Since You've Been Gone

After spending three months in New York, I returned to LA to find things have changed. Three things, principally. First, my bank was bought by a larger bank and nothing is the same. Second, the sales tax in California has jumped to 9.75%. Third, all the trees on one side of a street near my home have vanished.

It took me years of bouncing from one bank to another before I found Washington Mutual. It seems that every time I was happy with a bank, they would be bought by a larger bank and suddenly I would be hit with all kinds of fees I never had to pay before. The new owners would change all the things I liked about my bank and so I would leave to find another. I’ve never liked bullies and don’t enjoy seeing proof that the most successful corporations are, in fact, bullies.

Washington Mutual was a big bank, but felt like a small one. They were friendly. They did not charge me to access my own money. I liked them. Now they are gone, and almost immediately I’ve noticed less costumer friendly policies being instituted. The most interesting change, however, appeared as a red sign. Several red signs, to be exact.

While standing in line at the newly remodeled branch near my house, complete with what appears to be bullet proof glass separating teller from costumer, I noticed a red sign in the window of each vacant station. It read:

I apologize
Next window please

Strange. Why apologize for the window being closed? Why not just say “Window Closed”? Or maybe just the part about using the next window? Even more strange, who is I? Shouldn’t it be we? We apologize, we are sorry for the inconvenience, we’ll be right back?

When I worked as a cashier at the A&P as a teenager, we had a sign that was attached to the counter on an arm which would come down like at a railroad crossing. The sign was a picture of a cash register with a red circle around it and a red diagonal line slashing across like on a road sign. No crossing zone. I loved those closed signs, and when they stopped using them, I took one home to hang on the wall over my bed. I used to dream every night about being at work, and thought perhaps that sign would indicate a “no work while sleeping zone.”

Anyway, it was a clear sign. No ambiguity. Register closed. The customers could figure out the rest. Why does this bank need to apologize to me, and in the first person? Time will tell, but perhaps it already knows it’s about to start screwing me with fees and penalties. “I’m sorry, but I no longer view you as a valuable customer. Can’t say I’ll miss you when you leave to find a smaller and weaker bank, one more suitable for a pauper such as yourself. Have a nice day.”

Standing at the cash register at Big Lots, I was momentarily confused. The wonderful Dearfoam slippers I was buying were marked down from $32 to $12. (They really are incredible. Picture one of those high tech space foam mattresses, in miniature, inside a sheepskin lined suede cloud. As you lift each foot, it puffs back up so that each step is cushioned. Perfect for rainy nights in front of the fireplace. My old slippers were falling apart from wear, and I discarded them before leaving for New York in October.) Why was the cashier asking for thirteen dollars and change? When I looked at the receipt as I left the store, it was the 9.75% which rose off the slip of paper and laughed out loud maniacally, before floating away down Daigon Alley.

All those tea baggers who are up at arms over the income tax have misplaced their ire. Are we to have a VAT and an income tax in the state of California? The income tax laws may be complicated, and may be designed to allow people to take advantage of the system, but they are no more unfair than what amounts to a tithe with every purchase. The guy making several hundred thousand a year (and paying lower income taxes than the average middle class shmoe) does not feel the extra dollar out of ten. It’s the struggling middle class shmoe that feels it. The starving actors who can barely pay their rent. We feel it.

Why not charge every one the same income tax rate, getting rid of the loopholes and deductions, and lower the sales tax? An income tax based on a flat percentage would guarantee that the dollar amount paid would be more for those who have more, and less for those who have less. Pretty simple, no? A sales tax is like a toll which everyone pays, no matter how much more expensive it is to those who are already stretching the dollar just to get by.

When I lived in New Jersey, the sales tax was only three percent, and non existent on clothing. Very smart. People from New York would flock across the Hudson in droves to take advantage of the lower tax, bringing business into the state and helping the economy. What river do I have to cross in LA to do the same?

As I was wading across the ford which was Hazeltine before the rains began this past week, I noticed something strange along one stretch of sidewalk. Something was missing. Some things. Trees. All the beautiful flowering shade trees which lined the street were gone. Now the horrible 1960s apartment complexes were fully exposed. Now the unfortunate occupants of those ugly buildings were robbed of what little privacy and sound insulation they had. Now all the people who parked their cars in the shade of those beautiful flowering trees will be forced to return to their metallic ovens after they have been baking in the merciless sun for hours.

This is something I have noticed happening in my neighborhood since I first moved here. One by one, street after street, the trees are being chopped down. Property values are sure to fall as quickly. Who doesn’t want to live on a tree lined street? Who actually prefers a desolate corridor of cement?

It is something I cannot understand. Trees provide beautification (to quote LadyBird.) They grant the inhabitants of the nearby houses shade, privacy, sound insulation, lower heating costs in the winter and lower cooling costs in the summer. Yet, year after year, I notice more trees vanishing.

One moron at the end of my block removed a row of Cyprus trees which towered over fifty feet tall. Those trees must have been a hundred years old. They were replaced with a white plastic fence. Now I can see the Bloomingdale’s sign from my driveway. Charming. A year later, this short sighted murderer sold his house and moved away, probably to destroy nature someplace else.

While performing at a party in Sherman Oaks, I commented to the homeowner about the spectacular Sherman Oak soaring high above his house. He complained that he wanted to chop it down, but it was protected by law. After glaring at this idiot for a full minute, I smiled politely and walked away, knowing at least one magnificent being was safe from the mindlessness of humans.

Why aren’t all trees protected? Why are people allowed to kill whatever trees they like and then flip their houses, leaving the new owners with a barren canvas, pounding sun and pervasive traffic noise? Maybe M, Night Shyamalan had it right. Maybe the trees should fight back.

Three unpleasant changes made in my absence. Welcome back to LA. I apologize, but screw you.