It is not nostalgic nor evocative nor comforting nor escapist. It is just a smell. It is its own thing and I like it for what it is - without your judgment or need to explain it to or for me.
The time some waiter told me that he liked the smell of Gasoline, was the first time I realised that folks out there like some fucked-up smells. Gasoline? The smell that rises up off those few drop that drip out when you pull the nozzle back out of the tank at the gas station? That smell? Really? Why?
Because he did. Because I like Bleach. Because her neighbor likes a reed diffuser set (do you know what that is?) that pushes out a sickly sweet and thick odor, that can only be described as: a plastic cup of coconut bubble tea sweetened with a kilo each of icing sugar, sweet & low and stevia, so that it's almost glowing.
Because your Mum likes the smell of the ink and paper in the glossy magazines at her divorce lawyer's reception. That smell is also there at her personal trainer's, her realtor's and her osteopath's. Because his boyfriend likes the smell of nail polish remover. Because they said they like smell of wet dirt.
Because you like what you like. Whatever weird smell you like. You goddamn, fucking weirdo.
I once lived on the corner of Melrose and Vine in Hollywood. Not exactly on the corner. There's a supermarket there and behind that is an ancient studio lot. I lived across from that. The lot once belonged Lucille Ball. At that time, she was the first woman to run a major Hollywood studio and her company, Desilu, made some pretty important television shows. Shows that changed the way television shows got made forever. Many years after her time, they made Sienfeld on that same lot.
Hollywood is like that. You can turn down a thin side street like Lillian Way and be unaware of the dense history all around you, as you stare down at the screen on your phone. Maybe it isn't important. That history. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe your swiping on Tinder as you walk is more important. It probably is. I just think you should know. Know the history and if you choose to disconnect from it, that's fine. Ignore it if you wish. But you should know and then make the choice, rather than start off with no idea and finish with no choice. Ideas and choices are probably all we have left of Liberty.
I had a Bachelor Apartment. In Australia or England they'd call it a 'Studio Apartment'. But in that neighborhood, 'Studio' meant those giant, concrete sound-stages like the ones across the street. So, a 'Bachelor Apartment' it was.
As is my way, I filled the small space with even less furniture. It makes it easier to leave and it makes it easier to sleep and it makes it easier to keep clean. There isn't much to get rid of before heading for the airport and there isn't much to distract me in the dawn and there isn't much to line up and polish.
On top of all the regular cleaning, I'd mop the laminate flooring every day. It was so easy. The lack of furniture left it a small and clear space and the whole process took me about as long as it takes you to wash and dry six water glasses. It seemed silly not to do something so practical that was so easy. All of that meant that often my Bachelor Apartment would be adorned with the faint Bleach smell I like so much.
The little block of apartments was owned by a Greek guy in his late 60's who lived down in San Diego. His twin brother lived in one of the apartments and maintained the property and gardens around it. He also showed prospective tenants through when one of the apartments became empty and available and collected the rent money off us every month. He was the one who informed me that my apartment was a Bachelor Apartment.
His left eyeball was missing and the eyelid was sown shut. I don't know what happened to him to cause all this. There is no real proper way to ever inquire about such things and so I just left it to mystery. He always wore at least one piece of clothing that was emerald green and would dress in many thick, warm layers, regardless of how hot or cold the weather was.
He lived like one of those compulsive hoarders you see on TV from time to time. I'd go to his apartment to drop off the rent and he'd open the door a crack - just enough for me to pass through the cash. But I could still see in and beyond where he stood. There was piles and piles of newspapers stacked 6 feet high. That much I remember clearly now. I can't remember what else I saw, but whatever it was it was enough to convince me even now - with so much time, memory and distance passed - that he was a hoarder.
On a late winter afternoon, as I went about my mopping routine, Ol' One Eye sauntered past. I had my door wide open, as the sun was shinning clear and warm as it mingled with a light and inconsistent, sweet smelling breeze blowing in off some sandy beach to the west. There are days in Southern California when you wonder why they even bother with labeling seasons. Must be that they just love labeling stuff over there.
He leaned his large, square head inside my Bachelor Apartment and just started talking. No greeting or salutation. Just:
"You know, they wrote Casablanca in here."
Interrupted from my concentration on the lines and streaks on the floor, I looked up a little jolted.
"What?"
"Casablanca. The movie? Do you know that one?"
"Yeah. Of course. Great movie."
"It is. So they wrote it in this apartment."
I smiled that polite smile you send someone when you're unsure what they are saying is true, but you don't wanna come across as doing something as strong as accusing them of being a liar. I think you know the smile I speak of...
"Really? They wrote Casablanca in here?"
"Yeah. This apartment block was was built by an old movie studio. It was a place to house writers and actors whilst they worked on movies in the neighborhood. So the guys who wrote Casablanca lived here and wrote the movie in here - in this apartment and the one next to you. They were twins. Like me and my brother..."
His voice trailed off and got softer and he disappeared. I stood there, still leaning on my mop and staring at the open doorway, taking in what he had just told me. There was a small, white, terracotta water-fountain in the garden and the sound of thick, dribbling water blew in as the breeze whipped up again. There was also the sounds of chirping birds and of a large truck pulling away from the studio lot across the street. I looked around my Bachelor Apartment trying to take in its history.
And then I smelled the Bleach.
