L.A. Affairs: Even Philip Marlowe can’t solve this one

As Philip Marlowe once said somewhere: “Romance and L.A. can be a dicey jig.”

No argument here.

Two marriages and two divorces spanning a couple of decades had burned that double-barreled proof upon the receding tide of my romantic expectations. “And don’t forget the spousal support and community property,” Marlowe reminded me.

No, of course not.

So there I was, scratching my way across life’s 50-yard line, esconced in relatively unencumbered bachelorhood for about a decade. Not really happy, but far from miserable. Just duly trudging along, alone. I had done enough time on my meditation cushion to realize that, woman or no woman, relationship or not, it was all the same. Breathing in and out. Rising and falling. The trick or practice was to cease identifying with attachments. The balance sheet: two great kids, a writing career that was inching its way up — with a couple of movies under my belt as a screenwriter, friends in golf and surfing pursuits, and, I would venture to say, a fair degree of mindfulness.

But see, the thing about this city, what makes it so great, what drew many of us here in the first place is that intoxicating lure of dreams coming true. And it’s why we stay — having tasted the nectar of that particular elixir of hope. So we take the dice and have our roll and hope for our place in this golden, sun-drenched mirage, this land of make-believe.

“And someone to share it all with?” Marlowe asked with that wry smile of his, flaring a match up to the cigarette.

“Yeah, sure, OK.” I still longed for that endearing, delicious, trusted relationship — this time, pitch-perfect to take me into the sunset years. And the city still purred its sirenic call, more like a whisper: that despite the age and back story, it was still possible that the next one, the right one, the last one could still be out there, just around the corner. Our lives slowly drawing closer. A heartbeat away.

Or in my case, a long-distance telephone call.

Out of the blue, a total wild card, a recent friend told me to call her sister in China. She thought we might be a match.

I did.

We were.

Despite certain obvious differences.

Love conquers all, right, Marlowe?

“Sure, kid, whatever you say. A little on the young side, though.”

She was, but no matter. We would conquer it all. Together. Suffer the slings and arrows of the grand artistic struggle as we made our way ever upward. Mixed in with the writing, I was now running an art gallery in West Hollywood, and the young Chinese woman beside me lighted up many a Saturday night reception. And — wonderfully too — she genuinely laughed at my stupid jokes. Which alone gave us wings to fly toward the heavens.

“Listen, kid,” Marlowe cautioned me every so often, “Go easy, OK?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped.

“Just — go easy.”

As in, stop being such a romantic sap?

But those wings of ours lasted and, oh, how we soared — brilliantly — for nine precious seasons. But then the economic downturn reared its hungry head. And took a bite. Portfolios, mine included, were open season. Things got a little tight. She decided to go back to China, try her luck at a career there.

“See what I mean, kiddo?” Marlowe lamented as we shared a Scotch that first night alone after seeing her off at the airport.

“She’ll be back,” I insisted.

Marlowe just nodded with that smile of his, helping himself to another shot.

A year went by. Numerous phone calls. Relentless emails. Pouring my heart out with words of endearment, of humor, of encouragement — yielding as the months ticked off to mumbles of growing concern and eventually bewilderment.

I finally confronted her at the 15-month mark. “Are you ever coming home?”

“Don’t know. Maybe. But if I do, I want kids.”

“But you know I don’t!”

So there we were at an impasse. Kids — to have or have not. At least that’s what I tell people the why of it, how such a happy, sweet, wonderful young woman came not to be by my side anymore.

One of the great teachings of Buddhism is that the essence of practice is to try without trying. It’s like that in romance for me now. It’s OK to be alone. I’m happy in my own company. Prefer it, actually. So there’s very little dating now. What’s the point — so not to feel un-lonely?

Please.

Buddhism has taught me otherwise. Marlowe too.

Still …

Hope springs eternal, and this is such a city of the eternal hope, with that haunting chorus hovering in the background, whispering, promising, taunting: The next one, the right one, the last one could be just around the corner, drawing closer, a heartbeat away.

And so it goes — trying without trying.

Even though we know damn well that things don’t always work out. But that’s the rub, the yin and yang of this city’s illusive magic: at the ready, ever and always for the stuff that dreams are made of.

Right, Marlowe?

“Sure, kid. Just keep with the breathing, in and out.”

O’Melveny lives in San Pedro and is the author of several L.A.-based novels.

L.A. Affairs chronicles dating and romance. Past columns and submission guidelines are at www.latimes.com/laaffairs. If you have comments to share or a story to tell, write us at home@latimes.com.