My driver has escaped from Burma and he has no intention of returning to Myanmar to live under the thumb of the evil generals. He is content. He feels safe driving his Lyft along Sunset Boulevard on a Saturday night. I don’t feel so secure. I’ve just been released from Kaiser-Permanente Emergency Care and am heading back to my sublet in the Fairfax district.

Fifty three years ago, when I lived here, I often drove along Sunset. It seems quieter now but the same faces are still here. Bored strung out kids, nosy tourists, young people lining up to see if they are good enough to get into the clubs. We pass the studio signs, the movie ads. It seems like a dystopia more soul deadening than the Las Vegas strip or Trump Tower. Places that pretend wealth and happiness but instead suck the marrow out of your bones. 

The apartment is still here. This will be my haven for the next three months while I try to keep my daughter alive. The apartment reeks of old Hollywood. Kelley, the woman who rents it, calls it the Marilyn apartment. She is an actress and an interior designer. She had moved in with her boyfriend years ago but had kept this place as a showroom/office. The apartment is cute. It has an old California western feel and is filled with Monterey style furniture. The closets and cupboards are filled with antiques and Kelley’s clothes. There is nowhere to hang mine but that’s OK I’m not planning on settling in.