A Portrait of the Artist as a Lapsed Bohemian
It was a Monday evening and I had dinner plans with a friend. She’s an office worker in the Valley but, please, that’s just a day job. In her heart and soul Maggie is an artist, a painter who once lived the bohemian life in a downtown loft and now has a little bungalow in the time warp that is Topanga Canyon.
She’s an educated person, a student of high culture. She’s read the complete works of Thomas Mann, has the New York Times delivered on Sundays and has her radio tuned to a classical station. In her bathroom I found a recent copy of the New Yorker, opened to an article explaining the spiritual link between the serene art of the 17th century Dutch painter Vermeer and the current strife in Bosnia. (In Vermeer’s day, the writer explained, all of Europe was like Bosnia.)
But as we headed out to dinner, it was obvious that Maggie was out of sorts. This was strange, because for her, Monday was a day off, and she had spent several hours gardening. Now, some of us loathe grimy physical labor, but Maggie’s the type who appreciates its creative, therapeutic value. On this day, she didn’t.
Yes, Maggie was annoyed. She was annoyed because she’d neglected to pay her cable bill and, since she lives in Topanga Canyon, the shut-off meant she had no TV, period. And she was annoyed, especially, at herself. Certainly if anyone could do without TV, it was her.
No TV? No problem. There were books to read, flowers to plant, still-lifes to paint.
“I want my MTV!” Maggie declared.
*
She was joking about that, sort of. But as we drove to the Topanga Fish Market, Maggie affirmed that, after only one week without TV, she dearly missed its company--and not just PBS and CNN.
The restaurant was one of those places where you order at a counter and pay before the meal is delivered at the table. The man behind the counter was a friendly Topanga type, so laid back he didn’t seem to realize he was wearing tinted glasses indoors at night. He recommended the ahi, “the filet mignon of fish.”
We shrugged and ordered ahi.
“Groovy,” he said.
We took our wine and found a table. No, Maggie admitted, she didn’t just miss Jim Lehrer on “Newshour.” She also missed “NYPD Blue” and “ER” and reruns of “The Simpsons.” And because she’s off Mondays, she’d caught the premiere of Rosie O’Donnell’s new daytime talk show and had been looking forward to that, too. “She’s so funny,” Maggie said.
When her cable was disconnected, Maggie had thought a little break would be a good thing. Finally she’d get around to reading a few books she’d bought years ago and put aside, like “Does God Exist?” by Hans Kung. Instead she found herself renting arty films on video.
Maggie was wondering aloud about Jimmy Smits’ TV love life when our waitress approached. She was a young woman with dark hair and an accent of mysterious origin, a charmingly friendly free spirit who seemed very much at home in Topanga.
By now it had occurred to me that the pathetic tale of the artist, a self-described “aspiring snob,” who lost her TV might be worth sharing. Maggie, in her embarrassment, wasn’t sure she wanted her real name used. We were pondering pseudonyms when the waitress walked by and I asked her name.
“Veronica.”
Now that’s distinctive--so distinctive it calls to mind the brunet in the Archie comic books.
Then she volunteered her nickname: “Veronica la Unica--Veronica the Unique.”
It was about 20 minutes till 10, but we were the only diners left. Maggie was bemoaning the fact that she wouldn’t be able to watch “Chicago Hope.”
Veronica la Unica, meanwhile, was extinguishing the candles at the other tables. “I’m making wishes,” she said, before blowing out the flames.
*
By her manner we formed the impression that Veronica was the real thing, a genuine bohemian, while Maggie had doubts about her own credentials. But how could we really know? Maybe Veronica was as dependent on TV as the rest of us. Maybe Veronica wasn’t unique after all.
On the way out, we asked our waitress if she had cable. Veronica seemed shocked by the question, almost horrified.
“Nooo! I don’t even own a TV! . . . Why do you ask? Do you work for cable TV?”
Then Maggie told Veronica her tale of inadvertent self-discovery.
“What do you miss?” Veronica asked. “Is it that VH-1?”
A young man was sitting nearby, taking it all in. Veronica introduced us to her boyfriend.
Cheerfully, he offered Maggie a little advice.
“You ought to take up gardening!”
Scott Harris’ column appears Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays. Readers may write to Harris at the Times Valley Edition, 20000 Prairie St., Chatsworth 91311. Please include a phone number.