Chapter 25 – Camrose Drive

My Austin Healey was a joy and a pleasure to drive even though I was restricted by the courts. I would drive the loop that began at my driveway on Camrose, make a left turn and head uphill past the Hightower Court Apartments. The Hightower property, built by architect Carl Kay over nearly two decades from the mid 1930's to the mid 1950's, is constructed around a unique centerpiece— a five-story private elevator for residents. Hightower Court's seclusion, and mystery, has made it the setting for Raymond Chandler's noir detective Philip Marlowe. It was immortalized on film in The Long Goodbye Marlowe (played by Elliot Gould) lives in one of the apartments with half-naked hippie neighbors. It also appears in a few of Michael Connelly’s books and Connelly even rented an apartment there in the late 20^th century to channel his muse.

Heading up the hill, I made a right onto Glencoe that would wind around the hillside offering spectacular views of the Hollywood landscape to La Presa Drive past the house where Jack LaLanne, famed exercise guru and noted strongman, lived. He made it to the ripe old age of ninety-six and a half. I guess his theories on longevity worked! After speeding past the LaLanne residence, I would turn right on Castilian Drive that would take me to Outpost Drive and from there I would head up to Mulholland. I would turn around there and drive the same route in reverse. No, I didn’t drive in reverse gear, just the opposite way from whence I came. It was a good five or six mile workout for the car and it kept it in good shape. Cars, especially British roadsters, need to be driven not stored away in some collector’s garage. The only problem with the car was it was badly in need of a ring job. It leaked oil and I knew I would have to rebuild the engine soon.

Donna was becoming a beloved mainstay at 6826 ½ Camrose Dr. She loved both Bridget and Ginger and the feeling was, much to my delight, extremely mutual. Ginger had a funny habit of jumping up on her hind legs and chewing the leash when it was walkie-walkie time. Donna found it hysterical, while I was amused; I was already used to it. We would still take long walks in the park across the street and I introduced her to Blue, the homeless park psychologist. By nine in the morning he was already on his tenth beer and would ramble on about how much he missed his home in Tennessee. Sometimes we would walk over to Milner Drive, a street that ran parallel to the south side of the park, and pay Chas a visit and listen to one of his self proclaimed and later actualized hit songs. Sometimes we would even jam on a few of my songs on acoustic guitars while Donna listened patiently sipping her Earl Grey tea. Chas is a living example of what the power of positive thinking can materialize. Having connections in high musical places doesn’t hurt either.

 On a sunny morning in December 1988, Donna was getting ready for a job interview in Inglewood at Centinela Hospital, the same place where Dr. Frank Jobe had his offices. Jobe was the man responsible for the elbow surgery that would prolong the careers of notable baseball players. His first success was Dodger pitcher, Tommy John. From there on out it was called, and still is called the Tommy John surgery.

I started up the Healey in the rear parking lot as Big Al Fohrman, my landlord, watched my every move. He was a pack-rat agoraphobic who never left his apartment. His booming voice could resound through the hills and valleys of Hollywood for miles with rants like: “Haymer, when are you going to get a real car.” Or, “You know I’m going to have to charge you extra for that teenager you have shacking up with you.” I tried to ignore him most of the time and always dreaded walking past his apartment that was below and catty corner to mine—or I should say ours. I talked as little as possible to the ornery old man and would usually give him the evil eye on my way up the stairs. He referred to me sarcastically as “Happy Haymer”.

Donna looked beautiful in her business suit as she glided her way into my yellow sports car. Even though I had lost my driving privileges, I took the chance. I took a lot of chances in those glory days. When we got to the corner of Highland and Camrose the car stalled out. I tried to turn her over but she wouldn’t start—the car not Donna.

“Oh no, James. I’m going to be late for my interview.”

“No you’re not. Just give me five minutes and I’ll get her going.”

It was a sight to see Donna in her Sunday best helping to push the car to a safe resting place and out of harm's way. She wasn't too happy about it to say the least.I got out the car that was hugging the curb like a coddling baby and got my toolbox out of the trunk. I opened the hood and removed all six spark plugs that I could see were drenched in oil. I got some sandpaper and thoroughly cleaned each plug and reinserted the plugs and connected the plug wires. I got back in the car and fired her up. She purred like a contented kitten. We made it to Inglewood with five minutes to spare and I was also spared the reading of the riot act if she missed her interview. She ended up being offered a job there and, after weighing the three other offers she accepted the one at Centinela.

Before she moved to L.A, the Healey was my only car and she needed a dependable vehicle to drive back and forth from work I had no idea at the time she would have to drive from Hollywood to Inglewood—a twenty-five mile trek. I picked up a Recycler, my acquisition bible, and scoured through the classifieds for cars. I saw a running 1969 Triumph TR-6 in the paper for $800. It was red and the top was in good condition, although the interior was a bit funky. I thought that was awfully cheap for a car in that condition so I wondered what else could be wrong with it—nothing, as far as I could tell. I knew Donna was from Scotland and was experienced with a manual transmission but would this car be reliable enough to be her daily driver? I have to admit I was a bit selfish thinking how I missed my other TR-6, the one that was wrecked and I had also sold “The Crate”, the second TR that I had swapped engines with from my first Triumph. I bought my third TR-6 and my second one built in the year 1969, the first year they made those beauties. I got it for $500.

The day we went on the interview at Centinela, the TR was down on Adams Boulevard near La Brea getting a nice new coat of red paint. She hadn’t even seen it yet but I showed her some pictures of my original one before the wreck and she was more than excited. The next week, when the car was ready, we drove down together to the auto body shop and when she saw that dazzling beauty in the parking lot it was love at first sight. She looked amazing in that car as I followed her back in my Healey to Camrose. Big Al Fohrman wasn’t too pleased about it. I didn’t care. I knew we were going to move out of that place which now housed two people, two dogs and two sports cars. It was back to the Recycler or Home-finders again. In the meantime, we would have to put up with the tub of lard downstairs stewing in his rancid, gastric juices for a little while longer. We could manage. We were in love and with love anything is possible.