I heard the LA river is flooding for the first time since 1938.
I don’t know why, not a single person remembers when the surge of my sorrow consumed every jaded crack of Abbot Kinney—
It was our favorite street, Abbot, home to Joe’s coffee shop with its white walls, old surfboards strung up with loose rope, old celebrities stuck in crooked frames, homemade pastries, and your order—coffee black, to go. You stopped there every morning before school, sometimes even on weekends when the small tables attempted to hold the weight of our laughter. Its old, open windows offered us a view to the street of our childhood—palm trees bristling, graffiti on local signs, streets littered with local business stickers and half smoked joints.
There was Abbot’s Pizza next door, owned by Joe’s—the only mom and pop within a quarter mile. The little six-by-six tile floor with a to-go pizza counter, four round red stools sitting by the entrance. Its windows flickered with neon signs, open late and come in, it’s hot! They buzzed with a welcoming glow, burning like a lighthouse lamp to all of us kids, lost in the late hours of the night. The old wooden doors ushered me in like a joyful carol, offering me somewhere to go when home wasn’t an option. The owner knew me well in those years, he knew you too. Half the time he forgot to charge us, but he knew we would be back, serving us with a warm smile.
There was that old green house in the center of the street, with its gable roof made of dark asphalt shingles, the smell of its hot tar burning our noses. There was the chitter of that bamboo beaded curtain, the scent of Mary Jane, the man who sold vintage pieces every First Friday Market. The man with the greenhouse was a friend of the family—he was eccentric and full of mystery, and every time he walked through his curtains, it giggled and whispered, as if the curtain held all of his secrets. There was the big swing out front too, where we shared our first cigarette together—the flame ignited your face in a light I don’t think I’ll ever forget. You looked so at peace, your demons forced silent against the intake of nicotine.
Your memories were one of the few things that survived the flooding in 2016, while nothing else had the strength to last.
When the flooding began, it filled up every inch of Abbot Kinney. Joe’s surfboards took to the curling of waves and pictures shattered on impact. The shop’s windows began to groan and crack against the weight of the filling street–coffee mixing with salt. Pepperoni pizza making beds for sea urchins, barnacle tongues licking pineapple slices. Across the way, faux fur weighed down against fragile bones, vintage shoppers sinking into the blue abyss. Palm trees bent near break, their spines shuttering, in resistance to the sudden tidal waves of my relentless tears. There were people being swept away—your mother, my mother, every kid we grew up with—everyone pulled away.
The lifeguard stations washed out to sea against the surge of my anger, their timber broken and splintered upon impact. And there was the drowning of the 405—engines hydrolocked, stuck, metal whining—their colors shimmering in the reflection of the sun like a dystopian coral reef, bodies swimming like a school of fish—
It was a disaster, to rebuild after the flood, to put back the pieces of everything lost, and I think that’s why the city gave up. Why nothing looks the same. Maybe Abbot Kinney Boulevard felt the same way I had—its grief was too much to hold on to, so they let everything wash away.
That explains why on our favorite street, Joe’s is now Blue Bottle. The white walls are still white, but they’re washed and bright, and the floors are dark stone with wood accents. Everything is modern and mundane. Their coffee maker is sparkling copper, and abrasively loud—it smells burnt, it stings sterile. There is nothing here that holds comfort, or the mornings we spent together. The tables have been replaced and I can’t find your etchings, or my failed attempt to carve a smile in hopes that every morning you would see it and do the same. This place is barren and bought by people who don’t understand what a community means. They are just bodies typing on keyboards, the only chatter that of a bleeding heart. This place isn’t the same and I don’t think you’d like it.
There is the Butcher’s Daughter next door, a vegan restaurant with hanging plants. It’s bad energy, hanging life even though they’re supposed to be vegan. This place is white and bright but where is the color? Why does everything have to look the same? Where is the scent of home away from home? Where we spent late nights warmed by the scent of baking bread and greasy pepperoni and hot cheese—filling our empty bellies. Where is the ambience of something old and worn, spaces threadbare from youth and laughter? This new place is invasive and hollow. I don’t recognize it at all, I can’t see you sitting there.
The old green house is gone, sold, an empty lot. They bulldozed our late nights with the stars above and heartfelt talks about the future. This future where I had expected this house to exist, but then again I had expected you to exist there, too. They butchered that beautiful tree, which shaded us against the bitter sun, where I imagined climbing up her massive side, tangling myself in the branches above. That tree, where the rustling leaves littered my worries in soft sunlight–warming, then drying my tears into its soil.
Walking through the abandoned lot I find the swing, the rope knotted and wood rotting. It’s stuck beneath the weeds who have flourished in the absence of nothing, just like this place we grew up in. Picking it up, I turn it over and there our initials are—untouched by time—lingering despite how much it has changed, how much has grown and how much continues to exist in the absence of you.
