Blurry Black-And-Whites

It's interesting how some memories stick with you quite clearly, while others – even other parts of the same memory – slip away, down into the deep deep waters of the past, cold and forgotten, no matter how hard you try to pinpoint specifics and beg them to surface. It's also interesting how cyclical some things are, more than just reminiscent, all but mirroring our past, those faintest of memories – or parts thereof – brought back into focus from time to time; and how time, elongated by the years that have passed between the cycles, affects how we feel about them now.

Our place in Cahuenga – this is when Jace, John and I lived there (before Lucas replaced John in Season 2) – was a square U-shaped building, with a pool in the courtyard in the middle. We were lucky to be on the inside of the U so our balcony faced the other apartments and overlooked the pool (handy for tossing beers down in the summertime), instead of facing the traffic-busy Riverside Blvd and small-town Kling St (whose homes were used for exteriors on West Wing and Desperate Housewives). We called that apartment Cahuenga – I did, anyway – because the major cross-streets were Riverside and Cahuenga, our place tucked just north-east of the intersection in Toluca Lake.

I've many fond memories of living there those years ago, and there are many stories that should be told there (and, frankly, many that should not). But for today I've the tale of the young lady that lived across the pool from us, on the opposite side of the U, one floor down, so we overlooked her, day-in and day-out, like snippets of a reality show. There were actually three young ladies that lived there together, but this story – my story – is just about the one, the cute little blonde, young, fresh out of college from somewhere in the middle of the fly-overs, cornfed and button-nosed and just moved to L.A. to become an actress.

I haven't thought of her in a long time, actually not until the recent cyclical event that reminded me of her, but in thinking about her again, and especially in deciding to write it down, I've thought about her a great deal, lots of little things (all of which nearly intangible) and yet in all of it – are you ready for this? – I can't remember her name. It's silly and embarrassing, I know, but it's true. And it's not just her name; I can't remember much about her. In fact, it's just the nearly intangible things that resurface at all. Images, feelings, as if seeing her only peripherally, hearing her only out of sight. As if all I have left are black-and-white photos, hastily taken, slightly out-of-focus, the prints themselves carrying the faint scent of body spray and cigarettes. Not memories, but just the hint of them.

Jace, John and I had been living there for about a year when the three young ladies moved in. And she … she was striking in the way cute little cornfed button-nosed blondes fresh out of a Midwest college always are, especially when looking to be an actress in L.A. And then there's me, mid-twenties and freshly divorced playing Hollywood (we were in the eeeeearly stages of Backstage at the time). John, Jace and I were often having cocktails out on our balcony back then, and I was smoking then, so you'd be hard-pressed not to find me out there with one of John's cocktails of the week (hell of a bartender, John). So it was easy, natural anyway, to be out there and strike up a conversation. And me … well, I couldn't stop staring at her. She was so … captivating. She really was, but remember I was in my mid-twenties, just divorced from a brunette nine years older than me, and here was this vivacious blonde five years younger asking to bum a smoke, infatuated with the movie business which she saw me as being omniscient in (which, of course, I fueled). I don't remember how it happened – probably Jace; hell of an opener, Jace – but we eventually had the three of them over for cocktails. They were tired of being broke, living in an apartment stuffed with moving boxes but without any furniture, and we … well, we had three twenty-year-olds in our apartment having cocktails.

The other two roommates didn't have much impact (with me, Jace or John) but that was fine, because I was only interested in her. Except – and unfortunately this happens to me all too often – I fell in love with her. It wasn't love, of course, but try telling that to me then and you'd have lost the argument. Imagine her there – not unlike Hayden Panettiere but with a short almost-Pixie cut – a good girl, out in L.A. only a couple of weeks, most of her clothes still in boxes but somehow always finding cute little outfits, trying every bar their fake IDs would let them in, settling for cheap bottles wine on the balcony, astrays full, the smell of the smoke creeping over the vanilla body spray and manicured nails. It was so decidedly un-me that I couldn't help but fall in love with her. And I think I was so decidedly un-her that, well, she couldn't help but fall too.

We would talk on the phone in the evening, leaning on our respective balconies, smoking, drinking, looking at each other across those thirty yards over the blue light of the pool. I don't remember why we wouldn't just meet, at her place or mine, but I remember only going over there once, and only for a short time – I have a faint recollection of sitting in her room, on her futon, having a beer, while she tried on clothes – though I do remember it was furnished by then; and, now that I'm thinking about it, that was … after. (Hmm, another blurry black-and-white photo.) But we would talk on the phone in the evening, about nothing at all, probably her wanting to be an actress and me dispensing worldly Industry advice. Thinking more about it, we never actually went out together. Although another peripheral memory: we did walk to the liquor store once together for more cigarettes, laughing all the way. She had a hell of an infectious laugh. Weird that that just flashed back. But we didn't date, we weren't even having sex, we were just … well, talking on the phone.

Until the one night John walked in on us having sex. It was just the once; the only time we had sex. She was over and we were drinking White Russians (funny that I remember that specifically) and we were watching a movie and one thing led to another and we were out on the balcony having a cigarette and, well, we couldn't help ourselves. Mind you, our balcony was decorated like a Hawaiian bar, replete with rugs, chairs, tiki torches, a surf-sticker-laden mini fridge, pictures hung, the works. So it's not as if we were just out on the balcony. I've spent entire parties out there. Anyway, we were out having a cigarette, had had a few (khalua and vodka nonetheless) and, well, it was bound to happen. The surprising bit, of course, was John walking in on us. Funnier than that was she never knew. She was straddling me, facing the pool (the sliding door into the apartment was opposite) so she never saw John walk in, almost come outside, see us, and give me the thumbs up (which, yes, in pure nauseatingly sophomoric fashion, I proudly gave back). I remember just being able to hear him laugh, muddled through the closed door as he walked away, and she and I continued, finished, dressed (sort of) and smoked again. I don't remember if after that we finished the movie or continued drinking with Jace or John or her roommates. In fact, there wasn't too much after that night at all.

Thinking about it now, the whole thing was only a month or so; their moving in across from us, our hooking up, and then going our separate ways. I hate to suggest we only hooked up, at least in my romantic mind, but it was a short relationship. In fact it wasn't long after that that she started seeing someone, some guy her own age, and they would do things young people do; the hot older Hollywood guy already had, the cute little corn-fed button-nose already growing up. We stayed friends, as it were, maybe even had drinks again, but that was that. As I said, I think it was then – after we'd come and gone – that I went over for the beer and fashion show (probably so she'd look cute for the new guy). Less than a year after they moved in, they moved out – one of the roommates moved in with her boyfriend and Button Nose and the other roommate couldn't afford the three-bedroom on their own. So they moved, and she was gone. And me, well, I moved on as well (most likely to a story never to be told).

And that was that. All things move on, of course they do, but there are a few memories that stick with you for one reason or another. And, even if I haven't thought about her in a while, and even if it's fragmented, she's definitely one of those memories that sticks with me. I say this without intending to brag in the slightest – in fact, I'm only saying it to underline the point of this story – but I've been with … a good number of women. But this one – my forgetting her name be damned – sticks with me. Even if just in blurry black-and-whites. One of your friends walking in on you in-the-middle is tough to forget, sure, but it's the way her eyes lit up when she smiled. The way her body spray permeated the cigarette smoke. The way she loved that I'd buy a decent (think $15 at the time) bottle of wine for us. The way she sincerely thought I was plugged into this town. The way … well, the way she made a recently divorced guy find his way again in the world of women.

So. The cyclical.

About a month ago, I'm coming home from Trader Joe's, bags in arm, and I'm just about to walk in the door to our apartment building from the garage when two cute little blondes park – Midwest College Sorority license plate frame on their car – and we walk in at the same time; end up riding up the elevator together. We introduce ourselves, chat briefly, they've just moved here, do I like living in the building, the area, what's in my bags – wine, and (cutely) would I like to give them one of the bottles as a house warming gift – they notice my wedding ring (aaawww, he's binging wine home for a dinner party) and then they're at their floor (I'm two up) so they get out, completely innocently smile and say goodbye, the elevator door closes, and – flush of memory hits me – I realize they're my Cahuenga girl all over again. Not exactly of course, but you know what I mean. Who they are in their lives, at that moment, moving in across the way, smiling, saying hi; cute little blonde button-noses just arrived in L.A. And there's me, who once would have surely given a bottle of wine, probably would have offered to open it for them right then and there, no furniture in their place be damned! But no, instead, a completely different reaction. Because I realized I'd changed. I'd grown. Grown up. I'd evolved. I'd matured. I looked at them fondly, sure, but now … fatherly. Happy how they made me feel, but mostly because of how I remembered feeling back then. (And, really, how happy I was that it was back then.)

I hadn't thought about Button Nose – and I hate that I can't remember her name, I may have to call John or Jace – in a long time, but I couldn't help it, having run into her mirror like that. (Both true stories, I swear!) And of course I couldn't help but think about how much I'd changed since then. And how much happier I am now. Living with John, Jace and Lucas in Cahuenga was a great time. A great time. And I needed it, having come out of the divorce and recharging my batteries, rebirthing like that, how invaluable they were! But things do move on. We move on. And that's a good thing.

The elevator door opened and I walked to my apartment, opened its door, and there was my wife Anna, putting last minute touches on the dinner party we were indeed throwing that night. She smiled – that smile she has that says how happy she is to see me and how much she loves me – and I walked over to her – I remember this specifically too – kissed her, and she looked at me and said – swear to God – what's that for? And I said – swear to God – because we're an us. She smiled – that smile she has that melts me – before hurrying off to change – people were arriving any minute – and I opened the wine to let it breathe. It wasn't the same $15 bottle I'd have bought those years ago, but that's a good thing too.