Shrine

I didn't really feel like driving all the way to Brentwood for the orthodontist appointment we'd made weeks ago, especially with all the packing and readying to go away we have to do this week for our trip to Norway, and I was grumpy about it, I know, complaining to Minks that all I'd done in the last few days was drive and buy for her. Sometimes I just need to get over myself. "Just don't open the drawer where you know the mess is" says J when I talk about melancholy. "Just don't go there." But we went nonetheless and then I was delighted to discover that La Scala Presto is still there off of San Vicente where it was twenty years ago when Jack, Andy, Eddie, Dominique and I would go to the beach in Santa Monica on Saturday mornings and stop off there for our picnic lunch. We ordered what we always order, salami chopped salads with double tomatoes, arnold palmers, bread and butter. We marvelled at the blonde woman on the table next to us with the blonde hair with bangs, high heels, white blouse and bulging bosoms. Her lips bulged nearly as much as her bosoms, and as she ate, she checked her phone relentlessly. A woman appeared, another blonde in a strapless sundress. Brown. Lots of gold jewelry. A bright smile. It was Goldie Hawn. Minks didn't know who she was until I told her it was Kate Hudson's mother.

Lunch was delicious and put me in better spirits, the melancholy lifting like the morning mist at the beach, and so I suggested we visit the beautiful Self-Realization temple, which is a golden lotus of a building, surrounded by fantastic gardens, at the end of Sunset by the ocean. On the way, after a small detour onto Old Ranch Road to look at the horses, and a good bit of fantasizing about owning a house where your horse could live a stone's throw from your bed, Minks noticed a tree covered in yellow and white paper notes. We turned around on Sunset, pulled over, got out of the car and realized that this was the shrine for N's friend who died on Friday night by wrapping his car around a tree. It wasn't far from Brooktree, near Rustic Canyon. The eucalyptus trees stood in front of some ancient bamboo, as wide as my thigh, which had been snapped in two from the impact of the car. The trees were surrounded by candles, and flowers; iris, rose, white hydrangea, daisies. Many bunches of flowers, some wrapped in paper or cellophane, some laid on the ground, some in vases. An old yellow pad sat by the tree with a black sharpie. His friends had written notes and pinned them up, or written directly on the tree. "Rest in Paradise" it said. "You were the nicest guy I knew." "We will always love you." There were photos too, of the kid with his soccer team, with his arm around his buddies, grinning at the camera. Somebody had drawn a picture. Poems. Minks tore a piece of yellow paper, wrote something on it and pinned it up. We held hands and stared at the tree. A mother in sunglasses parked her SUV and walked over to us, looked at the shrine and started to sob silently. Two dark-haired girls in black dresses came over too and just stared blankly. The funeral was this afternoon. 978 people have signed the Facebook page dedicated to his memory. His sister goes into the 9th grade at Wildwood in September. Cars drove by and honked, as if people knew him. I found myself overwhelmed with sadness. There but for the grace of God go all of us. I can't bear to think about how many young lives that horrendous death may have saved by its example. My heart breaks for those parents. I want to write to them but I'm not sure what to say. It's the first time that anyone N has known has died from anything other than old age. He was seventeen years old and he loved to write, surf and play soccer. He was seventeen and he was loved by many, many people.

Of course, the temple was closed. The gates were locked and so the prayers had to be said in our heads. Instead we stopped at a little bookstore in the Palisades where kids were excitedly planning their midnight adventures to see the newest Harry Potter film which opens tonight. I've always rather disliked the Palisades, but today, it seemed different. Sweet, in fact. A real community with old people and little girls in bookstores, and golden retrievers that pant on the curb, and wiccan ladies drinking herb tea out of to go cups.

I dare not say what is in my head. N must think me crazy as I texted him frantically: Are you ok? Where are you? I love you, darling. Be safe.

Make good memories. That's what the man said.