In a few short years the whole city changed. Streets literally became cleaner. Alleyways filled with nicer cars. Old ghettos turned around, and now the rent's gone up two-fold, three-fold... ten-fold - you get the point - and the only ones able to stick around are the ones from out of town. And the select few. The brave ones that didn't leave, or at least came back after a little bit.
It's such a college town here in Venice. It is a college town. There's LMU and UCLA and, of course, your's truly, SMC. Pico Tech. A land of high school kids that didn't go anywhere, but also of a high contingent of students out of state, or out of country, namely China and Sweden. Go figure.
Max doesn't live far, just on the other side of Pico and up a few blocks. But he doesn't go to school. He's a traveler, a handsome vagabond. A helium balloon on a stiff wind at times. He was flying about for a while, to Nicaragua, to India, and back home to Humbolt. Hmm. Maybe I should say he's a boomerang instead because he always comes back, and now he's found roost in Santa Monica. I used to work with him at the shop years ago, he was there when I started and now he's back.
Max's apartment got raided by the LAPD last night - I mean early early this morning. 7 o'clock, bright and early. He sleeps in the living room, a familiar situation to me, and he's woken up to the sound of task force officers in vests and plain clothes at his door, yelling for unit 103, his unit, to open up and come out.
Cold sweat. Heart racing. No, I'm just kidding. He was just really tired. Half asleep. As he creaked the door open, a bright light came flooding in and he squinted.
"Put your hands up! Raise 'em!"
He raised his hands. The man to his left, just outside the door had a long shotgun barrel pointed at his head.
"Turn around and walk backwards slowly towards my voice!"
He did all that. When they asked if he had anything illegal in his car, he told them about the gram of weed in his car.
They scoffed. "We're not here for that. Besides you probably have a card or prescription or something for it, don't you."
"Uhm..."
"Or you're in the process of getting one, right? Jeez," the officer laughs.
"Uhm, yes! Of course, sir! What are you here for then?"
"What's that? Oh, that I'm afraid I can't tell you." He takes the handcuffs off. Off just him though, not his roommates, the two Chinese guys he'd found on Craigslist living in a two bedroom apartment in the SMC area. Nice place kind of. There were thirty officers outside and in the streets by black cars and GMC Suburbans, armed. They were taking computer towers out of the apartment, from the roommates' rooms. "You might want to start looking for some new roommates or for a new place to live, my friend. These guys are bad men, I don't think they're coming back. And I'm guessing the next month's rent isn't paid yet."
Thanks officer. The guy's nice enough.
So Max tells me the place is $1800 a month. "We could split it three ways," he tells me.
I tell him I'll talk to Mike about it. Our last place, me and Mike, was this spot in Mariner's Village last year. Right up on the channel coming from the marina. We paid $3007 a month for a three bedroom. There were four of us. They wanted to raised rent on us by $200 after the first year. The audacity. The place didn't even come with a refrigerator. We had to buy an old mustard yellow one from a shipping office in Westchester for fifty dollars.
[stop]
