Fly On, My Sleek Electric Bird
It was a pleasant evening in mid-March, warm enough to saunter down to the strand at dusk in linen pants and clear enough to see Catalina Island against the horizon. The sun was low in the sky over Philip Marlowe’s old haunts when I broke the first rule of living in Venice Beach: I agreed to venture east of the 405 at rush hour.
A brunette was calling.
She was prepossessing, persuasive, and proposing that we rendezvous at a municipal pool. I succumbed to the swimsuit she’d be wearing. She was my wife.
The 5.3 mile trip to Culver City would take 50 minutes driving but she had our motorcar. An Uber with surging rates could run as much as $35 with tip. I pondered walking home to get my old Schwinn, putting air in the tires, pedaling over Mar Vista Hill, finding a rack to lock it up, and then, if it wasn’t stolen while we swam laps, riding home, alone, after dark, without a head lamp.
I needed an airship. I needed a motorcycle. I needed Elon Musk to bore an eastbound tunnel with an exit ramp at the Culver City Municipal Plunge. What I had was a waterproof sack, a beach towel, goggles, and an iPhone. Yet all it wound up costing to kiss her hello 30 minutes later was a $5.50 credit card charge.
The profit wound up in the pocket of Santa Monica’s most
