My father’s job at the private gallery in Pasadena deteriorated to the extent that he handed in notice to quit. The owner was looking for cheap labour only, and practised in the arts of obedience. Now she wanted us off the premises immediately. If we stayed even one minute beyond the period of employment, she would have us charged with all sorts of criminal misdemeanours, and each of these minutes would cost us rent.
Our tied cottage was located on the grounds of a large home on Arlington Drive. The owner had a Japanese gardener ages with herself, and an established Japanese garden with plenty shrubbery; bushes and trees and a burn flowing through the middle. There was a wee temple with a shrine where the gardener spent much of his time. My younger brothers, Alan and Philip, ran wild in the garden playing chases, splashing through the burn and sneaking into the temple and making the gardener’s life a misery. I climbed up on the roof to keep out the road, reading and sunbathing. My mother spent most of her time in the tied cottage, doing the domestic work and dreaming of Scotland. The mindset we entered into reminds me of that opening in the Cassavetes movie Gloria. The accountant father has cooked the books of his employers, a team of mafioso. It is useless to run. His wife has bouts of rage, then lapses into lethargy, like her mother and daughter, just staring at him occasionally, as they wait for the executioner. It is a brilliant scene.
One of my father’s ex co-workers was our saviour, a young Puerto Rican picture-framer by the name of Mario. My father had been free with his skills to the other workers. Now Mario was quick to offer his support. They hatched a plot a week or so later. In Glasgow we call it ‘doing a moonlight’. Mario had a rusty old banger, wings falling to bits, exhaust system knackered. They stuffed everybody in, bags and suitcases, the lot, and we hightailed it out of town, straight onto Pasadena Freeway, Mario’s car rattling and shaking the whole way south to an apartment in Hawthorne, south L.A. This was more like it.
Hawthorne is next door to Watts where much racist violence hit the street in 1965. Around 15,000 National Guard troops were sent in to show the black American community who was boss. On any bus into town I sat at the back because I was a smoker. Only blacks sat there, whites went to the front. Sometimes the back of the bus was crowded and only a few seats being used in the white section. None of the whites gave me a row, they just kind of looked, as did the blacks, but nothing more than that. Not even a vague frown, that I recall. Perhaps the clothes I wore advertised my foreign origins. What happened to other colours or ethnicities, I do not know, I do not know.
Walking about in L.A. was no different from walking through the foreign neighbourhoods of Drumchapeclass="underline" not for youths. This pressure is known to almost every full-sighted urban male that breathes, every day of our lives. Who will step out the way first? After an entire day tramping the streets, one wearies of the constant decision-making, and the longer it goes on the more complex the judgment. I start making a priori decisions: it does not matter the male, for every second one I shall step out of the road. For every third male over the age of 70 I shall keep my ground and stick out my elbows.
Then you start playing games: I think I will step out the road of this cunt and see if he smiles, if he smiles I will batter him across the fucking skull. By the end of the evening ye weary of everything and just step out everybody’s way. Then ye start making a virtue out of it. After you!
No, after you.
Please, take my ground.
No, you take my ground.
Take my ground ya bastard.
Fuck you man, fucking fag bastard.
Wait a minute you I am from Scotland we always look at guys, nay ambiguity intended.
In California they have detox macho units where males learn how to step out of the other man’s path. It is a rich, rewarding field of study, all the more so for its increasing complexity. Just when you think you have mastered the basics ye land on yer back. I was trudging along a quiet, tree-lined street at dusk. Sixty yards away a guy approached. We were heading along the same track of the same path. Aw naw.
Nobody else was in sight. I walked on, less steadily. From many yards off I decided to step sideways. I just made the decision. I just thought I cannot be bothered with this. Even so, I did the manoeuvre from far off, so it would seem like a natural, absent-minded veer, rather than me being forced out by him and his damn presence. He just kept coming, he just kept on. I did not care. Now I saw he was black, a sturdy-looking guy, still not slowing, but he knew I was coming. When we passed he said, God bless you brother.
My father had a start in one of the picture-framers on La Cienega Boulevard. Quite a few galleries and linked businesses were there. Some still are. I passed through L.A. in the late 1990s and checked to see. My father much preferred this job; Puerto Rican and Central American workmates, a lively atmosphere. But the money was poor and the work repetitive; almost no gilding, let alone picture restoring. The apartment was costly and with seven of us there my mother was working miracles. He could not afford to buy a car. He still had not acquired his driver’s licence. These things take ages. It was difficult getting a day off work, then when he did it was problematic with buses, and they took so long to get anyplace, and you got sick of not being understood, repeating the same questions time and time again.
Though wearying of it myself I still went on the tramp once or twice. Word arrived about a Scottish fast-food joint. My brother had spotted it from the bus. It was miles away but worth a shot. Maybe if I threw myself on their mercy, in a guid Scotch tongue, they would give me a start. I got the busfare and next morning set out. I got off the bus too early and had to continue on foot. Then I found the place, it was a proper Scottish name — McDonald’s. Two white American lassies were serving. They noticed me. It became a male v. female interlude. I was enjoying it. I hung about by the counter awaiting an opportunity to chat, all too aware that my only line was, Any jobs?
I gave up and went hame. About my last throw of the dice came via an advertisement in a newspaper. A big soccer day was scheduled one Saturday. Teams of players of different nationalities were involved. There was bound to be a Scottish contingent. Maybe I could make a connection. Secretly, I still dreamt about making the grade as a player. There were a few semi-pro teams in the Los Angeles area. Some junior and ex-senior Scottish players had gone out, in the twilight of their years. I was never anywhere near that standard but this was America, could they even tell the difference? At least I was young. I decided to have a go. The one genuinely great Scottish player to have made L.A. his base was before my time but his name was still known and my father had seen him play; the Scottish international and ex-Dundee inside-forward Billy Steel.
If a U.S. team signed you they ensured you had a day job. Even if I was not good enough to play maybe somebody would know about a day job. Off I went. A bus into downtown then another one out. Miles away as usual. In area, Los Angeles was the biggest city in the world, in those days something like 35 miles wide. When I reached the football ground, to my dismay, the entrance fee alone would swallow up every cent of busfare I had left. I would be stranded, and the walk home was as bad as the Pasadena marathon.
Three games were to be played consecutively. Okay, it was good value. I agreed with the guy on the turnstile. But I only needed to see the one featuring the Scottish players. I argued it out but to no avaiclass="underline" full entrance fee or nothing. Watch the football or get a bus home. No contest. My whole world depended on it. In the stadium I strolled to one of the empty seats. There was a German team, an Italian team, a Mexican team, a British team and a couple from Central America. Where were the Scottish boys? Maybe I missed them.