Juan-Luis

I wrote this piece for a blog that I had in 2006, split into several postings that I wrote over a few weeks. As I posted a missive this week that referred to my moving to the USA 15 years ago, I thought it would be fun to re-post the story, compiled into one. It's tough not to re-write it, as I am in a different place than I was in 2006, but aside from fixing links and tidying up a few small things I have left it as-is. Hear that, George Lucas, no special editions here!

Today in 1997 I boarded a plane to Los Angeles to go work at Rhythm and Hues Studios. I was a few months out of University and in those months I had turned down several perfectly acceptable job offers that had had only one problem: they had nothing to do with what I really wanted to do, which was to work on movies, ideally doing special effects. My father was ready to tear his (remaining) hair out. Then one day, after a long period of inching along, with a magic mixing of luck and circumstances, a job offer came from R+H.

    I remember being at the airport with my mother, having a coffee and talking about everything except my impending departure. A red-headed girl stood up a few tables away and the part of my brain that remembers random film trivia with great clarity (but not, say, all the physics and mathematics that I spent considerably more mental energy on), told me I'd seen her before, in Mel Gibson's directorial debut Man Without A Face, in a small but memorable role as the main character's older sister.

   Walking to the gate I was keeping all my emotions in check, repeating that I was making the right decision in going to LA - I could always come back if things didn't work out, or I was miserable. I had signed a two-year contract but it was torn up within a couple months of arriving - the last work contract I have ever signed and the first lesson in the respect Hollywood has for its written agreements. I was thinking about all the terrible things people had said about Los Angeles; the smog, the gangs, the lack of culture, its corrupting influence. How my friends wouldn't forgive me if I ever picked up that 'appalling American accent'. Leaving was especially hard on my father, and I wanted to hate LA as much as everyone was hoping, so that I could return happily to the UK with a story or two about some crazy California blonde, tell them it was worth it but that I needed to come home, and along the way confirm everyone's worst expectations of a people who spell colour color.

   In the midst of all this going on, I didn't expect to see the red-headed girl again at the boarding gate. I'll admit, I was a little starstruck, although it did beg the question "if only one stranger in the room recognises you, does that mean you're famous?", or alternatively, "if a famous person falls in a forest and no one recognises them, did it really happen?"

    I crossed the lounge and sat next to her. It was easier to focus my attention on her than deal with everything else I was feeling. I guessed we were about the same age. She was reading, I can't remember what. After a few minutes, uncharacteristically bold, I leaned over. "Excuse me", I said, "were you in Mel Gibson's film Man Without A Face?". As opening lines go, I thought, I've said worse.

    She looked up, a little surprised, and replied.

"Yes, I was!", and stopped reading. Her name was Fay Masterson, and I was surprised to hear her speak with an English accent, as she had played an American in Man Without A Face.

    I complimented her on her impeccable American accent in the film, and we started chatting. She had lived in LA for a couple of years in her late teens, and was returning there hopefully for good, after having spent a year or so in the UK shooting various TV and feature films, amongst them Stanley Kubrick's ultra-secret and ultimately final film, Eyes Wide Shut. She was also interested in what I was doing, and I conveyed to her my queasy mix of excitement and uncertainty. She was reassuring and nice, and was neither defensive nor spooked at my having recognised her, as she could easily have been. Perhaps it was because I had other things on my mind but I held back on my enthusiasm and tried to act in the know, as if I was already part of the industry. Although I was fascinated to get first-hand information on Mel Gibson, Stanley Kubrick, Tom Cruise, and anyone else I thought she may have met or worked with.

     Before long we boarded the plane, and that was that. I was by a window on the right hand side. The plane was barely full (remember those days?) and I saw Fay in the same section on the left. She waved to me, and I saw her talking to the cabin crew about something. I don't remember the take-off, I was probably lost in thought and seeking distraction by figuring out which mentally unchallenging film to watch first. I heard my name, and I looked up to see Fay. She asked if she could sit next to me; after all, here we were, two young Brits about to go to Los Angeles for our new lives in a nearly empty plane, and why not keep each other company? I said no, and told her to return to her seat, I never wanted to see her again. Not really, I just made that up.

      With a set up like that, a writer could spin this story into any number of configurations - a perfect meet cute followed by 80 minutes of romcom, a porn movie, an awkward nightmare of either total silence (broken only by coughing and 'tea please') or incessant chatter ('andthenwheniwasfouriatemybestfriend
ssandwichtheyneverforgavemeforthatone.. myfourteenthboyfriendwellhewasjustacompleteBASTARD.. ITOTALLYunderstandithinkiminLOOOVEbutidontknowwhethertopick
ChadorBrianlifeisjustTOOdifficultsometimes..'), even a horror movie, but reality was far nicer, if less theatrical or sweaty. We continued to chat, but still had quiet time to ourselves.

    As we approached L.A., I grew nervous. From the first sighting of the city below, it seemed to go on and on. Did this place actually begin and end somewhere? Fay tried to tell me all about the different cities and towns and good places to live, but it was a jumble of names and places. Everything was brown, the sunshine bright. It was January, and it looked like Spain in August. What was I doing? Why was I doing this? What did I have to prove? I didn't have a place to stay or a way to get around. I should have just gone back to trying to find a job in London. She made reassuring noises and said it would all be fine, that I would love it.

    On the ground, exhausted and a little frightened, we parted ways. She left me with a contact number (her agent's) and told me to call her in the next couple of days as I got settled in. I didn't know if she was just being nice but I wanted to believe she was being sincere. I was met by Pauline T'so (one of the owners and VP of Rhythm and Hues - it didn't strike me as too odd at the time, but that's like having Steve Jobs drive you to your first day of work at Apple, an initial indicator of how R+H was a little different from your average place). She drove me to R+H where I she introduced me to Steve, a counterculture quasi-hippie revolutionary who had agreed to put me up at his place until I was able to find an apartment of my own. That's when the fun really started.

      He drove me to his house. As we drove through Los Angeles, I tried to keep a grasp on where we were. We went a little North, and was it East, or West? Washington Blvd, Venice Blvd, Culver Blvd, the roads, the signs, the petrol stations, the big cars, the even bigger roads. We passed blocks of shops, crammed into rows of dirty square buildings plastered with either stars and stripes or gaudy signs that played havoc with English; 'Rite Aid', 'E-Z cash', 'K-Mart'. I couldn't imagine people shopping there, much less working there. I was tired and nervous, but excited to have seen Rhythm and Hues, and asked Steve as much as I could in my slightly-altered mental state. He didn't seem to have a lot of good things to say about anything - R+H, work, life, LA, the US economy, politics, western societies in general. He expressed a certain disdain for my enthusiasm for being there. Welcome to America!

      Steve left me at his house and returned to work, told me he'd probably return sometime after 9pm. His house was like almost all in the area, a bungalow with a couple of bedrooms, hardwood floors, and open front yard. My bed was a mattress on the floor with a thin blanket. The house felt cold and quiet. It was too late in the day to call England, so I called my uncle Ed in Illinois. The signal beeped, unable to connect. All of the numbers I tried gave the same response. I didn't know if I was doing something wrong, or if Steve's phones couldn't dial cross country.

      More or less defeated and with jet-lag starting to pull me down, I decided to go out for a walk to the local supermarket. I remembered how as a 13 year-old boy I was visiting family in Illinois with my mother, and at the shop several blocks away from home I spied heaven in a box - sugary cereal with marshmellows and fruit flavours and promises of something quite unlike the boring old Shreddies in the UK. I made a note of the price - $1.99. Back at home I begged my mother for the two dollars to buy the cereal. Begged and begged and begged. Running back to the shop, armed with my two whole paper dollars I picked the box off the shelf as if I was Indiana Jones finding a one-of-a-kind priceless artifact. At the counter, the large surly man rang it up.
"Two-seventeen", he said.
I looked disbelievingly at the register, "But.. but.. it was one ninety-nine." I must have sounded impossibly whiny and English.
"Tax"
"Wha? Wha..? What?"
"It's tax!", he snarled
I didn't really know what tax was, or why the advertised price was not what I had to pay, all I knew was that I was a precious few cents short.
"But.. bu.. bu.. I only have two dollars."
He looked at me with amusement, "well come back when you have the money and you'll get the cereal". I returned home, empty handed but for the tears I cried on the way home.

        Back in L.A. and safely armed with more than two dollars, I walked to the shops. The pavement came and went. I didn't understand how people walked around the neighbourhoods if they didn't have pavements. At the huge intersection near the shops, the pedestrian walk signal went white for a moment, then a red 'stop' hand started flashing. It barely gave me 2 or 3 seconds to cross the street, so I started running. It was about six months before I relaxed and stopped running across intersections.

     I don't remember actually entering the supermarket that evening, I think I lost my nerve. I did however enter the fast food burger place, Jack In The Box. I ordered a bacon double cheeseburger, and took it back to Steve's. It was large, meaty, and cheesy, and bacon-y, completely bad for you and I have to say pretty good. Anytime that I return to Jack In The Box I order this sandwich, and it always reminds me of that evening. Star Trek: Deep Space Nine was on tv. I tried as hard as I could, but I couldn't stay awake any more and by 9pm I was wrapped in my old and stained, too-thin blankets and fast asleep.

     I woke up at 5am the next day, cold, groggy and disoriented. I tried to call my uncle and the UK, but I kept getting the same beep beep beep as if the lines were disconnected. When Steve woke up, I took the opportunity to ask him a few questions before he headed to work. I explained the phone problem to him and demonstrated my trying to call.
"You have to add a 1 to the phone number", he pointed out.
"What? Where?"
"If the city code is say 310, then you dial 1 310 and the rest."
"To all US numbers?"
"Yes"
"So why don't people just write that? Why does it exist?"
"It just does"
"If you don't know that, how are you supposed to find out?"
"I don't know, everyone just knows it."
"It seems really stupid.", I said, meaning I feel really stupid.

      I decided to set myself one goal for the day - to open a bank account. I quizzed Steve on where I might be able to do this, but this only led to a diatribe about US economic policy and how doing any kind of business with a bank only served to fill the pockets of people at the top, and fund all kinds of nefarious activities overseas, the killing of puppies and the like. Today, I might have agreed with one or two of his points, but at that moment I had a couple thousand dollars in traveller's cheques and another couple thousand in cash, and storing them under Steve's mattress wasn't a viable option. He agreed to drop me off at the credit union that served many people in the entertainment industry, including Rhythm and Hues employees.

       We arrived at the credit union, which was housed in the main corporate building of Sony Pictures Entertainment, next door to their studios in Culver City. The studios used to be those of MGM, and once considered some of the finest in Hollywood. The building itself was an impressive slanted glass-fronted building. Later on the exterior was well known to watchers of the show Angel as the offices of the evil law-firm Wolfram and Hart. Inside, the vast reception hall was a bustle of morning activity, with people in suits and security guards that I thought picked me out instantly as an outsider. When I eventually made it to the front of the credit union line I told them I was there to open an account. They asked for proof of employment, and having nothing else I showed them my contract with Rhythm and Hues. Not good enough, they said, we need to see your first paycheck. But.. I wasn't going to get paid for a few weeks, what was I supposed to do with the money burning a hole in my backpack until then? Tough luck, go to a normal bank, they said. I asked for directions to one, but without a car their directions were useless.

       Standing in the lobby of the building I tried to gather my thoughts and options, but the guards started eyeing me again, so I decided it was best to leave and do my thinking while walking. Having spent a lot of time in various big European cities, I've always maintained that the best posture to adopt in any public space is one of supreme confidence, paying attention to one's surroundings at all times, even if I was lost. Any sense of distraction or confusion on my part would have instantly made me an easy target for pick-pockets or worse. With this in mind I walked into the street and started walking west, head high, and with a brisk, business-like I'm going somewhere important attitude under a blindingly bright sky. I bordered the studios themselves, with the various numbered soundstages on my left. I wondered what films were being shot behind the large walls, and if I'd ever get to see inside them.

        I had said to myself earlier that if I was stuck for something to do, that I could just try and walk to the ocean. This had been based on a variety of assumptions that I was now beginning to see had been massively misjudged. One, that other people would be wandering the streets with me, that as in other cities I would have the company of strangers who happened to be doing the same thing to keep me company. The pavement was wide, gleaming, clean and empty of rubbish and people. There were no shops to be seen where I could seek refuge. On the other side of the street a Mexican woman pushed a shopping cart slowly down the street in the opposite direction. The road, on the other hand, three lanes in each direction, was a non-stop rush of traffic and noise. I felt horribly conspicuous. This led to my second assumption, that if I got tired of walking I would see a bus, or a taxi, or some kind of mass transit vehicle that would allow me to jump in and ride to the ocean or wherever. What did people do if they didn't have a car? Whatever they did, they weren't riding bikes, walking, catching cabs, or riding a bus anywhere near Sony studios, because they were nowhere to be seen. Thirdly, that I would be less than five miles from the coast, and that I would have a better-than-vague notion of where I was, and despite having a couple of maps I wasn't about to pull them out in the open and consult them. I may as well have painted a red target sign on my forehead instead. Lastly, I didn't think I would be taking a casual stroll around L.A. in the morning, semi-lost, with several thousand dollars on my person.

Wherever I was, I knew I couldn't stay out in the open for long. My hope of acclimatising myself to L.A., getting settled in, opening a bank account and getting the lay of the land first, all without buying or renting a car, was shown to be somewhat deluded. I had to get to the only place where I knew people and where they could help me - Rhythm and Hues. No cabs passed me, but I'd written down the number of a cab company out of Steve's mini phonebook ("I don't have the yellow pages" he had said). Now all I needed was a little loose change and a phone.

          I reached Sepulveda Boulevard and turned North, where it seemed more commercial and I stood a better chance of finding a pay phone. The shops along the street were Mexican-run businesses; electronics, small grocery shops and money wiring services. I came to a big intersection, Sepulveda and Venice. There were petrol stations on three of the four corners, the fourth sporting a 7-11. I bought some chewing gum to get small change and called the cab from the dirty pay phone. I could barely hear the dispatcher over the roar of the traffic, but I thought he said they'd be there.. eventually. I stood there for five, ten, fifteen minutes, feeling ever more conspicuous. There were so many cars, and the intersection so vast, how would he find me? I spotted a yellow cab diagonally across from me by the 7-11, but it went the other way. A minute later, another yellow cab, and another, like wasps coming out of a nest. Jackpot! I'd found a central taxi station. I crossed the street (running, of course), and could barely wait to get inside one to take me to R&H. The car had a rich red interior, and the driver was from West Africa, and aside from rarely having been happier about finding someone, I don't remember anything else. Last time I checked, two of those petrol stations and the cab company have closed down or moved on.

          I sat in the R&H Human Resources department, looking for help. I was frustrated with Steve, with L.A., with all of them, leaving me dumped in this place with little concrete help. I told them my troubles, and on a map they pointed out a few local banks and other places.
"Can I walk there?", I asked
"No you need to drive", she said, as if pointing out to a child that the sky was blue.
"But how am I supposed to get a car in the first place!?"
"Why don't you rent one?"
"Where from?"
"Well just open the directory and pick a place", she said
"Can I walk to any of those places?"
"Uhhh.. no."

         It may seem immature of me to have gotten frustrated in these circumstances (and it was), but it should be understood that I'd never had a car of my own. I learned to drive in England at 17 and had driven a fair amount in Europe, but I'd lived the six years since then without ever needing to own my own car. I may as well have told my new California friends that I had been living without food or water, but I couldn't wrap my head around car ownership being a necessity, and being forced to address the issue so soon was proving difficult for me.

           One of the HR people took pity on me and drove me to the local Avis office, where they rubbed their hands in glee at an easy target.
"Would you like the Dodge Crush, the Chevvy Ram, the Ford Insane, the Hummer FU or the Pontiac Oversize?".
"Umm, do you have anything with 2-doors, small, European style?"
They snickered.
"Hmm, well we have a Neon Inadequate. Perhaps the Saturn Insecure? Ah! How about, the Geo Ridicule? "
"Sounds great", I said. It barely qualified as a car by L.A. standards, but it looked perfect to me.

          I drove off somewhat terrified but knowing it was the right thing. I daren't look in the mirror lest I spotted the Avis workers pointing and laughing. But now I could get something done. I reached the Bank of America in Marina Del Rey, and opened an account with little trouble or fanfare. Emboldened by my success, I tried to find the supermarket that HR had marked on the map for me, but I found myself going in circles and getting lost again. It was mid-afternoon by now, so rather than push my luck I decided to return to Steve's house and re-gain my bearings. That morning I asked him to write his address down for me. 12345 Barbara St, said the note that he'd written for me. Streets in the USA can easily go for five, ten, even twenty miles, so the numbers are very important. I had paid close attention to the streets surrounding his house, so I felt confident I could find it. I found his house on the map, and was on my way.

       Washington Boulevard, this looks good, I remember this, ok, turn right here, oops I think I was supposed to stop there. Ah, Barbara St, hmmm 12454.. 12445.. 12390.. getting closer.. 12200? Wait, did I pass it? The street I was on didn't look like Steve's. I hadn't passed the Jack In The Box, and although the general area seemed correct, this was definitely not his street, which had houses on both sides, whereas this had some industrial buildings on one side opposite the houses. I turned around and passed the address a couple more times. A group of men were sitting on a house porch, children playing around them. Loud Mexican rancheros were playing from a radio. I could feel them staring at my car as I weaved up and down the road. Surely I couldn't have been this wrong? I checked and re-checked the map. Barbra St? Barbara Avenue? There was no other street by that name or even similar. I drove for another mile or two up the road, hoping that it would suddenly seem familiar, but it didn't. I returned to where the house should have been, got out of the car and walked up to it. I found the house that Steve had given me the address for, but unless I had experienced a major hallucination (a possibility that with jet lag and my general demeanour I didn't discount), I knew this was not the place where I had slept last night. I was already feeling like an idiot for my blunders today, my first day in Los Angeles, and I knew that much of it was because I hadn't had to deal with these things before, to truly fend for myself. I was immature, and felt it, and faced with what should have been simple problems, frustrated at my lack of resourcefulness. Whatever the confusion was with the address, I knew it had to be my fault, but I couldn't discern where I had gone wrong. I was lost. Again.

          Standing on a strange street in Los Angeles, with a family of strangers staring at me, a small, obvious rental car (with too much liquid cash in the back seat), I felt ridiculous.

        Another memory from the trip to Illinois when I was thirteen came to mind later on when I thought back to this moment. My grandma was in a nursing home with advanced alzheimer's a couple of miles from my Uncle Eddie's house, where my mother and I were staying. My uncle's house was in an American suburb that must have sprung up in the post-war period, large, comfortable houses without fences between neighbours, stars and stripes flying on street corners every few blocks, and wide, wide streets. If you've ever read Calvin and Hobbes, you'll have an idea of the kind of place I mean. We would go and visit her almost every day. After one of those visits my cousin Nola and I were cycling back to the house. I can't remember why she and I were alone, perhaps my mother drove home before us. Along the way, wanting to explore a different way home and convinced I knew what I was doing, I turned off the main road while Nola continued on. Within a couple of blocks, I knew I had made a terrible mistake, and was in an unfamiliar neighbourhood. All the houses looked the same, the streets strange, and with the light failing I knew I had to find where I was quickly. I came across a group of men drinking beer on their porch, so I asked them for directions, trying to stay calm and appear grown up and behaving 'like a man' (note: a 13-year-old with a bicycle). I couldn't understand their directions, they weren't too sure themselves. I remember seeing the street numbers climbing and becoming panicked, they seemed SO high, tens of thousands. If a house number was thirty thousand and something and I needed ten thousand and something - how far away was I going from home? Walking with my bike and in floods of tears, I felt cornered and had no choice but to walk up to one of the front doors and bang on it desperately asking for help. A confused but kindly elderly woman answered. Through sobs and gasps I told her that I was lost, and sputtered out the address I thought my uncle lived at. She tried to direct me with words and gestures, but I didn't want information, I wanted comfort, a guardian, a parent, someone to take me by the hand and make everything alright. Fortunately she was a generous woman, and although she stopped short of adopting me and baking me cookies, she still came on to the street and walked with me, guiding me as far as I needed to go. Of course I was mature and sanguine about the whole situation when I was inside, pointing the finger at my cousin and accusing her through angry tears that it was her fault I'd gotten lost.

            So, back in Los Angeles without my mother, a cousin to blame, or a kindly old lady to take me by the hand, and a car instead of a bike. Even if a kindly old lady had been around, or I'd felt brave enough to approach the family on the stoop, I wasn't thirteen any more. Isn't part of being an adult having to take responsibility for ones wrong turns? To have in ones back pocket the ability to make a reasoned decision, problem solving things to be able to get out unscathed of a tight corner? I knew only two places in Los Angeles - Rhythm and Hues, and Steve's house. I had managed to lose one of those, so the only option I could think of was to return to R+H, and figure it out from there.

         The drive back to R+H was agonising, I kept turning the information I had over and over trying to see what simple yet crucial assumption I'd made that left me on this strange street. I didn't want to have to face Steve and tell him I'd failed to find his house. I didn't want to ask Steve to be the kindly old lady and help me find the house. He wouldn't have looked good in a dress anyway. I had no choice, however, I had to face him. I stomped into his office, red faced, dejected and with frustration evident in my voice.

             "Steve," I said, "I can't find your house. I've been driving up and down Barbara Street, and I can't find your house. I don't know what I've been doing wrong..."
My words were coming out in a rush, faster and faster.
Steve jumped in - "Where were you?"
"Barbara Street. Mar Vista!"
"Why were you there? I haven't lived there for six months," he said looking confused. I brandished the piece of paper he himself had written that morning with his address on it and, hand shaking, held it up to his face.
"Oh. Huh. Hmmm. Yeah. I must have given you my old address. Haha"

          I was seething. All this doubt and confusion I'd just gone through was his fault, not mine. Unlike my innocent cousin, I could point my finger at Steve and blame him for everything. Still, the mature response would have been to shrug it off and get on with it. But I wasn't very mature back then, and to this day I've not forgiven him for the mistake. At least I didn't attack him on the spot, although I was tempted.

          I drove home, and everything looked a lot more familiar, my feelings veering between joy and disbelief at what had happened. At home there was a message from Fay, suggesting we meet up, and giving me a direct number to reach her. Jet lag was settling in again, and my first day in Los Angeles was finally over.

.. and now, the bug of hope meets the windshield of destiny ..

Day one in Los Angeles hadn't passed smoothly, but I had high hopes for the ones to come. Fay had called me, and promised to be a better and prettier guide than my pull-the-rug-from-under-me housemate Steve. I was resolved to find a new place as soon as possible, and seek out those places in LA where people might leave their cars behind and use their lower appendages for locomotion between establishments (ie. stroll around the shops). I had heard whispers about a Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica. Promenade, I thought, that sounds promising.

The sun was just rising as I drove West down Santa Monica Boulevard. Sheryl Crow came on the radio, singing "All I Wanna Do". I've been fascinated by LA as it's shown up in popular culture (for instance Die Hard, Heat, Point Break, TJ Hooker (don't laugh, it's a William Shatner thing)). I sang along with her ditty to LA, right to the last line -All I wanna do, she sung, is have some fun, until the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard. For a few minutes, I was in a slo-mo empowering Working Girl-style montage of my own.

The Third Street Promenade was fine, but aside from the fact that I was there a good hour or two before the shops opened, it had something of a manufactured, hyper-real feeling to it, much like Main St in Disneyland.

The Barnes and Noble bookstore was open early, high ceilings and broad aisles, not cramped and tiny the way British bookstores were, and more amazingly, a large magazine section where people grabbed whatever they were interested in, sat on the floor and read, without having to buy them!

Thoroughly sated with useless information, I had to leave Santa Monica to meet up with Fay. She had suggested meeting up in Westwood, a part of West LA between Brentwood and Beverly Hills where she had first lived in LA, and where she believed I might find it appealing enough to do the same. I drove into Westwood along the massive Wilshire Boulevard which bisected it cleanly, one side with homes, flats, a public park and large office buildings including the large federal building, and the opposite side had smaller streets with shops, restaurants, cinemas and an art museum.

It was nice to see Fay again, and I was very grateful that she was my tour guide. There was a lot of activity, and most of it apparently on foot, and even some public transportation. University students from the UCLA campus just to the north wandered the music shops, cafes and pizza parlours. I counted 4 or 5 cinemas within a couple of blocks, including the Fox cinema, at which the majority of Hollywood premieres (think red carpets, photographers, screaming fans, etc.) are held. Westwood certainly wasn't the fanciest place in the world, but it had a lived-in feel with a mix of urban culture, film industry activity and decent living that I found immediately intriguing. It seemed like the kind of place where I could live without having to take my car out, and still not miss out on anything.

We wandered into Starbucks, and before she ordered, the girl's eyes behind the counter went wide.
"Were you in The Power Of One?", she asked Fay.
Fay said yes and they exchanged a few polite words. Clearly it wasn't just me who recognised Fay, she was a bona fide celebrity, and she was having coffee with me. I don't believe this.

Fay told me her schedule for the next few weeks, including lunch with Kevin Costner (who was casting for the female lead in The Postman), some auditions, and reconnecting with her old group of friends. I wondered why she would be helping me out like this and spending time with me. It wasn't romance, she often spoke of another, an unresolved relationship from when she'd last lived here. I wanted to believe that she wanted to be friends, but more likely she took pity on me and my situation, and perhaps wanted to give me some guidance that she may had lacked when she had first moved to LA. Regardless of her motives, I welcomed the help and hoped we would eventually be friends.

A couple of weeks later, with the help of my uncle Eddie who came out from Illinois, I had found an apartment in an acceptable if non-descript building just south of Wilshire. Westwood Riviera Apartments, it said on the sign. I couldn't see a riviera from my balcony. Or a marina, or boats, water, river, ocean, pond, pool or puddle, but aside from that it was a completely accurate description. I couldn't have moved out of Steve's house fast enough into my bland and empty apartment. Out of the blue, Fay again came to the rescue, offering me almost an entire apartment's worth of free furniture and other knick-knacks. They were in storage, left over from when she was living there, and in her current place she had moved in with a friend and no longer needed them. Amongst other things she gave me a bed, a bulky cable car phone (a rich source of ridicule - just look at it -

but I loved it. I mean, it chimed like a real cable car instead of ringing like a normal phone. Who wouldn't love that?), steak knives, pots and pans, soup ladles (plural), glasses and plates. She was wistful about handing over these simple, utilitarian items to me, and I think I understood why. Beyond the basic pragmatism of handing cheap yet useful items from one person who no longer needed them to someone else who did, there were sentimental memories in the cable car phone, the plastic-handled steak knives, the probably unused soup ladles and the flimsy metal bed frame. They were her first apartment furnishings, and they would be mine. As the years passed and I've re-gifted, yard-sold or (I hate to say it) lost or thrown away Fay's items, I've always remembered this time of my life. The cable car chimed its last chime long ago, but I still have a couple of the steak knives and, yes, the soup ladle.

Fay and I hung out a few more times, going to the movies (I remember we saw Absolute Power in Century City), chatting on the phone about her lunch with Kevin Costner ('we had no chemistry', she said, and it's just as well because The Postman was a huge bomb), but things were changing. She was becoming harder to talk to, her attentions wandering, her attitudes more fickle. One day her agents were the greatest people in the world, the next day they were fired. Her voice had become inflected with a mid-Atlantic twang, losing her charming British enthusiastic patter for a more laid-back California drawl. In short, she was returning to Hollywood, and I sensed our burgeoning friendship wasn't going to last. When she returned to LA from filming a small role in Steven Spielberg's Amistad, she came by to claim her storage room key, and announced that she was dedicating her energies to her other group of friends and that we wouldn't see each other again.

Over the next months I was curious to see what path her career would take. I caught glimpses of her in tv shows and films, playing a supporting role giving a decent character performance in otherwise forgettable films. She hasn't become a superstar or risen to prominence in the way I thought she might from the strength of her early performances, but she appears to be working constantly in tv and films with good directors and actors, in short, a working actor making a good living.

In the years since then I've met other people more significant to me (Clive Barker), more famous (Tom and Nicole), or notorious (intimate dinner with Vinnie Jones? Sign me up!). I've thought about letting her know I settled in eventually and 'made it' (if you consider having an entry in the Internet Movie Database 'making it') and say thank you for helping me get on my feet, but I've never had an opportunity to do it, and I doubt she would remember me.

Besides, I'm too famous now to hang out with her.