Down and Out in Malibu

Saturday morning. Ostensibly the only day I can sleep in. I had, however, volunteered for Sherpa duty for my son and his fellow athletes and had agreed to chauffeur them to the bus at Malibu High School by 6:45 a.m. The teenagers were sprinkled hither and yon along our 27 miles of beach, and so by necessity I was up early—far too early for my tastes. Making the long, dark drive down the empty Pacific Coast Highway, I arrived at Ralph’s Market just a bit after 6 a.m. to grab some coffee. Starbuck's was open, but I had been mourning the sale of Diedrich's Coffee a year back and refused on principle to set foot in yet-another-Starbucks-in-Malibu.

I vaguely recalled the store was not opened 24 hours a day any longer because of the economic situation, but I was not certain. Large stacks of firewood and cases of water surrounded the entrance to the store. I noted a man loading bundles of the firewood into the rear of a new, pearl-colored Mercedes Benz.

Great, the store must be open, I concluded.

As I approached the front door, I bumped into the glass. I could see employees, but as I knocked, thinking perhaps the door was stuck, no one inside responded to me.

The man with the purloined wood quipped, “Well, I guess I just got free firewood.”

As if that wasn’t the plan all along, I thought. He jumped into the backseat of the shiny car and the driver sped off. A full-blown heist in Malibu.

I went to the other door to let the employees know that someone was walking off with their merchandise. The produce man stacked apples inside. I knocked. I called to him. He paid no attention to me.

After collecting the athletes and dropping them off at their high school, I returned to Ralph’s, which was then opened. I looked around for the manager, who usually hovers around the check-out stands. No manager. I concluded my shopping, winding my way through the stockers and their pallets of soda and chips, and went to check out.

“You know,” I reported to the clerk,” I was here around 6 a.m., but you were closed. Some guy in a new Mercedes Benz was walking off with your firewood, and I tried to notify the employees, but no one inside would even so much as look at me.”

“You don’t say,” she replied, less amazed that her colleagues had done nothing and more amazed with my tale.

“Funny thing,” the customer behind me remarked. “There’s a guy in a new Mercedes Benz selling firewood out on the Pacific Coast Highway this morning.”

We all laughed uproariously.
What is not uproariously funny, I noted as I drove back home, is the ghost town appearance of the Pacific Coast Highway these days. My twenty-seven miles of white, sandy beach are littered with shuttered businesses. Pet Headquarters, the former haunt of the rich and famous for chi-chi cats and dogs, doggie designer handbags, and biscotti is gone. It was one of my children’s favorite places, but one where “if you had to ask the price, you couldn’t afford it.” Our rule was, “You can look and pet the pooches, but the moment you ask to purchase one, your mother disappears down the highway with you in tow.” One time I asked how much they wanted for a cat that my son was petting: a cool, five thousand dollars.

“Cats are free agents,” I muttered. “Who on earth would pay for a cat?”

Numerous realty offices have closed. Restaurants—only having opened in the last year—are gone not with a bang but a whimper. On a recent weeknight, a colleague and I caught the late show at our tiny movie theatre. I inquired as to the many businesses closed around us and one young woman said the plan was to replace them with designer shops.

I burst into laughter. “Are you kidding me? Who can afford Juicy Couture and Ralph Lauren these days, if ever? And more shops are coming?” I am not holding my breath.

It gets worse, though. On the online list serve for Malibu High School parents, recent postings included one mother’s request for old books so that she could sell them to make ends meet. Another was looking for part-time housekeeping to pay her bills. Could this be the bastion of double-wides that only a year back sold for a minimum of a cool million? When the track and field coach offered to order sports bags for around $30 per athlete, a parent offered to buy an additional bag for a student who could not afford it. But in a place where appearances can mean everything and reality little, would any parent actually step forward and say he could not afford this for his child?

The ugly truth is that this global economic crisis has infiltrated into the haven of the rich and famous. As surely as the fog slips over the ocean and up the canyons at night, the financial downturn has settled over us as a death shroud. I’ve heard tell of those in town who lost millions to Bernie Madoff’s make off. And that was after everyone’s 401K’s tanked. My realtor friend told me that the number of foreclosures in town is record-breaking. You can count more For Sale signs than surfboards these days. She, herself, hasn’t sold a home in a year. I’ve come to ask my friends how their “AK 47’s” are doing, which they find hopelessly amusing, given that I hang in war zones with bodyguards who tote them with as much grace as the actresses with their Louis Vuitton handbags at Nobu.

And therein lay the stark and odd contrasts. Nobu still has a crowd. The new restaurant, Charlie's, which just opened across from the Malibu Pier, was packed last Thursday night. Each dessert is eight dollars and most tables were ordering them. Just yesterday, Rosenthal Winery’s Tasting Room by Beau Rivage Restaurant was overflowing with tasters imbibing—and it’s not free, either. Someone, somewhere is still flush. But who? Or, are they really?

What I have told my children is this: In a world such as we are in at present, there is a circle-the-wagons mentality that can take hold. It consists of two aspects: first, we pretend that everything is just fine and belly up to the bar, prices be damned. Second, we hold the sneaking suspicion that it is awful out there beyond our little enclave—and perhaps even within our own walled city—but we are going to hoard and refuse to share. It’s not unlike what you faced when you were five and the kid in your kindergarten class would not give up the stuffed dog you wanted to hold.

There is, however, another way to view this time, and it really is a choice. A couple of nights ago on The Colbert Report, Princeton philosophy professor Peter Singer was presenting his new book, The Life You Can Save: Acting Now to End World Poverty. In Colbert’s perfectly cheeky manner, he questioned why any of the remaining wealthy would want to share, including himself in his expensive alligator shoes. And whatever would the poor do with his Audi? Dr. Singer asked this question:

“If you were walking by the lake and you saw a child drowning, would you risk your alligator shoes and jump in and save her or keep going?"

Singer challenges us to recognize that drowning children are all around us. I would add that they are not even that far beyond our doorstep, if we only choose to pay attention. Furthermore, he impels us to face the moral imperative of doing something about it.

I go a bit beyond Dr. Singer, though. I believe that we are in the midst of a defining moment as civil society. It is not only that people are starving, but that they are starving for a voice and a place that matters. As I reflect on the tens of thousands of lawyers in Pakistan who are taking to the streets this very day who are hungry for a just society; the millions of Afghan children who are hungry for an education; and the people in my own state who are hungry for meaningful work, I recognize I cannot afford to wring my hands and worry only about myself.

Robert Frost reminds us that, “The best way out is always through.” I would suggest that the only way out is by taking the hands of others and then proceeding through. Take a moment today to decide where you can help someone who is starving—for a meal, for a voice, for a purpose. Now, leave the wagon and take action. My hunch is you will find your own belly, heart, and mind full, as well.