IT WAS BARELY THREE O’CLOCK when I pulled up to my sublet in Marina del Rey. My new digs—a one-bedroom flat in a noxiously pink adobe complex with a carport underneath—had the distinction of being available, safe, expensive, and utterly forgettable. I’d found the place after a week of examining worse options—hot little boxes with kitchenettes in Mid-Wilshire high-rises, a top-floor Hollywood apartment with a leering landlord named Don who was a locksmith by trade and lived right below. After extracting myself from Don’s sweaty handshake, I drove past my old bungalow and stared at the blooming bougainvillea beside my stoop, waiting for the Ivy League couple to come out. They didn’t, though once I saw a shadow cross the glass. Clearly, they were happy inside. Silver Lake and Echo Park were total busts for me; every time I made an offer, I was beat out the same day by a trust funder with freshly inked arms and their dad’s cash.

So I started scouring farther on the West Side, into the boring grids and bland, agreeable, beach-adjacent wealth scorned by many of my Rocque friends. The sea layer cooled the heat the closer I got to the Pacific, and my temporary home’s location on the rim of Venice’s posh single-family homes meant that there was only a wall and a gate surrounding the property, and not bars on the windows. At night, I could hear someone’s kid practicing trumpet. It reminded me that once, a long time ago, I’d lived among families.

When I got out of my car, I tasted dust and the flat, stale air of a city that needed a storm to freshen it. No rain for months. Even the West Side was slowly baking to dusty, pastel kindling. A week ago, the smog was so thick downtown that the morning light had turned as orange-gold as evening, and when I’d strolled up the steps to the museum at nine, I’d had the odd feeling that the day was done and I ought to be heading home. Today was the opposite. I was home already, and I wished I was still at work. The afternoon had left me jittery and I didn’t want quiet and isolation, but here I was.

The olive-green suit floated like a wing behind me as I took the stairs to my second-floor flat. The suit cost a whole paycheck and a half. But I would look better than I ever had before in L.A., and I needed that.