When I was 18, my boyfriend at the time called me and told me to come outside. He was parked in his rusty old car—I saw it idling through my bedroom window. I lived with my parents, fresh out of high school. It was a blazingly hot LA morning, 95 degrees at 7 AM. I obliged, and stood barefoot in my parents driveway while he told me he had slept with someone else the night before. I remember gravel sharp in my foot as I shifted nervously from side to side. A bead of sweat slid down my back under my huge t-shirt.  I focused my eyes behind him, on a lizard darting up a brick wall. When we were done talking, I went back inside and cried. 

I think of this moment as my husband and I drive the empty streets of LA. I tell him about it, “what a dick!” he laughs. I laugh too.

It is 13 years later, May 2020. The world is quiet. We are tucked into our homes, sheltered in place, quarantined, self isolating. I hate these phrases. I’m tired of them. They sting me.

We are roaming through LA for my husband’s new project—isolation portraits. Documentary style photography of people in Los Angeles as they exist currently, from at least six feet away, through windows, perched on low crumbling walls, standing in front yards. 

I’ve tagged along for most of them—and so has our baby, Wolfe. We pile into our van and make big swinging left turns onto empty streets. It feels so surreal. 

The interactions have all gone about the same—I’ll send the text “we’re here!” We park under big drooping trees. The streets are all so similar. So far, we haven’t ventured too far from our home in Mount Washington.

The streets are all textured in the same way. A scratchy quilt of lived-in family homes, small pastel apartment buildings, remodeled craftsmen (these representing looming gentrification—the New, the Rich) dilapidated sun-bleached homes with old trucks parked on the front lawn. There’s always the smells of someone cooking—meats grilling or peppers and onions snapping in oil on a hot stove somewhere. Ranchero music is booming out of a subwoofer in the distance. Dogs are always barking—big booming German shepherds and yapping white poodle mixes. On every street there’s been a big exploding bougainvillea plant somewhere—peeking out behind a black iron fence or spilling over the sidewalk, almost kissing the cracked and uneven pavement. It’s quintessential Los Angeles—all Joan Didion and ripe avocados and fat bursting blooms.

After we park, we put our masks on. Mine is fashioned out of an old Christian Dior silk scarf my mother gave to me years ago, my husband’s a cut up scrap from an old dress of mine. This masking ritual is holy. It’s what protects us from the Thing, the It, the Germ. I hate wearing it—but I always do.

The baby starts to fuss. The air gets prickly the second the car shuts off, we move quickly and start to sweat. 

This part always goes the same. We hop out, wave. Muffled voices trade back and forth.

“Hi!”

“Hi!”

“It’s been so long!”

“I know! How have you guys been?”

“Hanging in there. You?”

“Same.”

It’s awkward. I think I’m glad for the six feet of distance. Motherhood and the sun have not been kind to my skin. Maybe I look better from far away. 

James shoots. 

“Just natural, guys.”

“Perfect.”

“Beautiful.”

He buzzes around, his soft voice giving gentle direction. 

Then comes my favorite part. We talk. It’s been different at every house. 

At Vinny’s fading yellow house in Frogtown, the wheels of his skateboard loudly click as he rolls up and down homemade ramps. I think of Aladdin on his magic carpet rolling over sandy dunes. 

Alannah is a nurse in the emergency room of a local hospital. It’s her day off. She’s so beautiful. When we arrive, her long brown hair is wet from the shower. Her babies climb all over her. She’s a willow. Her husband Rio is impossibly tall, gentle, kind.

She tells us how some deaths at the hospital have been traded for others—drunk driving accidents have decreased drastically for example. She tells us how decimated local nursing homes have been—one case turning into ten over the course of a single day. She tells us that old people are dying alone in the hospital. My breath catches in my throat. It’s so sad. 

Her six year old climbs their gate, perches. Spider-Man. 

At Staz’s house in Highland Park, a blinding white new build crammed onto a narrow winding road, I introduce myself. I wave. I’ve never met her—she’s a friend of my husband’s, a relic from his days photographing screaming punk bands. She sings in a band, The Paranoyds. The quintessential LA Cool Girl.

Before we leave, “wait!” she says. She grabs an orange picker, reaches up high into a lush tree in her front yard. She carefully carries her bounty to us, dropping big juicy oranges into my husbands hands. We all laugh. I like her, I decide. 

We decide to take a break. We return home, the air cool and still. I nurse the baby into a deep sleep in our bed on cool white sheets and listen to him breathe for a moment. 

We make lunch. Soft scrambled eggs and fresh herbs and goat cheese and bright red tomato served in big turquoise bowls. 

I tuck my feet under me on the couch, rest my head on my husband’s shoulder. 

“Do you think this is ok?”

“What?”

“Doing this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, going out like this.”

“I think it’s fine. We’re being so safe.”

It’s quiet. I’m not sure if either of us believe that. We’re doing our best.

We head back out once the baby wakes up. The sun is higher in the sky now, blazing light. It’s so hot today. 

At Rey and Belen’s, an old brick building towering over Avenue 50, we shout up from the street. They’re perched on a fire escape a few floors up. 

Our conversation is drowned out by passing cars. They’re a wonderful couple, calm and serene. We make dinner plans for when this is all over. The air here smells like honeysuckle. 

“See you in 2024,” I joke as we walk away from their building. A huge truck rumbles by, my words disappear into the noise. No one hears me. 

Sometimes I stay in the car while James shoots. Wolfie and I sit in silence. I’ll feed him snacks, breaking off pieces of biscuit and feeding him with my fingers. We’re both sticky. I love the sounds of him eating. 

I think about my driveway heartbreak, a lifetime ago. In my memory I floated out, received the news, and floated back inside, a hummingbird receiving pollen. 

There’s such a deep intimacy to speaking to someone in their front yard. All these people we’ve seen today, hovering just outside their homes and then retreating back inside. It reminds me of the Haunted Mansion ride at Disneyland, everyone floating around and waving while we bob along in a big tombstone.  I wave back.

I’m so tired now. We’ve been at this for hours. Wolfie is hot and fussy. James soldiers on, a dedicated artist. 

We leave Highland Park and head to Silverlake, winding around the Reservoir. It’s packed. People are running and walking and stopping to chat. They are all so close together. 

“Idiots,” we say at the exact same time. 

We pass The Satellite, formerly Spaceland. I smile. I used to go dancing there. Once my friend dropped a drink on the floor and I kept dancing, vodka sleeping into my shoes. Idiot. 

We stop at Oscar’s. Oscar is my ex boyfriend—the last person I dated before I met my husband. Our relationship was explosive, lots of thick cold IPAs and screaming fights outside of his old apartment on Rowena. We’re friends now. We shout from across the street, asking about each other’s siblings. Wolfe waves his soft fat arms as fast as he can, a windmill. 

Work is good and he’s busier than ever, Oscar tells us. 

I get nervous in the empty seconds after I ask people how work is going. I’m afraid I’m accidentally taking my finger and pressing into a bruise. 

The sun starts to set as we drive into Echo Park. The shadows are long, stretching across Sunset Boulevard. We used to live in Echo Park years ago, before we were married. It’s different now. 

We start to bicker. The baby is crying, loud. This doesn’t feel fun anymore. I open the BofA app to check and see if my unemployment payment has deposited. It hasn’t. Our money situation is tight, teetering on the verge of urgent. 

We stop at a stop sign. I stare at a blooming Jasmine bush. I am overcome with the urge to rip into it with my teeth and tear it apart like a rabid dog. We drive away.

Our last stop is Jeanette, my best friend. We’re more like sisters than anything else. Jeanette is beautiful, floating and ethereal. She’s an artist—a painter. I’m so tired at this point I can hardly see. Jeanette’s face feels like home. 

For her portrait she leans out her second story window, Echo Park’s own Juliet. 

“We got it!” James says.

It’s over. Our last shot. We wave goodbye, buckle in, head home. 

Wolfe falls asleep right as we glide up and over Alessandro Street, running parallel to the 2 Freeway. He fights it—as always—but eventually gives in. 

This whole day has been fucking exhausting. The constant mask on and mask off dance and sanitizing everything and obsessively wiping down everything we come into contact with is rough. It’s also more socializing than I’ve done in months and I feel emotionally drained. 

I make us dinner. Mahi seared in coconut oil, nestled into lettuce cups and topped with avocado and kraut. Before we eat we strip naked, throw our clothes in the wash. We shower together as a family, washing the Los Angeles sun off of our skin. 

These times are hard. 

We fall asleep with the windows open.

Tomorrow is another day.