In Los Angeles, in a quiet suburban hell, there is a house on Larco Way, nestled into the horseshoe of a canyon. A steep wall of hard dirt rises from the ground in the back where there’s a cement patio, smooth as skin. The front door opens to a set of brick terraces spilling out to the edge of the street. When I arrive, the flora is alien. A grove of giant stalks with oversized leaves borders the lawn along with a set of massive succulents sporting thick, spiked leaves. A bush with yellow flowers conceals the bedroom window, hummingbirds needling their way into the blossoms every morning. A curtain of magenta flowers on the other side doesn’t attract them. Here and there, groups of thick branches grow in odd curves along the ground. A front section of the yard has five rose bushes sitting in round hollows. Every time the roses bloom in full, a bold, enterprising deer comes by and eats them. In the morning, it looks like a massacre, the red petals spread out like blood over the ground. When the roses bloom again, one bush is yellow, another pink, another red and two seem dormant, battered. I smell them all but only the yellow one has a scent and even on the single bush, only certain flowers.
I am living with a man I am trying to love. When his sister comes by to drop off her dogs, a hyper teacup Yorkshire and a King Charles Cavalier with cataracts and a dumb look on his face, she maintains an intense, dour look. She wears black when she drops them off and she is wearing black again when she picks them up. She motions for me to follow her outside where she tells me, “That tree is out of control. This bush...they need to cut it.” She selects a few stalks from the grove. “And here, they need to take these out, they do not look good.” She walks to other side of the yard. “And here, these leaves, they need to be pulled out.” I can tell that some of them are dying, browning along the edges. She draws me around the corner and points to another plant. “Here...these leaves should not be touching the ground. They don’t want to do it because it’s more work. I pay them extra. But they don’t want to do it. More work for them. I will call them and tell them. But you see them, you can tell them too.” She is talking about the gardeners who come twice a month.
“What about this bush?” I ask, pointing to the one with the yellow flowers.
“Yes. It is out of control.”
Two Thursdays go by and they don’t come. Grass starts growing in uneven patches. Weeds sprout up around the roses. Dead leaves populate the terrace along with flyers for expensive houses and shitty pizza. A book of yellow pages gets dropped off. More flyers get stuffed into the wrought iron railing that runs up the length of the steps. When the gardeners finally do come, I go out to meet them. One of them is standing near the fence with a weed whacker thrumming in his hands. He turns it off when I approach him. I ask if someone called about the yard. The man nods. All I can see are his eyes. They are blue. He wears a bandana across his face, with the corner pointing down in a triangle. I point to the bush and say it needs to be cut. He nods. I motion to the tree in the very front and make a sweeping curve with my hand. He nods. I go to the bush with too many leaves. I grab at the air and pull. He nods. I forget to mention the giant stalks or the plant whose leaves are touching the ground. I am nervous. I am suddenly aware of being white. Of being American. Of being educated. Of being unemployed. When he pulls down his bandana, I am shocked to see how good-looking he is. I go back inside and notice that my shirt is see-through. I try on another shirt, one that is also transparent. I put the first one back on. When I look outside again, there are four or five men in the yard, dressed in pants and long-sleeved shirts despite the heat. They don’t look like the other Mexican gardeners. These men don’t have short legs and short torsos. These men don’t have dark skin and dark hair. They are light with blue eyes and good bodies. One is clipping the front bush with abandon when I suddenly remember the hummingbirds. Another is hacking brush with a hatchet. And another has a machete, poised to take stalks out. It is a violent scene, full of sharp edges and swift movements. With their red bandanas covering their faces, their baseball caps pulled down to shield their eyes, they look like bandits. It’s not that I don’t feel safe. But I choose to leave, telling myself it’s the noise. I imagine where they’re from, a dry village in the middle of nowhere, chickens kicking up dust as they pick their way through town. I imagine them making their way across the border in the dead of night, crawling along the ground like lizards. I go to Baskin-Robbins for a strawberry milkshake and, blasting the AC, start driving down a tree-lined street that seems to go on forever, winding its way through the hills. When I turn on the radio, a black man is talking. He is struggling to describe what it feels like to have a terminal degree and be pulled over for no reason, to be questioned. He starts to cry.
“Take your time,” says the DJ.
I turn it off. Driving around in a borrowed BMW, it is so easy to feel you are above and not below.
