A Hollywood Apartment, a Small Herd of Pets, and a Season of Legend


“There it was, there it is, the place where during the best time of our lives friendship had its home and happiness its headquarters.”
-Wallace Stegner

I moved to Los Angeles in 1994 to become a famous film star. That will not work out for me, at all, but I did manage to build some superstar friendships.

My college friend, Jennifer, moved to Los Angeles from Denver in 1995 to bunk with me and see what the City of Angels had to offer. We found an apartment in a four-plex in the heart of Hollywood, one block from Hollywood Boulevard and the Capital Records building.

We created a dog run along the perimeter of the building because I had two dogs at the time: Jenny and Jonny. Jennifer also had two dogs: Coalhouse and Bantiff. She also had three cats: Door Stop, Utley, and Tow Truck.

Front to back, left to right: Colehouse Walker, Jenny-the-Dog,
Johnny, Kyla (with Door Stop), Jennifer (with Utley and Tow Truck), and Bantiff

So yes, if you do the math, we were four dogs, three cats, and two women living in a one-bedroom apartment. We made it work.

We were young and clever and did things however we wanted.

The first friends we met there were Paul and David, who lived upstairs in that same fourplex. We called Paul Pablo because he was an airline mechanic with the heart of an artist, and we called David Delta, because he was once in a band called “Delta Tango and the Effervescent Heifers,” which is the most hysterically awesome band name in the history of music. In my opinion.

We four became friends of our own legend.

We ate together, drank together, rode bikes together, hiked together, celebrated insanely awesome birthdays together, traveled together, and generally goofed off together in all our free time. We drank French roast coffee, wine, and martinis. We smoked cigarettes like we would live forever.

Left to right: Delta, Jennifer, Kyla, Pablo

I might arrive home after work on any given night to find Pablo or Delta raiding our fridge and they were welcome to it. Most nights the four of us gathered for drinks and dinner, or drinks and snacks, or drinks. We all drank—the way people do when time feels abundant and consequences theoretical.

I didn’t know then that this kind of friendship has a season. Or maybe I knew and refused to name it.

These thirty years later, Pablo is practically running an airline, married with kids and grandkids; Delta is a musician and real estate speculator who survived and almost unsurvivable bout of brain cancer; and Jennifer married, had two children, divorced, remarried, and has a crop of grandchildren and a well-used passport.

Me? I have Snickerdoodle, a terrific job in a library, and a hot passion for words. It’s not the life I imagined then—but it’s one I recognize as my own.

Delta and Kyla pretending to rescue Pablo, who is pretending to fall down the hill. Photo by Jennifer. Notice Delta’s mullet, Kyla’s leg warmers, and Pablo’s almost butt cheek. This pic will tell you everything you need to know about us.

Did I see back then how perfect we were? Did I appreciate that time, those dear people, deeply enough?

I took those working days and misspent nights—where friendship had its home—deeply into my heart and draw on them when life feels thinner than it should.

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