Dandelion Girl

West 7th street stretched off Hoover, a block north of where the Stratford Hotel held court over the Koreatown neighborhood, right before the Winchell’s, which anchored the shopping plaza on the corner and welcomed motorists and pedestrians alike to Heidi’s Los Angeles ‘ville, a canvas of black asphalt, faded green and blue buildings, and worn red, yellow, and orange tarps over decrepit tents baking in the harsh sun as a single cloud hovered overhead, mocking the glare with it’s promise of paltry shade.

Heidi sighed while waiting for an opportunity to turn left onto 7th, and after she could turn, she began a quest for parking space. She rolled down the street, dividing her attention between driving and the cars parked along the side, hoping to find an open spot.

A gap appeared about 100 feet ahead, but it was a driveway. She continued on at a tepid pace when a Tesla Cybertruck bleated it’s objection to her slow rate of speed. Fed up, the driver gunned it around and past her.

“Oh fuck off, you stupid cunt!” Heidi screamed through her windshield while flipping off the bro behind the wheel when she saw a Prius pulling out going the other way.

She zoomed over to a parking lot entrance, turned around, and raced to the space when she saw an SUV backing into her spot.

“Fuck me!” she said, pounding the wheel.

Her search continued.

Then, about 100 feet ahead, she saw a spot she might just be able to squeeze into.

Her parking job left about an inch between her Honda and the two vehicles on either side and just down from her building.

Proud of herself, she exited the car, locking the doors with a chirp behind her. Inhaling the aroma of a taco truck parked outside the Winchells, she meandered towards her building, her boots clapping on the sidewalk as she noted the “Cali 93.9” billboard hovering over her home like a vulture.

She was 27 years old, living on the edge of the world, teetering on the brink of oblivion.

She was a woman of the city of Angels, her weary face etched by reckless, glorious hedonism and a paycheck-to-paycheck existence. Her dark hair was bleached, her nose had a ring, and her left brow had two studs. She wore a powder blue half-shirt, black shorts, and black combat boots.

She laughed and shook her head when she saw her reflection in the window of a van parked on the street, remembering her mother’s admonishments against “outfits men might find provocative.”

Her eyes were haunted, betraying a fear that gnawed at her soul every day.

She continued toward her building, pulled the wrought iron gate open, stepped in, and pulled it closed before walking up the concrete front yard to the stairs. Her feet clapped hard on the wooden steps until she reached her apartment on the right-hand side. She opened the door, walked in, tossed her keys into the small purple wicker basket on the stand by the door, ambled to the couch in the living room, and plopped down.

She rested her eyes as a highlight reel from her day of driving played for about 30 seconds before she sat up and untied one of her boots and then the other. They flew end over end across the living room when she kicked them off, crashing hard on the floor.

She took a moment and then leaned forward with her head in her hands.

Fear washed over her, a wave of despair threatening to drown her.

She feared being forgotten, like an individual seed from a dandelion.

She had spent her recent years on the run, trying to divorce herself from family, friends, and herself, but her self always managed to find her.

She had fled a home life of abuse and turmoil in Sacramento and fled south one day to Los Angeles because it was there. She had a few hundred dollars in her pocket.

She had spent five years in this large, isolating place, a city by the sea on the edge of nowhere.

She never made a name for herself.

She never did anything noteworthy.

She did embark on a life of boozy sexual adventures and would then write about them.

But she was just Heidi, a woman who worked delivering pizzas, as a rideshare driver, and taking care of people’s pets while they were out of town. She also had written more than 100 rejected stories about her day-to-day experiences. She drank alone at Ron & Don’s on Western, thankful for Brian, the barkeep who kept questionable men from hitting on her, like the man who raped her during her short time at Cal Berkeley.

She had had relationships - a guy named Todd from Silverlake with whom she went around for a while before parting ways on good terms, and a woman named Melanie who stole her heart, and then pawned it.

Marriage was out of the question. So were children, especially in this present climate of fear, loathing, corruption, and a planet frying to a crisp.

She had some friends from her various jobs, but she kept to herself.

She fed herself.

She taught herself.

She entertained herself.

She didn’t want or need anyone else.

Yes, she did.

A lot.

She needed Melanie.

A lot.

She missed Melanie.

A lot.

She missed the sweet text messages Mel would surprise her with at random times of the day, her sweet kisses, her touch, her tongue on her earlobe, until Melanie denied making any promises to her and condemned Heidi for being “too possessive.”

Melanie was gone, happy with her current guy pal Brian and the crew of exes she kept warming up in the bullpen just in case Brian ditched her - again.

And Heidi was alone.

And nearly broke.

If she were to die in this moment, would anyone know she was gone?

Would days pass before her body was discovered?

Weeks?

Her father was in prison after killing a family in a drunken crash.

Her mother burned the candle at both ends in the aftermath, and the only question about her was the size of the candle.

Her mother also judged her and her brother a lot.

She had been through plenty.

She was overextended.

She couldn’t be a parent.

Drugs like Lexapro kept her steady when she took them.

So Heidi had no one.

She had had Melanie, but Melanie had moved on and was with Brian now.

She said so.

Heidi often called her, desperate to revive the powerful connection she thought they shared.

But Melanie had entered Earth Two, a realm of alternative facts where she had never promised Heidi any emotional commitment, therefore Heidi’s pain wasn’t her problem.

As she sat on the couch after another day of $2.73 McDonald’s runs for Uber Eats and people either smoking pot in the back seat without asking or bitching about the route she was taking to get them to their root canal appointment, she wondered first how in the world she would be able to pay even 1/4 of her rent, and second, whether her existence mattered.

In this moment, the thought terrified her, making her blood pressure spike.

She looked out the window at two Korean guys in USC hoodies walking past her building and turning into the Winchell's and she felt like a single grain of sand.

She longed to leave her mark on the world with her writing, to do something that would make people remember her.

Know her.

Appreciate her.

She could paper her walls with her rejection letters.

Even the ones handwritten on the back of a Larry Elder for Governor fundraising letter.

No one knew her talent.

No one knew her life.

No one knew her.

She stood up and walked around the apartment, scritching her black cat on the head as she passed him, her lone companion.

The interior was dark and dusty - she kept the blinds open as much as possible to avoid using lights, and dust gathered everywhere despite her best efforts.

“LA life,” she’d mutter to herself.

The air smelled of wet garbage, cat litter, and unwashed dishes in the sink.

She went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water.

Her hand was shaking as she gulped it down.

The thirst in her throat was quenched for now.

She walked around the apartment some more, her footsteps echoing in the empty space.

She thought of her mom.

Her brother.

All her friends in high school.

All the people who thought she was the “good girl” because of her modest dress and behavior.

She cackled.

She longed for those days when she was surrounded by family and friends and felt connected to something larger than herself, even if a lot of bad stuff was happening, too.

Now, she was alone.

Fading away.

Disappearing.

No.

NO!

She had to do something - anything - to keep from being forgotten!

She went to her desk, sat down, opened the drawer, and pulled out a piece of paper and a ballpoint pen.

She started writing like always, but this time, a torrent of words flowed from her pen. She wrote about her life, fears, hopes, and dreams. She wrote about the city, the state, the people she knew, her cat. She wrote about everything and nothing.

She wrote for hours until the sun set and the room was dark. She didn't stop until she had filled entire pages, her hand cramping and her eyes tired. She read over what she had written and was satisfied.

She had done it.

She had captured her thoughts and feelings, her essence, on paper. This was different from her stories because while she drew heavily on her life in her work, she was writing about herself this time. She had created something that would outlast her and remind people of her existence. She was no longer afraid of being forgotten.

She went to a FedEx copy place, made copies of her writing for her mother and brother, and bought two envelopes.

She folded the papers and put them in the envelopes, addressing one to her brother and the other to her mom. On the back of each envelope, she wrote a short note asking her brother and mother to keep the letter safe and remember her.

This would be the first time she had contacted either in years.

She went outside to the Post Office on Wilshire and dropped the letters in the mailbox. When she heard them hit the bottom, she gently touched the top of the mailbox and patted it three times.

She stood there for a moment, taking in the lights from the street and cars going by.

She took a deep breath.

The air was clean.

She was calm.

She smiled.

She walked back to her building, her steps lighter now, her heart filled with hope.