Alarm clock. Drag self to sitting position. Fumble with buttons. Punch clock. Throw clock. Break clock. Open crusty lids. Turn head. Ocean? Ahh yes, ocean!
Mornings didn’t always follow this routine. Waking in downtown L.A., for instance, was more a matter of what time a police siren would rouse me. Who needs alarm clocks when you have crime?
When my wife Abby and I decided that a $1700 one-bedroom was difficult to justify—even if it was downtown uberchic—we started hunting. One day, we took our search to the South Bay.
“The prices near the ocean are jacked-up,” I told Abby. “And who really goes to the beach anyway?”
“Okay, babe,” she said. “Let’s just take a look around.”
“Waste of time, if you ask me. I mean, you spend all your time inside your apartment. Shelling out for that makes sense. A nice inside.”
“Sure, honey. We’ll just see what’s here.”
We started in Redondo Beach. The Hollywood Riviera. Sweet. Many of the vacancies were cheaper than those of downtown.
“It’s too far south,” I complained.
“It’s not that far,” Abby said.
“If you own a helicopter."
We skipped up the coast to Manhattan Beach. I was starting to think the ocean was…not so bad. Certainly not worth breaking your back for, though. But pleasant.
We looked. Hard. No luck. Expensive. Ugly. A 350 square foot studio for $1800? A converted garage with no closets. We considered…roommates. Really? A moment of weakness. Don’t judge.
Every day we returned, though, the idea of living closer to the ocean became more appealing. The ocean is sneaky: it hypnotizes people into spending all their hard-earned cash. It’s like Vegas without the pinky rings. What I’m saying is that we were innocent victims. This preposterous notion that, “Hey, maybe we could actually swing this,” clearly did not originate with us; it was the ocean, man, the ocean.
Then came Hermosa Beach. We’d passed blindly through for weeks. This time, however, our stomachs were growling. In search of a sandwich or a falafel or maybe even a crepe, we headed down to the pier. I’d never seen the pier. Kismet. Chemistry. Love. Not your garden-variety love either; this was black-and-white movie love.
“This is where I have to live,” I said. “The coolest place I’ve ever seen.”
“Okay, babe,” my wife said, amused. Wives, right? They sit back and pull the strings, then their husbands come up with the idea all by themselves.
We scoured the 90254 zip code and found…uh, zip. Then one day, just before we called it quits, we stumbled upon a place we’d passed a hundred times. As unlikely as it may seem, the manager was in. He walked us up to a small one bedroom, a weird, knowing smirk on his face.
He escorted us into the small apartment. Living room: semi-high ceilings, new carpet. Kitchen: nice appliances, new fixtures, two-tone paint job.
He led us through a door. “Here’s the bedroom,” he said.
Blam! Panoramic view of the ocean, from Ranchos Palos Verdes all the way up the coast.
“H-h-how much is it?” I asked, bracing myself for a nasty depression.
“Twelve ninety-five. We pay the utilities. Oh, and there’s a thousand-dollar move-in special. The deposit is six-hundred.”
My mind was a blur, whirling around a single thought: What the hell are we waiting for?
My wife was still asking questions. What kind of stove is it, gas or electric? Do you allow cats? Is there a gym?
He might have answered: it’s a manure stove; we allow cats, but only so we can torture and kill them; the gym is in that asbestos, lead-paint room over there, the one where all those people are chain-smoking. I honestly couldn’t say.
I had always coached my wife to be neutral in these situations. Never act excited. Negotiation, 101.
“What the hell are we waiting for?” I blurted.
The landlord smirked some more.
Any decent, smog-fearing citizen of the South Bay can guess the rest. I look at the Pacific every morning. I breathe clean ocean air. I relax in the sand, in the sun—me, whom a roommate used to call Vampire. I wear flip-flops. Flip-flops, for God’s sake. It’s a tiny drop of heaven. The waves. The lifestyle. And the chicks. (Note to readers: my wife edits all my work.)
When I tell people how incredible it is, many have responded that they used to live in the South Bay. Always with that same glazed look: What happened? How did I go so wrong? Sad, really. All I know is, I’m never leaving. This is my home. My little Hermosa Beach, tucked right under the unsuspecting nose of Los Angeles.
And did I mention the chicks?
