The bus finally arrives at the downtown Los Angeles Greyhound Bus terminal located on the corner of E. Sixth and Los Angeles Streets at just after 10:00 p.m. While the area looks just as crowded as the downtown from our home time, what’s missing are the tall skyscrapers that dominate the area in 2015. Though I noticed a few buildings in the distance that might be ten or so floors high, most aren’t any more than five or six.
Iffy and I join the line exiting the bus and then work our way through the building to the street. The night is cool, but it’s nowhere near the frigid temperatures we experienced in Lone Pine, and the clothes we’re wearing are adequate enough for now.
“How far away is Echo Park?” I ask. While I would rather not walk, if the house is close enough, doing so would save money.
“Three or four miles at least. Maybe more.”
So much for that idea.
At the curb are several bright yellow taxis. Curvy, bulbous things, with signs mounted behind the trunks advertising such places as Atlas Tires and Rexall Drugs. While some drivers sit inside their cabs, others are leaning against fenders, talking with each other. A few are wearing yellow hats with black bills, though the majority are bareheaded.
The driver at the front of the line perks up when he sees us. “Need a lift?”
My plan had been to catch a city bus, but a taxi would be faster.
“How much to Echo Park?” I ask.
“A buck and a quarter. A buck fifty. Depends on where exactly you’re going.”
We have $3.20 left. The ride will eat up almost half of that, but a quick glance at Iffy tells me that we are both thinking it’s worth it.
We climb into the back and drive off.
As we go through the north end of downtown, I see a building I finally recognize — the city hall building. It towers over all the other structures we’ve passed, making it the giant of LA. Funny how later, after all the skyscrapers go up, it will be the one that looks small.
We’re heading west on Sunset Boulevard when our driver asks, “You got an address?”
I know the address to Kane’s place, but I don’t want to stop right in front, so I only give the name of his street.
“Vestal Avenue? Where’s that?”
I try to remember some of the other roads in the area, and say, “Echo Park Avenue and Baxter. Do you know where that is?”
“I ain’t driving on Baxter,” he says.
I’m not sure what his objection to it is, but I say, “That’s fine. You can just drop us right there at the corner.”
Several minutes later, we turn down Echo Park Avenue and drive into the narrow valley where Kane’s future house is located. Coming into the area this way instead of jumping right to his house gives me a better sense of the neighborhood. It feels almost as if a small, quiet town has secretly moved in a stone’s throw away from the center of LA.
The taxi pulls to the curb in front of the Elysian Heights Elementary School.
“Echo Park and Baxter,” he says, nodding at the intersection just ahead. “A buck thirty.”
We give him a dollar fifty, and as soon as we’ve climbed out and closed the door, he pulls a quick U-turn and heads back into the city.
“Which way?” Iffy asks.
I think for a moment. I’ve seen a map of the area only on my phone, but unfortunately here, where there’s no signal for my cell to grab on to, the device is just a glorified camera and flashlight.
I point across the street to where Baxter disappears behind the house at the corner. “That way, I think.”
I take the lead, and as soon as we turn on to Baxter, I realize why the cabbie didn’t want to drive on it. The road is very steep, and we lean forward to stay vertical. Thankfully, we only have to go up one block before we reach Vestal.
I look down toward his house and see that most of the dwellings are dark. Not Kane’s, though — or more accurately, not the house that will one day be Kane’s. The first-floor windows are all lit up, as are several on the second floor.
We cross over to Kane’s side and head down until we reach the base of the stairs.
“Wait here.”
Iffy grabs my arm. “What are you going to do?”
“Just take a look.”
Reluctantly, she lets go. “Be careful.”
As I move up the steps, I crouch farther and farther down so that my head stays below the level of the front yard. This is not something my thigh particularly enjoys doing, but I clench my teeth and ignore the pain.
When I’m as high as I can go without exposing myself, I pause a few seconds and listen. The drone of distant cars plays like background music on a loop. Somewhere a few blocks away, metal hits metal — the lid of a trash can closing, I’m guessing. A dog barks and then another and another, each successively farther away, like a message is being passed on. From the house, though, I hear nothing.
Very slowly, I raise my head until the home comes into view.
A shadow plays across the ceiling in the front room, but I can’t see what’s causing it.
I need to get closer.
Looking back at Iffy, I pat the air and mouth the words, “Stay there.” Before she can try to stop me, I take the stairs the rest of the way up, and slink across the yard to the corner of the house.
I press my ear against the sideboard, and for the first time, I can hear something inside. Music. Instrumental, I think, but too low to follow the tune. I hold my position, hoping I might hear voices or movement, but there is only the wispy sound of instruments, sometimes there, sometimes not.
The front windows are just a few feet away, but though I want to look inside, it would be risky. Better to save it as a last resort.
I look down the side of the house. A chimney rises up the wall five feet from my position. I lean so I can see around it, and spot two windows between the fireplace and the house’s back corner: a small one, higher on the wall — a bathroom, I think — followed by a larger one, though not as large as those at the front of the house.
I sneak along the building until I’m just a few feet away from the bigger window. The music is louder now. I was right about it being an instrumental, though I don’t know the tune. My knowledge of music in my new world is even worse than my knowledge of cars.
I move out from the wall enough so that I can see a sliver of the room inside. From my exploration of the house in 2015, this should be the kitchen and family room. It doesn’t appear to be as bright as the front of the house, but it’s not dark, either. Somewhere inside a light is on.
I take an arcing path that will put me in a direct line with the window, but far enough away that little to none of the illumination spilling through the glass should fall on me. When I reach the apex of the arc, the room inside comes into full view.
Immediately I freeze.
The renovation that will turn half of the space into a family room has not yet taken place, so for now there is only the kitchen and a small eating area, with a countertop separating the two. The rest of the future space is walled off, creating some other room beyond. What’s captured my attention, though, is not the house’s layout, but Kane.
He’s near the counter, angled partly toward the front of the house, but I can still see his lips when they begin to move. Whatever he says does not come through the glass. A moment of stillness is followed by a nod and a few more words, and then he turns all the way toward me and walks in my direction.
I hold rock still, resisting the instinct to drop to the ground. Several feet from the window, he veers to his right. He is almost, but not quite, out of sight. If I were to move I’d risk drawing his attention, so I hold my position.
Finally he turns and walks in the other direction. When he reaches the far end of the room, he heads into the hallway that leads to the front of the house.