a precocious seventeen-year-old from Manhattan, outgoing and curious, with thick dark hair and a disarming smile. He was the goofball, friendly and funny, the one most likely to drop spit-balls on the professor’s head. A loner like me, Joel was always looking for someone to talk to and often I was the willing target.
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