Van Nuys

When I close my eyes, I picture the city of Van Nuys, not the real Van Nuys, but the Van Nuys in my mind, the Van Nuys I remember from when I was a little child. I don’t see Van Nuys as bright happy-go-lucky place with the sun high in the cloudless sky however; I see it as a city of perpetual night, a nocturnal bliss. The dark streets illuminated only by the pale orange street lamps and the dim flickering light of the various liquor shop and pizza place signs. I hear the crunching of the broken glass underneath my shoes as I walk down the dimly lit, almost completely abandoned streets, the brittle fragments are most likely the debris of yet another car crash, and are usually accompanied by broken hub cabs, pieces of the plastic bumpers, rubber from the tires, splotches of oil staining the road here and there, and the scorch marks on the road or the sidewalk from the road flares the police put up when they were redirecting traffic afterwards. The pungent, acidic smell the vibrant, almost luminous green gasoline filling the air is usually the most noticeable sign of such an incident. The pieces of glass are sometimes evidence of a carjackers handy work, taking off with the car and leaving the bits of broken window behind, the glass fragments a mere reflection of the starts glimmering like white paint flecks against the pitch black canvas of a professional artist, the moon shining among them like a bright light at the end of a stygian tunnel. The absence of the sun in this place of ceaseless nocturne chills the stagnant air and gives this seemingly unfriendly city the cozy feeling of being in my living room at home. I can hear the sirens of the ambulance, police or fire trucks outside my window. Their loud wailing growing more and more distant as they wiz down the street, most likely weaving in and out of traffic as they go. I can hear the gentle spray of aerosol cans as nameless hoodlums spray graffiti all over the walls in the alleyway. I can smell the faint mossy fragrance of Balboa Lake in the distance, and see how the pale moon light glitters along the surface of the dark, still water of the lake. I can hear the trickling of the water falling off of the feathers of the ducks that hoped onto the shore to eat the food crumbs leftover from one of the many picnics held by happy parents and their children earlier that day or perhaps by people who just came to the park to hang out with their friends. I can hear the soft “crack” of the golfers at Woodley golf course practicing their Tee off under the loud buzzing sound of the lights illuminating the golf course. I hear the helicopters landing and planes taking off from the airport right across the street. Most people believe these things to be distasteful most people would look upon this city with disgust and disrespect. When asked to go to there happy place, this would be one of the last places someone would think of, but I like this place better than anywhere else.