Most Happy Fella

The area on Sunset Boulevard between the ocean and Chautauqua is a pleasant drive of lovely homes, towering trees and park-like settings. There is a village atmosphere to its main business district, and an aura of easy living to its inhabitants. It’s a shame I’ll never see it again.

I spent two hours on Sunset last Tuesday traversing a distance that should not have taken more than 20 minutes, and that was enough to last me forever. The reason for the monstrous delay was the 7,500 tons of dirt that had come crashing down on Pacific Coast Highway the day before, closing all four lanes and forcing traffic to find alternative routes.

We are not talking a trickle of traffic here. About 45,000 vehicles use PCH every day, from flashy Jaguars to piquant Hondas, and at least 42,500 of them chose to drive on Sunset toward Chautauqua on the day that I made the same regrettable decision. Even by L.A. standards, it was the grandmother of all traffic jams.

There was not a moment during the four-mile route when we were not bumper to bumper, trapped in a procession of the dead making their way to hell, beyond rage and redemption, pathetic figures in coffins of glass and metal.

Ironically, I was on my way to Santa Monica to see a man who had recently given up his car forever and had thrust himself upon the mercy of public transportation and a 10-speed bike to get him where he wanted to go. Even under dismal traffic circumstances, I can’t imagine not having a car in the L.A. area, but this guy was doing it, and it was making him happy. I can’t imagine anyone happy in L.A. either, but that’s another column on another day.

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The man’s name is Charles Hearn, though he likes to be called Chuck. He’s a behavioral scientist and an ex-Methodist minister, which, I suppose, might explain why he’s so damned cheerful. Preachers and behavioral scientists like us to think they have the ultimate answer to happiness, thereby encouraging the use of their services by those of us who do not.

I called Chuck on my cellular phone to tell him I was trapped in automotive hell. He said, “Gosh, that’s too bad,” in a tone that was both soothing and forgiving. It made me feel better, and I was tempted to stay on the line with him throughout my travail, but The Times has not furnished me with a cellular phone to subsidize therapeutic consultations, however much I may need them.

I discovered when I finally reached him that Chuck even looks like a guy who has never had an unpleasant thought. He is a graying, pink-faced man of 64 with the kind of jolly-fella appearance that makes you feel good all over, a combination of Captain Kangaroo and Pope John Paul II. Somehow in his presence I hungered for milk and cookies.

Chuck began driving when he was about 12 and bought his first car, an 11-year-old Pontiac, in 1948. Since then, he’s owned about a dozen different cars, including the ’89 Ford Taurus he sold on February 11th when he decided he really didn’t need a car anymore.

Everything was within easy access of his Santa Monica apartment. He reached his barber on the No. 2 bus, Vons supermarket on his bicycle and the cleaners on foot. “If I need to go any further than that,” he said, “I’ll rent a car, hire a taxi or call a friend.” Then he laughed heartily. It wasn’t exactly a ho, ho, ho, but it was close.

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Talking to Chuck heightened my irritation over the massive slide that was blocking Pacific Coast Highway. It wasn’t anything he said, it was just that life was so good for him, walking along and humming in the sunshine of Santa Monica, while I was back with the lost souls on Sunset.

According to our files, we have had 15,414 stories on slides in the past 10 years, and while I’m not going to look at every one of them, I’m certain that thousands were devoted to slides that blocked Pacific Coast Highway for anywhere from hours to days. I asked someone at Caltrans how many there had been and he said more than you could shake a stick at. Good enough.

In the 1950s, the state was considering a freeway over the top of PCH, but the idea met with such resistance from environmentalists and business owners in Malibu that the idea was dropped. I think it’s time to revive it. We didn’t keep the covered wagon trails at the dawn of the automotive age because they weren’t practical, and, by the same standard of judgment, it’s time to bypass PCH. Make Malibu two off-ramps and a large sign, and let the rest of us get on with our lives, sans slides.

Then maybe Chuck and I will be able to sit down together over milk and cookies and smile until hell freezes over.