Odyssey of a City-Dwelling Man in a Magic Coat

It was one of the cold days of early February, the kind of day when octogenarians such as I are usually content to remain indoors--but not always.

I had spent my morning and much of the afternoon in bed, absorbed in reading. It was 2 in the afternoon when I strayed to the living room of my downtown high-rise apartment and found that a neighbor had slipped a magazine, Movieline, under my door. As I flipped through the listings of current movies and the movie houses,I saw that “Working Girl” was one of the features at the Laemmle 4-Plex Theater in the Sheraton Grande Hotel on Figueroa Street. There was time to catch the 4:40 p.m. show, but I knew I must dress warmly to brave the frigid outdoor temperature.

The occasion called for my magic coat. Of course the coat isn’t really magic. It’s just that it always seems to attract pleasant and unusual encounters.

I first saw--and subsequently bought--the Shetland-and-mohair sport coat in the ‘50s as I wandered lonely as a cloud about the streets of London. A product of the queen’s tailors, it was carefully fitted on a handsome, lifelike mannequin in a shop window.

Symbol of British Empire

The lining was a silky cerulean color, and on the right-hand inside pocket of the pale gold label was the symbol of the British Empire: two lions in an upright position leaning against the shield of England topped by the royal crown. In fine black print was: “By appointment to H. M. Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother,” and followed by bold letters: “Aguascutum of London.”

By George (no royal pun intended), it was my right to have this special garment. Thus began the magic.

While I was garbed in the royal attire, friendly things happened. On the tubes, when I was riding in cars with a conductor, the uniformed man usually would join me for a chat between stops. If in looking out a window I appeared to be unsure of the location, a passenger would rush to my seat. “May I help you? I travel this route every day.”

So on this cold February day in Los Angeles, I was wearing the coat--with everything carefully coordinated, in case I decided to have a drink in the lobby of the Sheraton. I walked south on Hill Street toward the Grand Central Market, between 3rd and 4th streets.

Reminiscing about my two years during Word War II on the atoll of Roi-Namur in the Marshall Islands, I stopped in the market for a coconut drink, something that had been a source of refreshment during those years. It would give me strength for the climb to the Laemmle, which is directly west over old Bunker Hill.

Back on the street, I pressed the traffic-light button to cross. Excavation for Metro Rail made one-way traffic a problem. The wait seemed interminable.

Beside me stood a beautifully dressed woman of about 40, carrying a white plastic bag of groceries and looking like someone who would shop at Gelson’s in Century City rather than a produce market.

I pointed to the nearby mass of high-rise apartments for senior citizens and said: “I can tell you are not eligible to live over there.”

“That’s right. I live in West Los Angeles.”

“I’m going to see the movie ‘Working Girl’ at the theater in the Sheraton Grande,” I said.

She gave me a searching look. “Oh, that’s a terrible hill to climb. My car is parked right there. May I drop you off on my way?”

“Thank you so much,” I said, “but I need the exercise and I have plenty of time.” Score No. 1 for the magic coat.

I turned west on 4th Street, and the incline ahead loomed like Mt. Shasta. How did that old ditty go that was helpful in remembering the order of north-south streets? It was something like: “From Main you Spring to Broadway and cross Hill to pick an Olive on Grand and Hope to smell a Flower on Figueroa.”

After about 20 yards, my breathing was labored and the strain on unused leg muscles was noticeable. Then, a strong hand grasped my right arm.

Despite the cold, the young man wore a thin white shirt--sleeves rolled to the shoulders and open to the waist. “I’m going all the way over the hill; I want to help you.”

He took my hand and began to pull me along. Then he thought he could do better. He put one arm around my waist and with my feet barely touching the pavement, my body was virtually being carried up the block.

With my limited knowledge of Spanish I understood him to say: “Don’t be afraid of me. I’m a good man.”

“Muchas, muchas gracias, amigo,” I said, and added that I had to turn south on Olive. He stood watching me and shaking his head, then went up the hill alone.

There was time along the way to admire three or four sculptures. One between Grand Avenue and Hope Street beside the Wells Fargo Center is a huge, brightly painted sculpture of five almost life-size silhouettes of automobiles on a huge inverted gray arc. The red car extends into space, perhaps symbolizing the transition of Wells Fargo from the days of the Pony Express to the time of the internal-combustion engine.

Then, in the courtyard of 400 S. Hope St., a white steel obelisk leans skyward like the Tower of Pisa. The small plaque says it is by Alexander Liberman, an American born in Russia in 1912. “Bravo, Alex,” I thought.

At the Stuart M. Ketchum YMCA, erected on the roof of the multistoried Arco Plaza garage, I paused to watch through the second-floor glass wall the line of men and women working away on stationary bikes and treadmills. It was a lovely sight.

A sculpture on a large oval pedestal in a landscaped circle of shrubs caught my eye. There’s a curved blade of mottled copper on the inner surface, and a highly chromed outer surface extends skyward. It revealed my reflection like a mirror when it caught the rays of the setting sun.

I took an envelope and pen from my inside coat pocket and began recording information from the plaque on the sculpture. As I wrote, a young boy and girl lingered to chat with me. When asked if they were going for a workout, the young man said: “Oh no, we work here.” They seemed pleased by my interest in the sculpture, and my mind was saying, “Oh to be young again.”

At the entrance to the Y, a bronze statue of three women runners with ponytails flying pays tribute to the 1984 Olympics. I jotted down information from the plaque: Olympiad 1984, Milton Hebald (Rome) 1986, donated by Aileen Adams, Robin Lee Adams and Marv Adams Reinsch.

From the west side of the Y, the only way to reach Figueroa Street would be the entrance to the Westin Bonaventure Hotel, high above Flower Street. I crossed the sky bridge. A young man who apparently did not speak English was washing the glass and polishing the brass at the entrance to the hotel.

“Can I get through here to the Sheraton Grande on Figueroa Street?” I asked. He seemed puzzled. “El Calle Figueroa,” I repeated.

“Oh, si, senor. “ He dropped the tools of his trade, opened the door and proceeded over my protests to escort me down the long corridor lined with shops to an elevator. He pressed the Down button and waited for the elevator to arrive. He reached inside and pressed 2 and pointed westward.

Offered Him $5

I was moved by his courtesy and offered him a new $5 bill, which he refused.

In just an hour, my fourth kind and pleasant encounter. Was it my age--or the magic coat?

It was 4:30 p.m. when I descended the steep stairway to the Laemmle Grande. The box office was dark and the doors locked. The sign above the window indicated the next show at 7 p.m. It was Friday and there was no early show. It would be a long wait.

So I went around to the Sheraton Grande. The palatial doors automatically opened into the elegant lobby, where a handsome young man played the piano near the bar. A cocktail waitress brought my drink promptly, and there was a glass bowl filled with fresh, roasted and salted cashews and peanuts. But after about an hour, I realized “Working Girl” would have to wait; surely it would be around for an extended run.

I made my way homeward, still making mental notes of the many changes taking place throughout downtown. The Central Library site is boarded up and excavation in progress for the new structure; the Church of the Open Door has been demolished.

The old Mayflower Hotel is sheathed in steel scaffolding from top to bottom, and either the owners or the contractors have a sense of humor and poetic soul. A sign at the entrance reads:

A little construction

--then hip-hip-hooray.

A new small hotel

for Downtown L.A.

Checkers

Opening Spring 1989

Night had fallen in downtown Los Angeles, and I was thinking all the way home that small adventures are possible. If the heart feels young, there are beautiful things and kind people to add joy along the way.

And in my case, it didn’t hurt to have a magic coat.