My Cousin's House

By David Udoff

The story portrays a generation of young adults coping with the changing economic times. A victim of the Great Recession, Steve, a thirty-two year old is at loose ends after losing his administrative job at a large bank in downtown Los Angeles.
Frustrated with the job hunt, Steve gets an unexpected call from his cousin Michael and wife Lori who invite him to visit South Florida where the opportunities might prove more rewarding. Leaving his fiancée Allison back in California, Steve embarks on a cross country trip where he meets interesting characters, visits cities and towns, and he partakes of the regional cuisine.
Arriving at his cousin’s house, he is invited to join Michael’s rock n’ roll band where they perform at various gigs in Castaway Beach, a sizzling popular destination. Steve enjoys the tropical beach atmosphere and his dalliance with Rosetta, a sultry bombshell. The interlude is short lived when his fiancée decides to visit with some very exiting news that promises to give new meaning to the American Dream.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Udoff
• Release date: Jan 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310265037

David Udoff

As society columnist for the Forum Publishing Group, David Udoff has written his first novel with insight and passion. Raised in Southern California, he relocated to South Florida where he graduated with a Bachelor of Fine Arts from Florida International University. Now single, he enjoys writing, creating artwork, and playing the guitar.

Book preview

My Cousin’s House

Summary

The story portrays a generation of young adults coping with the changing economic times. A victim of the Great Recession, Steve, a disillusioned thirty-two year old is at loose ends after losing his administrative job at a large bank in downtown Los Angeles.

Frustrated with the job hunt, Steve gets an unexpected call from his cousin Michael and wife Lori who invite him to visit South Florida where the opportunities might prove more rewarding. Leaving his fiancée Allison back in California, Steve embarks on a cross country trip where he meets interesting characters and partakes of gastronomical pleasures.

Arriving at his cousin’s house, he is invited to join Michael’s rock n’ roll band where they perform at various gigs in Castaway Beach, a sizzling popular destination. Steve enjoys the tropical beach atmosphere and his dalliance with Rosetta, a sultry bombshell. The interlude is short lived when his fiancée decides to visit with some very exiting news that promises to give new meaning to the American Dream.

Biography

As society columnist for the Forum Publishing Group, David Udoff has written his first novel with insight and passion. Raised in Southern California, he relocated to South Florida where he graduated with a Bachelor of Fine Arts. Now single, he enjoys creating artwork and songwriting.

MY COUSIN’S HOUSE

By

David Udoff

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

David Udoff on Smashwords

My Cousin’s House

Copyright © 2014 by David Udoff

All rights reserved

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

This book is dedicated to my mother, Eleanor Udoff, for encouraging me to become a writer.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1. Banker’s Hours

Chapter 2. Sound Town

Chapter 3. A Funny Dream

Chapter 4. Leaving the Valley

Chapter 5. Western States

Chapter 6. Detour

Chapter 7. Deep South

Chapter 8. Sunshine State

Chapter 9. The Tumbling Dice

Chapter 10. Beach Day

Chapter 11. Half Day Charter

Chapter 12. Getting Around

Chapter 13. Ambience

Chapter 14. Allison’s Visit

Chapter 15. Business Plan

Chapter 16. Grand Opening

Chapter 1

Banker’s Hours

I’m sitting at the Cupboard Restaurant in Los Angeles, a working class eatery, more than an hour driving time from my house in Sherman Oaks in The Valley. The waiter in his fifties with a mole on his chin asks me, So, bub, what da ya want?

Looking at the menu, I say, I’ll try the western omelet, home fries and wheat toast with no butter,

Do you want any cheese on it?

What, the toast?

No sir, the omelet.

Thought western omelets come with cheese.

They don’t, but what you want is an eastern omelet, and we don’t have them on the menu.

All right, I’ll have the western with extra green peppers.

The waiter laughs to himself and walks away with a tilt of his nose towards the swinging doors to the kitchen and cluster of busy staff.

Well, that’s an attitude for you, I thought. The waiter looks as if he must have served time in the LA County Jail; the Cupboard often gives former cons a break when they’re on the outside again so they can get their lives started. Near the large stainless steel coffee machine, another waiter combs back his brown hair and parts it to one side. My waiter brings coffee and rushes away. The milk creates a spiral pattern in the coffee as I stir, and for a few seconds, I contemplate it poetically.

It’s unusual to be downtown. Just a few months ago, I was gainfully employed at Pacific Bank and had a real job to go to every day. It was not the most glamorous one, very standard, but it was a steady job amidst the 2008 economic meltdown when individuals were losing their jobs left and right, family homes in foreclosure and the stock market crashed causing panic.

I’m thirty-two years old, firm physique, good looking with brown hair, unemployed, depressed and sitting here at my favorite restaurant where my co-workers and I used to have lunch together. It would be awkward if I ran into them since I haven’t shaved lately and I would have to explain what I’ve been doing with my time.

I majored in business administration at UCLA, landed my first decent paying job at Pacific Bank right from college and was there for six years. I was punctual and my co-workers liked me, especially the women. During the work week, I would drive my blue Honda Accord on the freeway to downtown, and at the end of the day, return to the San Fernando Valley as the sun set through the smoggy atmosphere. I thought my job and the routine commute downtown would last forever. Working at the financial institution was all right because I was making a good salary and was able to pay my rent on time, utilities, bills, and had some extra money for my girlfriend, Allison, on the weekends. Fifteen percent of my paycheck each month went into my savings account, and I owned a 401-K retirement saving plan. Life was sure good.

Then I had one of those days where I regrettably raised my voice and yelled, ‘screw the bank’ to my blond hair hefty butt supervisor, evidently rattling her nerves. My outburst could be attributed to my frustration with the job often a routine where I felt I was just an employee in a vastness of other suits working in cubicles as a pencil pusher. Another factor, one week before, I asked my supervisor for a raise and became disheartened when I did not receive one; subsequently, my anger fueled my hostility towards the company and her. It did not take much to set me off.

She probably could care less about my frustrations and responded in a firm tone, Fine, Steve, but be sure to report to me tomorrow. She followed the company’s rules for profanity in the workplace, and I was let go. So there goes my so-called lucrative banking career for now. Nevertheless, I have another career goal, performing music and am optimistic I can make it with the right musicians performing my original rock n’ roll songs. So I’ll have something to fall back on - - my music and songwriting ambitions.

My waiter places two stainless steel bowls of unpeeled carrots and celery stalks on the table – he must think I’m a rabbit, and a slab of sourdough bread with a rough cutting board and knife. My girlfriend, Allison Klein, likes their chef salad. We have been dating for two years. She is an assistant manager of a women’s clothing store called Fox’s Boutique on Ventura Boulevard in Sherman Oaks; in addition, she is an aspiring actress. What else is new in the City of Angels? Allison comes from a well-to-do family; her dad is a doctor, lives in Encino.

Her parents hinted two good Jewish kids should be married. I felt ambivalent about the husband role, having children. I would rather we just live together. Dr. Klein felt I had a strong work ethic by having a secure job at the bank. Wonder what he thinks now: future son-in-law fired after six years on the job. Lately, Allison has started to act disappointed with me since my unemployment even though we have continued dating and having sex.

The waiter comes over to my table with my appetizing omelet.

His black vest is opened, and he looks unkempt. The white shirt he wears is coming unbuttoned from the top, and his grey chest hairs are visible. Ketchup, orange juice, and coffee smear his shirt; they blend together, and resemble an action painting by Jackson Pollack.

Would you like some more coffee?

Okay.

Is there anything else sir?

Do you have any Tabasco sauce?

I’ll get some.

My omelet is delicious. I really enjoy the Cupboard every time I’m downtown; it’s very friendly here, I tell the waiter when he returns with the sauce.

Yes, sir, it’s the reason we’re so popular.

It is 11:00 a.m., and I devour my breakfast in twenty-five minutes and savorily read the menu the waiter neglected to remove. I become cognizant of the other patrons and imagine they are looking at me saying, ‘I’ve seen him before having his leisurely breakfast, must be an actor.’ It is daunting being unemployed and pretending to be one of the haves leading a millionaire movie star’s life.

Although collecting unemployment benefits, I manage to keep a busy yet frugal life. A motif of my previous days included a cup of Joe and stimulating conversations at Bohemian Café and a visit to the LA County Museum of Art to view the current pop art exhibit. Both activities set me back $30.00, including gas for my car. My daily freewheeling journey is enlightening and allows me the pleasure of reading books I check out from the library near my bungalow in Sherman Oaks. The pallid nervous male librarian, with thinning black hair, is helpful in a surreptitious way. Afternoon matinees are another way to fritter my time away in The Valley.

Leaving the Cupboard Restaurant, intuitively I know I’ll be there again the following week and anticipate a job interview downtown to make the drive worthwhile. Needless to say, spinning my wheels in LA after being unemployed five months is affecting my mental health. I need some medicinal herbs, and out of sheer necessity of survival, I might have to borrow money from one of my parents when my unemployment benefits run out. Allison will have to understand if we have to skip a few pricey Saturday night dinners and a flick.

It’s becoming indulgent to make the nearly forty mile commute from The Valley just to go downtown LA for breakfast; therefore, wanting to become more productive and focused on my life, I made an appointment to speak with a rabbi from the neighborhood temple about my unemployment situation, and my future with Allison. It was more spiritual being in the rabbi’s office with a wall of religious books and venerated ceremony articles. It was cost effective than meeting with a psychologist who would have me spilling out my guts once or twice a week and if I required depression medication, I’d have to go see a physician. Where would the money come from? During one of our talks, the rabbi shed light on my problem. It’s a sin to waste one’s time, Steve, the rabbi said.

I genuinely agreed.

I’m in my blue Honda Accord driving to the San Fernando Valley on the Golden State Freeway.

Typically, I would take the Ventura Freeway; however, I have an errand to run in Burbank today.

For several miles the freeway follows an enormous cement wash. Ironically, it is also known as the Los Angeles River and is not much of a river with an occasional rivulet added by run-off water from the streets by lawn sprinklers and rain. When it rains cats and dogs, the wash can become a swollen torrent and dangerous.

It’s difficult not to obsess about the bank. Perhaps, my lack of managerial or technology skills did not allow me to advance on the job and climb the corporate ladder of success. Letting my jumbled thoughts get the better of me, I slam my right hand on my car’s console box and scream, Those bastards! My supervisor said she pitched for me saying I was a hard worker and always punctual. After I was let go, I asked for a letter of recommendation, and she obliged whatever it might be worth, but there is no use looking back and regretting what happened. I’ve got to get out of LA; maybe Allison will come with me, and we can make our big plans, get married, and relocate to environmentally conscious Portland, Oregon and start a farm.

Making a turn around the dusty bare hill with choking pine trees near Griffith Park, I merge onto the Ventura Freeway where I drive past beautiful downtown Burbank and into the sprawling Valley of nearly two million residents. Traffic is typically heavy, and commuters don’t think in terms of miles per hours but in time. As my back starts to stiffen, I twist to one side to relieve the muscle tension, my face is sweaty and my hand reaches for a red bandana in my Levis pants front pocket. The Immigrant song by Led Zeppelin plays on the radio.

I exit the Ventura Freeway and approach a bumpy intersection choked with traffic, and later maneuver onto the grid of surface streets. My house is two blocks south of the famous Ventura Boulevard, a favorite mecca for shopping, where many charming boutique stores are located. The Santa Monica Mountains run east to west, unusual for mountain ranges, and parallels the charming class boulevard for approximately twenty-five miles, where many well-to-do residents live in the exclusive pricey hills.

Renting a nice backyard guest house from a retired couple from Sweden was entirely fortuitous. I swing open the door and step inside; my thoughts are on Allison and the enjoyable sex we had last weekend. The rent for my one bedroom and bath is reasonable considering the affluent location; it includes access to the backyard with a flower garden and a large sycamore tree that provides shade on a wood deck with a chaise lounge. A few terracotta pots filled with succulents’ line the patio, along with an overgrown jade plant. It is a very good place to live in Sherman Oaks, with friendly neighbors who garden and say hi there.

The following day I walk on the main house driveway with its smiling dandelions and weeds growing between cracks in the pavement to pick up the Los Angeles