Some Nightmares Last Longer Than Most Things in L.A.

When I was a kid at a Los Angeles elementary school I used to wonder why our frame classrooms were called temporary structures. Then I experienced my first earthquake and I knew. But it never dawned on me how pragmatic this really was, something destined to be the city’s future persona.

Shortly after the American election I embarked on an annual visit to my hometown buoyed by the knowledge of being more qualified than Dan Quayle to be vice president. My academic record and military exploits actually outshine his. Appropriately, I was greeted by a 5.1-strength earthquake, my fourth to date, three hours after landing.

Junk Food City

Coming back to your roots once or twice a year gives you a great perspective on things. In the case of L.A., one can see the first city of the junk food generation turning into a genuine junk food city, and junk toy city, readily disposable, biodegradable and totally reusable. A vast area seemingly void of personality.

This is a fact which has not been overlooked by the oldest inhabitants of this land, who themselves had always been overlooked by the predominant middle-class culture--which is as disposable and transient as most L.A. things.

But it is the mushrooming Latino population that is taking fullest advantage of the changing, sprawling megalopolis.

In the face of this invasion, I cannot help thinking of Bob Dylan’s words sung out more than 23 years ago, “The loser now is later to win.” However, contrary to the view of history in some American school books, California, Texas and other parts of the Southwest were originally ripped off the Mexicans.

Now Mexicans are taking it back, and without a shot being fired by the declining non-Latino majority. This is partly because Latinos are shooting at each other so much, multiple murders are now a weekly occurrence. With a dramatic growth in the city’s underclass, spurred by the massive influx of illegal immigrants, L.A. crime has soared.

Can Always Move On

On the other hand, the affluent population hopes that this carnage will cull the gang members sufficiently to maintain the status quo. Failing this, middle-class L.A. has its ultimate weapon . . . “moving” . . . to neighborhoods whose financial barriers, they hope, will exclude the Latinos and the now almost forgotten blacks.

However, if that does not work, “rent-a-cop” comes to the rescue, via a score of private security firms springing up all over, offering the same thing as Al Capone--protection. But this time it is legit; the famed LAPD cannot cope with all the ethnic crime in the city.

They’re finally earning their money in the slum areas, and avoiding the affluent. This absence, however, has left the people in places like Pacific Palisades edgy enough to hire entire armed police departments. Their brief is to patrol, keep order and watch for suspicious people. And one guess who those happen to be. If there is to be trouble the people of Reagan’s old neighborhood are ready for it.

My favorite Mexican restaurant is El Coyote in L.A.’s old Jewish area, Fairfax. I was shocked recently to see two armed guards at the entrance. “We take a lot of money in here,” the manager said in a blase tone. The same day two people were gunned down at the rear of the enormous and still elegant Ambassador Hotel. The police said it was a gang shooting. Shortly afterwards it was announced that this once proud city landmark was closing.

The two facts that have struck me in L.A. in the past few years is how fast the Spanish language is increasing in importance and how equally fast the city’s rents are rising, facts that appear to be related. A decent one-bedroom flat in a reasonably safe neighborhood runs to about $800 per month now.

The most depressing thing is the apparent impermanence of L.A. Once described as a never-ending specter of hamburger stands and gas stations, it could be Prince Charles’ worst architectural nightmare. However, mercifully, some nightmares last longer than buildings in L.A. It seems that buildings are coming down as fast as new ones are going up. Seven years is an average life for some.

And 10 years is getting into listed building territory.

Pressed on Two Sides

In my old San Fernando Valley stomping ground, new buildings are torn down as soon as a more profitable use for the land is found. That is because in a city with an enormous and wealthy middle class being pressed on two sides by growing poverty and an underclass, land and security are what matters, not buildings. Residents here pay anything as long as they feel safe and relieved of not having to see the underclass close to--an aspect of apartment hunting not lost on advertisers.

The latest target for land speculators is generally regarded as part of the city’s cultural heritage . . . gas stations. With gas selling for about $1 a gallon those famous forecourts may soon be a thing of the past. That is because another Californian invention, the mini-shopping center, is more profitable than the gas stations.

Americans tend to panic easily. The Arab terrorist threat of three years ago is closely related to communities hiring private police forces, even though white communities have yet to be attacked by Latino or black gangs.

The ultimate manifestation of this insulation is the fully enclosed and very secure shopping mall, which oddly has taken root in an area of the world where sunshine and hot weather are the rule.

Most of what Americans see on television, including their perception of the world around them, has its beginnings in a city where many people seldom take a walk down a street or meet anyone other than people they know.

An expatriate Briton I met out there asked me if I ever got homesick for my roots? I replied, “No, I have no roots. The Los Angeles I grew up in no longer exists.”

The old Mexican flavor of L.A., discarded by the new Anglo majority at the turn of the century, is making a comeback at a time when it is doubtful whether many non-Latinos will notice it. Most people will be too busy watching TV, locked in their secure apartments, venturing out only in their cars for a trip to a market a few hundred yards down the road, or to the beach several miles away.

Unlike New York, where the middle class is forced to witness a daily spectacle of the human condition, L.A. does not make residents see anything they do not wish to see.