An Attempt at Exhausting a Neighborhood in Chatsworth, California

An Attempt at Exhausting a Neighborhood in Chatsworth, California David Trinidad (bio) excerpted from a longer work of the same name Comanche Avenue was insulated by four streets: Lassen to the north, Winnetka to the east, Superior to the south, and Oso to the west. From Lassen (going east), you’d turn right on Oso, then take a left at the first street, Labrador, from which you’d make a right, before it ended in a cul-de-sac, onto Comanche. Ours was the third house on the right. The address (9773) stenciled in black spray paint on the curb. The houses all a different pastel shade, like the suburbia scene in Edward Scissorhands. The Lyons (peach) lived closest to Labrador. Then the Silvernails (green). They were the third owners of the house; the Boyers were there originally, followed by the Merandes. Then us (yellow). Then the Goodes (white). Before the Goodes, the Nelsons lived next door. Muriel and my mother were friends; I have a black-and-white photograph of them standing in front of the Nelsons’ house: my mother caught off guard, smiling nervously, hand at her throat; Muriel laughing self-consciously, face turning away. Muriel gave piano lessons to me (briefly; I learned how to play “Long, Long Ago”) and to my best friend Nancy. Nancy remembers Muriel sitting at her upright playing “September Song,” and sobbing. The Nelsons belonged to the John Birch Society. They had a son named Brook. But Muriel longed for a daughter. One Christmas she sewed a whole wardrobe of finely detailed clothes for Nancy’s Barbie doll. The Goodes (from Canada) put in a pool; I spent many summer afternoons playing Marco Polo in it. Next to [End Page 87] them were the Weilands (orange), then the Creamers (pink), Hilzingers (green), DeMarios (Nancy’s family; blue). In 1965, the DeMarios will move to Thousand Oaks and I will be bereft, left to face puberty alone. The Hilzingers will follow them there. They were the only family on the block, other than us, who had a bomb shelter in their backyard. Next to the DeMarios were the Holmes (Vera and Bud, a motorcycle cop), then the Weeds (Edna and Larry), then the house where a girl named Debbie lived, then, on the corner of Superior, a mystery house. We never knew anything about the people who lived there. Three cul-de-sacs branched off of Comanche to the east: Kinzie, Marilla, and Needles. Our house faced Kinzie. The Hoyts (white) lived on the corner to the right. Next were the Tates (green). Then the childless couple (yellow) who worked for the studios; his name was Hank. My brother, Ross, did yardwork for them, looked after their house when they went on vacation. They had a swimming pool. And a sign that said, “We don’t swim in your toilet, please don’t pee in our pool.” Then the Mays. Then, at the end of the cul- de- sac, to the right, the house where Nancy’s cousin Betsy lived for a while. Across the street from the Mays were the Henzes. They had three daughters. I tried to date one of them (Debbie? Vicki?) when I was twelve. (One of the few times I attempted to pass as straight.) Vicki or Debbie broke up with me right before our family left for two weeks in Miami (to visit relatives). I remember that “Help Me, Rhonda” by The Beach Boys was a hit that summer. The Morans lived on the corner of Comanche and Marilla. Same model as our house, with decorative iron trellis around the front porch. One day their daughter Linda (who years later will marry my brother) showed me her Barbie collection. Opened the black vinyl wardrobe case to such splendor—she owned every outfit, every accessory—it would haunt my imagination forevermore. From behind white curtains, Linda’s mother, Priscilla, kept an eye on everything that went on outside. Roland, Linda’s father, was a machinist. After he was injured in [End Page 88] an accident at work, he spent a lot of time in their garage, drinking. On the corner opposite the Morans were the LeRouxs. I knew...

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