But screw anything else indicative about the lives on Los Angeles residents. The alley behind my apartment offers the best peek I get at the people with whom I share this messy city. Now let me state right now: It’s not that kind of back alley. It’s just a simple stretch with uneven pavement, some the pits always full of mystery water. But back passing through this space at night, lit-up windows show me people cooking (steaming up the very glass that’s letting me see in), people doing dishes (with clean, satisfying porcelain clinks), people in the midst of heated phone conversations (kicking up a thunderstorm about who said some unbelievable thing). Only once can I remember hearing somebody cry, though I couldn’t tell where it was actually coming from and I assume it was from one of the darkened rooms and why shouldn’t it have been for good reason?
I can enjoy these little scenes furtively as I pass from there to home. More than anything, as far as signs that I should have faith in my neighbors, I hear bits of what they’re watching to take them away from Los Angeles: the opening theme to Veronica Mars (we are indeed not friends anymore), the thudding soundtrack to Inception (I had to see that movie by myself), that album I’ve not listened to since I got here (a certain hold on me). Their abominable driving and parking habits notwithstanding, what’s I’m glimpsing of their interior lives proves that these can’t be terrible people, right?
Right?
She means nothing to me now / I tell myself that every single day
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