Cruising by the Cozy Courts

                                                                                    

Long gone but the memories remain

      How to describe the Cozy Courts in 1969? Well, if there was a fight, a drug bust, or police sirens, no one in town was surprised if it happened at the Cozy Courts, a sprawling 1940s - ‘50s faux art-deco development of, once, quaint one-story, crowded apartments, dirt driveways leading to each unit. The Courts covered a two-block radius on L.A.’s west side, a multi-ethnic area sandwiched between the Pacific to the west and Beverly Hills to the east, just below the foothills of Brentwood and Westwood.

     In its day, the Cozy Courts must have been a fine place for a single, working man or a young married couple to settle down, especially those early days when many of the people in town lived in shacks or small wood-frame houses. In fact, the Cozy Courts might have even been a step up.

     Since the old-timers worked on farms, nurseries, and railroads, or if lucky, they landed a job maintaining the gardens or homes of the rich up in Westwood, Bel-Air, or Beverly Hills, there wasn’t much money to spend on housing.  By 1969, two-bedroom family homes and two-and-three story apartments nudged the old shacks aside, turning the Cozy Courts into a “ghetto,” a place where kids played in the dirt driveway, unemployed or low-wage immigrants found a place to hang their hats, ex-cons could cop a room, or travelers could stop to rest for a spell.

     All of this is why Paul Rubio should have known better when his older cousin Freddie asked him for a “quick” ride to the Cozy Courts to pick up some money a friend owed him.

     Way back when Paul was a kid, his dad had told him to stay away Freddie, and any other relatives, first cousins or not, who were always getting into trouble. Paul's mom and dad had bought one of those houses in the suburbs on the G.I. Bill, and each new generation of Rubio’s needed to shed their shady past and be better than the last generation.

     The family knew Freddie had a hard life, his mom dying when he was just a kid, and his father always in the bars, Freddie pretty much raising himself, mostly by hustling, or just living by his wits.

     The local young gangsters considered him, what they call today, an O.G., or a veterano. At 26, Freddie was caught in a time warp, too young to be a 1940’s pachuco and too old to hang with new crop of younger cholos. Freddie had come up during the days of the 1950’s and early ‘60’s car club scene, the "Rebels without a cause" types, right about the time hard drugs were hitting the streets.

     Freddie had had spent more time incarcerated than on the streets, doing stints at Folsom and San Quintin, always for the same thing, drugs, either buying or selling. He wasn’t homely, kind of flat-faced and squat, dark, the suave pachuco look, and a champion boxer inside the prison walls, and respected by guys from all the different towns, from East L.A. to San Fernando. He wasn’t mean, by nature, and he always greeted everybody with a smile and a bear hug, usually a funny story, like he didn’t have a care in the world.

   Paul Rubio, just a week out of the Army, after a year in Vietnam, was the good kid, a Catholic school grad, lettering in three sports, handsome, tall, and smart, with his own demons to fight, trying to find his place in the world, everybody a stranger, even his parents and friends; though, nobody suspected his emotional turmoil. He kept it to himself.

     Like many in the family, Paul felt sorry for his older cousin, and would toss a few bucks his way whenever Freddie asked. This request, though, a ride to pick up money from a friend who owed him should have raised Paul’s internal periscope. Freddie never had the money to loan anyone at any time. Still, Paul waved Freddie into his posh green, ’67 Austin Healey, a gift to himself from his military savings, and they drove off.

                                                                                         

The Rocks, a place of refuge, a place to hide

     From the neighborhood park, Stoner Park, where Freddie always hung out, relaxing in the shade of the Japanese garden, or what all the kids called the Rocks, due to the large boulders the city trucked in to give the garden character, they drove north on Barrington, a minor boulevard in town, but definitely, a dividing line between neighborhoods. Freddie said, without any forewarning, just taking a chance, that he understood how Paul must feel, just getting out of the Army, and referencing his year in Vietnam.

     “Primo, I may not of been to war, but I had my own wars, you know. When you’re locked up, in prison, or in the Army, it’s the same thing, man – institutionalized.” Freddie lowered his voice. “We both done and seen shit most people ain’t, and I can’t say I’m proud, not really, but I'm proud of you.”

     Paul had already heard the Freddie stories, some even reaching neighborhood lore, so he didn’t need to ask his cousin anything about his exploits. Maybe he didn’t’ even want to know, for sure, like the real bad stuff. And not just Freddie, but Paul’s uncles and cousins had already built up quite a reputation on the Westside, the reason his dad and mom worked so hard to change the family reputation, for the younger generation, to start a fresh slate, so to speak. A veteran, a freshman in college, Paul knew he had to represent the next generation, even as he struggled to keep himself on the right track.

     He made a quick turn onto the Olympic, a major boulevard in town, which, if you drove far enough east you could tie into streets in downtown Los Angeles that led to places beyond the San Gabriel Mountains, to desolate deserts and valleys, but, instead, Paul turned onto Corinth then to Tennessee, streets he knew in his sleep. When they reached the Cozy Courts, Freddie told him to park on the street and not inside the courtyard, but "over there, near the corner." Paul found an empty parking spot and pulled in. Freddie opened the door, hopped out, and said, “Hey, Primo, can you wait? I’ll only be a minute.”

     It was strange being addressed as “Primo.” That was a different world, Freddie’s world, old and, at times, dangerous. In his sanitized world, Paul was known by his first name, “Paul” or sometimes Rubio, or just plain, “Hey.” His was a bright world filled with light and promise. Freddie’s was a dark world filled with pain and forced humor.

     Paul hadn’t planned on waiting for Freddie. He was only going to drop him off and split. The Cozy Courts gave Paul the willies, a reminder, like in war, that tragedy could strike anywhere and at any time. Instead, he told his older cousin, “Yeah, sure, Fred, but make it fast.”

     After five long minutes, Paul began tapping the polished wood steering wheel with his fingers, nervously. He didn’t know why, but he had his eye out for cop cars, and undercover sedans, that cruised the streets around the Cozy Courts regularly. Paul didn’t remember having that kind of anxiety before the war, but, really, he didn’t completely remember everything, anyway. 

     He’d buried so much. His dad, a hard-worker and good family man, would go off on benders, sometimes for as long as a month or two, leave work, home, and live out on the streets with the winos. Eventually, when he had enough, he’d come home, or they’d drag him back, dry him out, clean him up, and he’d slip back into his solid middle-class life as if nothing had happened -- until the next time. That had to cause some type of anxiety in a kid.

     Fifteen minutes, and just as Paul started up his engine to leave, Freddie returned, not smiling, like usual but not appearing to be worried about anything. He apologized and jumped into the car. Paul said, “I was just about to leave. I thought something happened.” Freddie looked at him, even showing compassion, “Ah, Primo, how you going to be like that? I told you I’d be right back. I couldn’t just take the money and leave. I had to visit a bit, show some respect.”

     They drove north on Sawtelle Boulevard, toward the Old Soldier’s Home, past Lonnie’s lunch stand, and past Freddie’s first elementary school, Nora Sterry, where he hadn’t done so well, but he had all his teachers laughing. The truth was that Paul didn’t even like having Freddie in his car, especially if a cop happened to spot them. They all knew Freddie. Paul was even embarrassed his friends might see him.

     He dropped Freddie off in an alley right near Santa Monica Boulevard and Cotner Avenue, where all the youngsters, decked out in pressed khakis and white t-shirts, hung out. A few of them waved at Paul. He’d known them as kids playing sports at the neighborhood park. Now, a lot of them were on the road to perdition, as they say.

     A few months passed. Paul drove by his other cousin’s house. Johnny was out front watering the lawn. When he spotted Paul’s car, he waved him over. In junior high and high school, Johnny had been one of the girls’ favorites, long, light brown wavy hair and long eyelashes, good looking, and a superb athlete who had gone down the wrong path, hanging out with Freddie and his other cousins.

     Johnny wanted to see how Paul was doing, especially after Vietnam, and all. Johnny’s hair was really long, now, hippy-long, and he had a beard. He was vehemently against the war and all killing, and he had a way of leveling with Paul, getting his trust, almost like a therapist. A year earlier, Johnny, at barely 23, had been released from Norco, a low-level state prison, where he’d served four years for possession, a longer sentence than some hardened criminals. Johnny told Paul, instead of getting bitter, the stay in prison had straightened him out. He was working, starting his own landscaping business, and working on his marriage. He ditched his old friends and wanted to have kids. They made a plan to get together later.

     As he was about to leave, Paul asked Johnny if he’d heard anything about Freddie. He hadn’t seen him in a while. Johnny looked surprised, “You didn’t hear. He got busted for a job he pulled a couple of months ago. He’s going back up north,” a euphemism, Paul knew, for state prison.

      “No, I didn’t hear anything.”

     Johnny told Paul how Freddie had broken into someone’s home at the Cozy Courts, taken money, jewelry, and some other stuff. As Johnny talked and described what he’d heard, Paul was convinced it had been the same day he’d given Freddie a ride. Then the “what if’s” started, like what if Freddie had been caught while Paul was waiting in the car? What if the cops had come by and talked to Paul just as Freddie was approaching the car? What if Paul had been implicated, accused of being Freddie’s driver? What if Paul had gone to court and been convicted of theft, or, at the very least, an accomplice to a crime?

     Today, as a grandfather, a retired high school principal and administrator, Paul often drives by the area where the Cozy Courts were located, now a maze of high-rise office buildings, private industrial firms, restaurants, and a shopping center. The traffic is bumper to bumper. New cars, BMW’s, Volvo’s, and Mercedes zip up and down Olympic Boulevard, all the old neighborhoods gone or completely changed.  

     Sometimes, he even parks at the corner of Tennessee and Sawtelle. He steps down from his car and buys fruit from a Mexican fruit vendor outside Best Buy, but, really, he just wants to feel the earth beneath his feet, to help remind him that, one time, what he remembered about his family was real. Now, all that has changed. They’re all gone, making way for another, newer generation.