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Authors: Jennifer Kaufman
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Darlene is happy to hear from me, the way she always is, and my mood starts to brighten.
“Hey, you,” she croons. “Where are you?”
“I’m in our old stomping grounds, near the
Times
.”
“Oh god. Don’t remind me. How did the interview go?”
“Terrific. You want to have lunch?”
“I’d love to. I knew you’d do great. You’re so amazing. Good for you.”
“Great.”
Darlene doesn’t fit in with my other friends, nor would she want to. They think she’s low-rent and bonkers and she thinks they’re shallow and spoiled. They’re both right. My time with her is a welcome respite from the insular life in West Los Angeles. She is the only one of my friends who doesn’t have any credit cards and still doesn’t own a cell phone. Also, Darlene rarely buys books. She goes to the Malibu library to check out hertrashy sci-fi fantasies and romances, which she’s always trying to get me to read.
We normally spend most of our time discussing her newest failed romance or her latest harebrained scheme to make money. This afternoon, it’s a do-it-yourself prefab “Charming Swiss Chalet” kit, which she’s ordered sight unseen from a catalog and which she’s going to build in Big Bear, a mountain resort ninety miles from L.A.—the white trash version of Arrowhead. Darlene has vacationed in Big Bear for as long as I can remember, and the first and last time I accompanied her there we stayed in her friend’s ramshackle, dingy A-frame house by the lake. It was dark and dank, furnished in early kitsch mountain resort with seventies fake wood paneling, a thick, mustard-yellow multicolored shag rug that smelled faintly of mildew, and enough water damage to lead me to believe this was not a good place to be in a rainstorm. The walls were covered with homey sayings in needlepoint, like “There’s no place like fucking home” and “Hello, where’s the beer?” and there was a cramped, cluttered kitchen with ancient windows that spewed shards of paint flakes when you tried to open them.
The house was located in the kind of bedraggled mountain neighborhood where there were no sidewalks and people’s lawns were cluttered with rusted swing sets, mattresses with springs poking through, Big Wheels, firewood, tires, and other junk that usually is hidden away in garages. Her next-door neighbor had an enormous RV parked on the lawn that was painted an alarming shade of teal and had blotches of seascapes and sealscamouflaging a fading paint job. Our morning walks along weed-lined streets ended up on the main drag where we’d get breakfast at a diner connected to a Gas-and-Shop and watch the kids in the back make gray slushy snowballs. The area had its share of beer-bellied bikers and scuzzy, scratch-assed locals who were still lit at nine a.m. when we’d order our eggs and juice. There is something depressing about a place where life just doesn’t shape up.
I meet her on the beach outside her apartment building, which is advertised as ocean view, but can only be called ocean view if you stand in a corner and look over her neighbor’s garage. Her unit is a one bedroom that faces the street, and whenever I duck in there to use the bathroom, it’s always cluttered with catalogs and paraphernalia from her latest project. Right now the apartment contains sample light fixtures and synthetic rug swatches, not to mention undecipherable blueprints that apparently came with the chalet-building kit.
Last year, Darlene supposedly made a bundle selling porno vampire-themed movie posters over the Internet. She mentioned it a few times, but I always changed the subject. Too weird. In addition, there’s her dog, Brawley, an overweight Rottweiler, who always rushes me for attention or a walk. Darlene only walks him at dawn or at dusk because the dog regularly pees on people instead of the usual lampposts or hydrants.
A few years ago, Darlene underwent a life crisis. Her husband, Mel, got hit by the proverbial
Darlene is happy to hear from me, the way she always is, and my mood starts to brighten.
“Hey, you,” she croons. “Where are you?”
“I’m in our old stomping grounds, near the
Times
.”
“Oh god. Don’t remind me. How did the interview go?”
“Terrific. You want to have lunch?”
“I’d love to. I knew you’d do great. You’re so amazing. Good for you.”
“Great.”
Darlene doesn’t fit in with my other friends, nor would she want to. They think she’s low-rent and bonkers and she thinks they’re shallow and spoiled. They’re both right. My time with her is a welcome respite from the insular life in West Los Angeles. She is the only one of my friends who doesn’t have any credit cards and still doesn’t own a cell phone. Also, Darlene rarely buys books. She goes to the Malibu library to check out hertrashy sci-fi fantasies and romances, which she’s always trying to get me to read.
We normally spend most of our time discussing her newest failed romance or her latest harebrained scheme to make money. This afternoon, it’s a do-it-yourself prefab “Charming Swiss Chalet” kit, which she’s ordered sight unseen from a catalog and which she’s going to build in Big Bear, a mountain resort ninety miles from L.A.—the white trash version of Arrowhead. Darlene has vacationed in Big Bear for as long as I can remember, and the first and last time I accompanied her there we stayed in her friend’s ramshackle, dingy A-frame house by the lake. It was dark and dank, furnished in early kitsch mountain resort with seventies fake wood paneling, a thick, mustard-yellow multicolored shag rug that smelled faintly of mildew, and enough water damage to lead me to believe this was not a good place to be in a rainstorm. The walls were covered with homey sayings in needlepoint, like “There’s no place like fucking home” and “Hello, where’s the beer?” and there was a cramped, cluttered kitchen with ancient windows that spewed shards of paint flakes when you tried to open them.
The house was located in the kind of bedraggled mountain neighborhood where there were no sidewalks and people’s lawns were cluttered with rusted swing sets, mattresses with springs poking through, Big Wheels, firewood, tires, and other junk that usually is hidden away in garages. Her next-door neighbor had an enormous RV parked on the lawn that was painted an alarming shade of teal and had blotches of seascapes and sealscamouflaging a fading paint job. Our morning walks along weed-lined streets ended up on the main drag where we’d get breakfast at a diner connected to a Gas-and-Shop and watch the kids in the back make gray slushy snowballs. The area had its share of beer-bellied bikers and scuzzy, scratch-assed locals who were still lit at nine a.m. when we’d order our eggs and juice. There is something depressing about a place where life just doesn’t shape up.
I meet her on the beach outside her apartment building, which is advertised as ocean view, but can only be called ocean view if you stand in a corner and look over her neighbor’s garage. Her unit is a one bedroom that faces the street, and whenever I duck in there to use the bathroom, it’s always cluttered with catalogs and paraphernalia from her latest project. Right now the apartment contains sample light fixtures and synthetic rug swatches, not to mention undecipherable blueprints that apparently came with the chalet-building kit.
Last year, Darlene supposedly made a bundle selling porno vampire-themed movie posters over the Internet. She mentioned it a few times, but I always changed the subject. Too weird. In addition, there’s her dog, Brawley, an overweight Rottweiler, who always rushes me for attention or a walk. Darlene only walks him at dawn or at dusk because the dog regularly pees on people instead of the usual lampposts or hydrants.
A few years ago, Darlene underwent a life crisis. Her husband, Mel, got hit by the proverbial
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