Mitch Teemley

Scenes from a long-forgotten L.A.

My Real Memoir

My farewell to old Los Angeles. That was what it turned out to be. When school was out, Mom would sometimes take me to “her L.A.” The two musts of these magical mystery tours were the Red Car and a Hollywood-esque cafeteria called Clifton’s. This would be the last time I ever saw either.

After Dad’s three years on “the chain gang” at the Los Angeles Herald-Express loading-docks, a judge had reversed his “unmerited” driver’s license revocation. And as a result, Dad had landed a far-better-paying position as a newspaper dealer in a shiny new outer-L.A. suburb; and Mom had quit her job at a venerable old downtown leather factory.

What’s a Red Car?

L.A., the City of Freeways—yes, that L.A.—was once home to the world’s largest public transit system. Privately-operated Pacific Electric streetcars, nicknamed “the Red Car,” honeycombed a huge portion of Southern California. Thus, Mom and I were able to climb aboard just a few blocks away from our little suburban bungalow. But even then, the al-dente tangle of freeways was spreading, and commuting by car was becoming “the future of transportation.” So, contrary to the Who Framed Roger Rabbit evil toon plot, in the end it was the freeways that killed the Red Car.

Mom and I rode a Red Car one final time. I attended a highly prestigious Three Stooges Movie Marathon (nyuk, nyuk) while she shopped. And then, as always, we lunched at the legendary…

Clifton’s Cafeteria

Founded during the Great Depression, Clifton’s had a “pay what you wish” policy, regularly serving down-and-outers for free, even after the Depression ended. Just a bare bones eatery, right? Oh, no! Clifton’s was a magical forest of wonders, with deer and moose dioramas, an elevator inside a giant redwood tree, and tables scattered among waterfalls and verdant stream-fed grottos. All fake, of course. But not to me—it was all real to me…

Including the Little Chapel. For a nickel, this tiny one-person-church featured music, voices reciting Scriptures, and the kindly face of a person who might or might not be Jesus. I’d had a non-religious upbringing, so I wasn’t sure what any of it meant. Nevertheless, every time we went to Clifton’s, I had to visit the Little Chapel. It seems I had an undefined yearning for the transcendent even then.

Dream On, Honey

Mom’s L.A. included Pershing Square, the Biltmore Hotel, and the hill-climbing Angel’s Flight railway. After which, we’d find a tree-side table at Clifton’s, and she’d listen attentively as I described my ever-changing dreams. Dad’s goal was for me to be successful. But Mom simply wanted me to be me. And even when my plans were as phantasmagorical as Clifton’s, she’d encourage me to pursue them. So, in honor of the upcoming Mother’s Day, allow me to close with a final, belated…

Thanks, Mom!

To read My Real Memoir from the start, click here. To read the next episode, click here.