People live high up in the hills in Los Angeles. For privacy, for the land, for the views. There are zero street lamps, and except at Christmas, houses are shrouded in shadows. If you’re driving, the only way you know you’re possibly going the right way is when your car maneuvers over the dead bodies of the people who got lost and tried to hoof it to safety. Or if your Sherpa has stopped crying.
I have no idea why people love the darkest streets possible. Maybe it’s good practice for if you ever go blind. It’s all straight-up mountains and winds around a thousand curves which means you have to yield to other cars, all of which are driven by blindfolded people who are texting. I’ve Mapquested my friend’s house thousands of times, and it always comes up with these directions: Hope you’re not a fan of Stephen King.
One night I attempted to get to her home to take care of her cats while she went on vacation. Hopelessly lost, I had to stop and ask for help. People opened their doors holding shotguns and a martini. I was more scared than they were because in case anything goes wrong, you have to throw yourself off a cliff to avoid capture. Good luck finding a cliff in the dark. Oh, you’ll find one, just not on purpose.
I finally found her house. It was lovely, the back patio doors wide open, the windows the same, she claimed to let in air. At night. While sleeping. No news report begins with, “Murdered woman killed by a person surrounded by air and blood. The suspect is quoted as saying, “It’s like they were asking to die.”
“How do these doors lock?”
“You want to lock the doors?”
“I’ve seen enough Datelines, thank you and like Susan Hayward in the 1958 film noir, I want to live.”
My friend rolled her eyes.
“I’ve lived here for ten years; no one has ever broken in.”
That’s exactly what you tell someone when you’re desperate to find a cat sitter for your dark, scary house on the hill. The first night I heard creaking doors and windows being pushed open. By 5 a.m. I was exhausted and finally fell asleep. Fifteen minutes later a hairy arm covered my mouth, and I couldn’t remember whether I had ever made out a will. Who is going to call 9-1-1? Who is going to Mapquest this place for the EMTs? If I have a heart attack by the time the paramedics get to me, my funeral will already have taken place.
I sat up in bed, prepared to do battle with…
the cat.
