The Smell of Diesel Fuel
In the summer of 1990, I ran away to Los Angeles, Ca. I ran away because of a girl. The need to love someone can be a powerful and devastating thing. It can send you places you needn’t go. I was in my early twenties and simply had to run.
I wasn’t there long. Less than eight weeks I suppose. I spent my time in two separate mobile home parks in San Dimas and then West Covina. Outside my bedroom window in West Covina I was a cat’s breath away from the San Gabriel Mountains. In the early morning, the mountains were bathed in an infection of brown and green from midrange to top—the same thick air I breathed each day. It was horrible and beautiful.
As it is in Miami—I would learn later—nothing in LA is less than thirty minutes away; and most things are an hour plus. West Covina is an aching stretch from LA proper. So the jaunt was lengthy as I made my way to Hollywood in a borrowed El Camino. I recall the drive as a series of four-way stops and winding lines of traffic. The winds blew hot and people rode bicycles past me while I waited my turn to wait at the stop sign.
In Hollywood I grabbed a cheap room off of Sunset Boulevard. I found an indiscriminate bar mere steps away and proceeded to drink. For a long time. My long hair made me feel at least remotely less self-conscious. Although the hair bands were singing a collective swan song, no one was admitting it yet. And in my mind, my hair was an in. I didn’t actually need an “in,” but young, heartbroken, and drunk knows no better.
That night I went to 8901 Sunset Boulevard. The Whisky. One of the most legendary bars in the country yet my recollection is muddled at best. Inside I drank Crown Royal. I talked to no one. I was lonely it seems. It was subdued wildness, just what I’d always liked. But ultimately it became another moment I let pass me by. I listened to a couple of bands, found my car, and somehow made it back to the hotel.
Instead of staying in Hollywood for the few days I’d planned, I awoke early and hungover, checked out of my room, and crawled back to West Covina. The most vivid memory I have of the drive back—and actually of the entire adventure—is of driving through a diesel fuel spill on the interstate. The spill had happened moments, perhaps seconds, before I drove up on it. It covered all lanes of a blind bend in the highway so there was no avoiding it. A young girl in a small car ran through it and I did likewise. The spray of fuel from her tires sprinkled the El Camino and the windshield. The fuel was thick and slippery and I nearly spun out. The car seemed loose all the way back. The very air around me was diesel fuel. Each breath I took was wet and oppressive. I felt the fuel in my nose, tasted it in my throat as I drove east of LA proper. I got to where I was staying, let myself in, and made it to the bathroom where I purged myself of the Sunset strip, lines of traffic, the bruised haze hiding the San Gabriels, and every sad moment I could think of.
Eventually I made my way back to Augusta. Embarrassed by the lack of effort I’d shown in Los Angeles and by the explicit failure the adventure had been. I went back for the girl who had sent me running. I saw her one time upon my return and then never again. I dealt with it and settled back into a life of work and running the bars.
It would be a long time before I returned to California, the smell of diesel fuel but a whisper.
I wasn’t there long. Less than eight weeks I suppose. I spent my time in two separate mobile home parks in San Dimas and then West Covina. Outside my bedroom window in West Covina I was a cat’s breath away from the San Gabriel Mountains. In the early morning, the mountains were bathed in an infection of brown and green from midrange to top—the same thick air I breathed each day. It was horrible and beautiful.
As it is in Miami—I would learn later—nothing in LA is less than thirty minutes away; and most things are an hour plus. West Covina is an aching stretch from LA proper. So the jaunt was lengthy as I made my way to Hollywood in a borrowed El Camino. I recall the drive as a series of four-way stops and winding lines of traffic. The winds blew hot and people rode bicycles past me while I waited my turn to wait at the stop sign.
In Hollywood I grabbed a cheap room off of Sunset Boulevard. I found an indiscriminate bar mere steps away and proceeded to drink. For a long time. My long hair made me feel at least remotely less self-conscious. Although the hair bands were singing a collective swan song, no one was admitting it yet. And in my mind, my hair was an in. I didn’t actually need an “in,” but young, heartbroken, and drunk knows no better.
That night I went to 8901 Sunset Boulevard. The Whisky. One of the most legendary bars in the country yet my recollection is muddled at best. Inside I drank Crown Royal. I talked to no one. I was lonely it seems. It was subdued wildness, just what I’d always liked. But ultimately it became another moment I let pass me by. I listened to a couple of bands, found my car, and somehow made it back to the hotel.
Instead of staying in Hollywood for the few days I’d planned, I awoke early and hungover, checked out of my room, and crawled back to West Covina. The most vivid memory I have of the drive back—and actually of the entire adventure—is of driving through a diesel fuel spill on the interstate. The spill had happened moments, perhaps seconds, before I drove up on it. It covered all lanes of a blind bend in the highway so there was no avoiding it. A young girl in a small car ran through it and I did likewise. The spray of fuel from her tires sprinkled the El Camino and the windshield. The fuel was thick and slippery and I nearly spun out. The car seemed loose all the way back. The very air around me was diesel fuel. Each breath I took was wet and oppressive. I felt the fuel in my nose, tasted it in my throat as I drove east of LA proper. I got to where I was staying, let myself in, and made it to the bathroom where I purged myself of the Sunset strip, lines of traffic, the bruised haze hiding the San Gabriels, and every sad moment I could think of.
Eventually I made my way back to Augusta. Embarrassed by the lack of effort I’d shown in Los Angeles and by the explicit failure the adventure had been. I went back for the girl who had sent me running. I saw her one time upon my return and then never again. I dealt with it and settled back into a life of work and running the bars.
It would be a long time before I returned to California, the smell of diesel fuel but a whisper.
posted by Ryan at 1:50 PM
2 Comments:
I've been thinking about this post for a couple of days. There is a lot of yearning here... "But ultimately it became another moment I let pass me by."
What about now? Are moments still passing you by? Have your adventures become "successful"? Have you cut your hair?
It depends upon the day. I am much better about recognizing and seizing those moments that are important. That being said, I can be slow on the draw and an unfortunate amount of things get by me still. Successful? In Em, yes. The hair has been cut for a while now. I tend to miss it.
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