Lately, I am getting along without a car and walking everywhere. Or taking the bus or the subway. It’s fun. I see another part of life. I’m reading again because of the time I have at bus stops or train stations. I’m getting a lot of exercise, and that keeps my energy high. I’ll get a car; but not right now. I’m still getting over the stress from the car breaking down all of the time, and the cost of repairing it. I’d be at the busiest intersection in the world — Wilshire Blvd. and the 405 — and the car would suddenly lose power; or the lights would go out when I was driving home through Laurel Canyon after a night of teaching on the West Side. The last time the car broke down, my mechanic Andy told me that the electrical system had gone out and it wasn’t worth it to try and fix it. He did me a big favor; at the time, though, I felt like an addict who was suddenly deprived of some drug I thought I needed, that I couldn’t possibly live without.
Fortunately, I live in a location where I can walk everywhere. Trader Joe’s, my credit union, drug stores, bookstores and coffeehouses are all within walking distance. I have students who live across the Boulevard, less than a mile away, and I can walk easily to their houses. Most of my students come to me now, except for my Tuesday students, who live in Burbank. On Tuesdays, I take the 750 Rapid Bus to the Universal City Station, which is about two miles away, ride the Metro to the Noho Station, then transfer to the famous 183 bus that goes to Burbank. It takes an hour and a half, but it’s only one day a week, and I can read. Right now I’m reading For One More Day by Mitch Albom. It’s good. It’s about a professional baseball player who is drinking too much and tries to commit suicide when his wife leaves him and he finds out that his daughter just got married and didn’t invite him to the wedding. It’s about what happens when the baseball player, who is hovering between life and death, is given the gift of living one more day.
Los Angeles isn’t the most romantic city in the world; I can’t imagine a less romantic city — or maybe I can — but, still, there’s something about being in a train station that triggers the illusion of romance. Maybe it’s all those old movies I’ve seen where the romantic male lead shows up at the train station at the last minute — or fails to show up — to get the girl he loves. Like in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” (where he shows up), or in “Casablanca” (where he doesn’t; but it’s not for lack of love).
Watching the red and blue lights flash on the walls of the subway tunnel that let me know the 1:12 to Noho is coming, I realize that I like being with masses of people, the way it is in New York City; that I like watching the sheer inventiveness of people getting around — the young man, for instance, who easily lifts his bike onto the bike rack on the front of the bus, rides until he gets to where he needs to go, then gets on his bike again and pedals off.
I like being around people who do the necessary things, uncomplainingly.
It reminds me of my friend Rob, who says he learned in A. A. to say the same prayer no matter what happens, good or bad: “Thank you God! I have no complaints!”
