Menagerie in Koreatown

My Los Angeles neighbors and their pets

“Don’t people die in those?” someone said from the hallway.

It was Arlene, the building manager — small, severely hunched, dark sunglasses, purplish-red hair, and a floppy yellow mutt yanking on her arm.

“I hope not,” I said.

“I saw something on the news that people get trapped in those and die.”

Arlene was referring to the Murphy bed I was installing. I only had 250 square feet to work with in the unit I had just moved into, and my goal was for it to function as a bedroom, living room, and video editing suite, hence the Murphy bed.

“You’re not supposed to mount stuff to the wall like that,” Arlene said. “But I won’t say anything.”

Arlene occupied a peculiar spot in the building's hierarchy. Technically, she was in charge, but she hated the management company that owned dozens of buildings across Los Angeles. She often defied them, covering for us when we were late on rent and even advocating for tenants in disputes with the owners.

My apartment in Koreatown, Los Angeles

A few weeks earlier, I had moved to LA to pursue a filmmaking career. I found the building on Craigslist — a two-story, Spanish Revival, 16-unit complex near the northern edge of Koreatown. It was full of character — both in its architecture and its tenants.

There was Arlene, of course, who used to rob banks with her husband up and down the West Coast in the 70s. Across the hall lived Travis, an anarchist from St. Louis who moved here for college. Upstairs was Zenaida, who maintained a feral cat colony in the parking lot across the street. Next door was Herb, who worked in politics and would laugh so hard at his TV shows that it kept me up at night.

The building had a strict no-pet policy, which clearly didn’t apply to Arlene or to Herb and his yappy Maltipoo. Zenaida was more discreet. She'd sneak her cats inside after dark. I only knew because I'd hear them chasing each other across my ceiling at night.

One morning, I heard Zenaida arguing with someone upstairs. I went up to poke my head into the hallway, and there she was standing before three police officers in front of her door.

“No, you can’t search my apartment,” she said to the cops. “Do you have a warrant?”

They didn’t.

“Because if you have a problem, you can take it up with a judge,” she said. Zenaida, well-prepared, cited multiple laws detailing how the officers were infringing upon her rights. As she asked them all for their badge numbers, Arlene walked up.

“What’s going on here?” Arlene asked.

“These police officers are harassing me,” Zenaida said as she turned to weep into Arlene’s arms.

“Get the fuck out!” Arlene shouted at the cops, clutching Zenaida into her bosom.

I went back downstairs and outside where Travis and Herb were smoking a cigarette, discussing the scene unfolding inside.

“Zenaida knows she’s not supposed to have pets inside,” Herb said as he took a drag. “Plus those cats she brings in are nasty. Gotta be a health code violation or some shit.”

The cops walked past us as they exited the building.

“Fuck those pigs,” Travis muttered.

As night fell, the building came alive with noise from both ends. Above: Zenaida’s cats, scurrying across the hardwood, meowing, hissing. Through the kitchen wall: Herb’s little dog barking nonstop, which didn’t seem to bother Herb, who cackled right along to The Real Housewives.

One night, when I couldn’t take it anymore, I knocked on Herb’s door. As he opened it, the stench of cigarettes smacked me in the face.

“What’s up, Big Red,” Herb asked me. He never learned my actual name.

Inside the apartment, a California king bed dominated the floor space. Only a tiny corner remained, where a La-Z-Boy recliner was crammed in front of a giant flatscreen TV resting on the floor.

“Hey man,” I said. “I don’t wanna keep you from your shows, but do you mind turning the TV down a little?”

“No problem, man,” he said. “Actually, I got some headphones. I can use those.”

I was pretty taken by Herb’s kind gesture and went back to bed feeling more connected to my neighbor. But while the TV volume did indeed go to zero, that just made him laugh harder (because he couldn’t hear himself) and his dog bark even louder (because he ignored it), which continued for another hour until they both eventually passed out.

The circus continued outside the building too. One morning, I went out to my car in the parking lot across the street, and as usual, dozens of feral cats scattered in every direction as I approached. But this time, Zenaida popped up from the crate where she kept their food, startling me.

“Jesus Zenaida!” I yelped. “Where’d you come from?”

“I was changing out the cats’ water,” she said. “Hey, question for you. What do you pay in rent?”

“That’s a bit personal.”

“You don’t have to answer. I’ll tell you what I pay. It’s $950. Are you lower or higher?”

“I’m actually a little higher.”

“Interesting…”

She grabbed the water bowl and started back inside.

“Hey,” I said after her. “Do you mind keeping the cats outside at night. They get kind of loud sometimes, and it keeps me up.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

Zenaida wasn’t just a cat herder. She was also a part-time legal scholar. Anytime something shady was going on with the building, she was the first person to ask about it. She knew the book inside and out, and as much as she loved sticking it to the man, she knew the limits. When a new construction started behind our building, pounding and drilling at what felt like the crack of dawn every morning, I consulted her to see if it was indeed legal to start as early as they were.

“What time are you hearing them?” she asked.

“Like 7 am,” I told her.

“Technically that’s legal,” she said. “But if you ever hear them at 6:59, call the fucking cops.”

I grew used to the cacophony from the building (earplugs helped), and I settled into a nice rhythm in Los Angeles, getting to know the shopkeepers in the neighborhood, riding my bike to the random jobs I was starting to book, and making new friends. Then one afternoon, I got a call from an LA number that I didn’t recognize.

“Hello, may I speak with Scott?” the person on the other end asked.

“Who’s calling,” I asked.

“This is David Zahniser from the Los Angeles Times. Do you have a moment?”

I froze. I’d never been contacted by a journalist before.

“Can I ask what this is about please?” I asked.

“We received an anonymous tip that one of the residents in your building who happens to be the son of a Los Angeles City Council member might be getting a below-market rate because of their father’s connection to the building’s management.”

As soon as he said “anonymous tip” my mind went to Zenaida. Did she really take this shit to the press? Also, how’d she find out Herb was getting a reduced rate? The reporter explained that Herb’s dad had supported measures benefiting the building management, suggesting this might be a kickback for his support.

“Something is going on in that building,” he mused.

After the phone call, I saw Zenaida in the hallway bringing in her laundry from the basement, and she asked if a journalist had contacted me.

“How’d you know?” I asked.

“I got a call too,” she said. “The reporter asked me all these questions about the building. Seems like there’s all kinds of discrepancies in what some of our neighbors pay for rent.”

“Wonder how he found that out.”

“No idea,” she said unconvincingly as she continued on to her apartment.

The LA Times article came out a week later, and the day after, I saw Herb loading up a moving van out front.

“You moving out?” I asked him.

“Yeah man,” Herb said. “I found this big-ass spot out in Chino Hills. Basically a mansion.”

“Wow! Nice.”

“Yeah, this place started feeling a little too small to me. Needed to stretch my legs.”

Herb closed up the van, and shook my hand goodbye.

“Take care, Big Red,” Herb said.

“You too, Herb.”

With his maltipoo already in the passenger seat, he hopped in the van and drove off.

“Guess you shouldn’t throw stones if you live in a glass house,” Arlene said, from behind me.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“He called the cops on Zenaida. Tried to get her kicked out. Plus I couldn’t stand his dog.”

“And Zenaida’s cats don’t bother you?”

“They do, but that’s my sister, and she’s an angel to those cats.”

Travis poked his head out the front door.

“Hey, you guys seen Herb?” he asked.

“You just missed him,” Arlene said. “He just moved out.”

“Damn, he owed me like a carton of cigs.”