I always called it Kenwood, my own post-war Tara in a “transitional” neighborhood. Not a terribly clever name, really, given it was simply the name of the street. And to me, Kenwood was that older stout woman with too much jewelry alone at a diner for the early bird special.
It was the first house I bought.
I just sold it. My hand was forced. I made the purchase in a panic at the height of the housing boom with one of those pretzel loans that Margot Robbie deliciously explained in “The Big Short.” The house fell upside down (lingo for owing more on it that it was worth) about six months after I moved in. I’d hoped the market would adjust, and it did for most of LA, but not for the depressed pocket where my large lady had plopped herself in 1902 when gas still lit homes and oil fields filled the land west of downtown LA.
The house served me well, though. Two friends shot their first feature films there, plus there were the two porn shoots. Cleaning up after those was a challenge, you bet. Kenwood had its own agent and every once in a while, she’d be hired out for a TV show or commercial.
Stephen, Eddie, and Jim called it home, where they kept tally of everyone who walked down the sidewalk, twelve legs of neighborhood watch.
The attached one-bedroom guesthouse offered instant company in a giant creaky house. The first tenant was an impossibly handsome Indian student going for his Master’s degree at USC. When he moved out after a year, I found 150 headphones, each one with the left cup opened and something surgically removed. Sleeper cell? I’ll never know.
Damn, I know I’m going to get this order wrong, but I think next in was Scott, one of my closest friends. Having him right there was a gift. He stayed longer than anyone, but finally decided to move back to Toronto to be closer to his family.
Next up was Dave, a great guy who I’d met a few times through mutual friends. He fell in love while there. Off he went to nest with his new partner.
Along came Jimmey with his sweet puppy Chance. My guys loved having another friend, and since I’d known Jimmey for thirty some years, I loved having him there, too. Last up was Dennis, another lucky find through mutual friends.
Dennis had an amazing eye for design. Suddenly, there were vintage plaid curtains, period colors, flair with care. Sadly and suddenly, Dennis just passed away.
When I took the job in NYC, I had to rent the place out. Unfortunately, a couple of filthy hoarders with untrained dogs moved in, systematically destroying my home, dog piles everywhere you stepped. They lived like animals, but then that gives animals a bad name. I pity the next fool who rents to them.
I almost have to thank them, though. They made it easier to let go of my emotional ties to Kenwood, to feel relief that it’s off my books. I saw the rehabbed house listed on Zillow a few weeks ago. The woman who bought it sunk a boatload of cash into it.
I forwarded the Zillow link to Scott, who immediately wrote “God we were trashy,” to which I replied, “Were?”
