My Neighbor Alex

My neighbor Alejandro Martin died.

For most of his life, Alex had been an auto mechanic. As a retired man, he never hesitated to help neighbors and others repair their cars. I frequently saw him under the hood of any type of car, rooting out and fixing a problem. I think a lot of the younger people in the neighborhood looked up to him for that reason. He helped more than a few first-time car buyers get their wheels on the road. When, one morning, we awoke to a flattened tire due to an errant screw, he took it to his place and returned it a short while later, plugged, balanced and ready for action – of course refusing to take any money.

Not too long ago, he had been happily picking some of the various fruits of which we have an over abundance and had shared more of the neighborhood stories with me. It was he who told me the history of the house in which we live (a voodoo witch used to live here – hence the reason for all the red paint hidden beneath the newly repainted walls). I'd also seen him during the graffiti incident where he had finally brought a paint brush of his own to help with the repainting of a wall across the street.

I knew he had cancer, but it was recently diagnosed and the chemotherapy didn't seem to be taking too much out of him – or so he claimed. So when, in the midst of a sudden flurry of activity next door, I saw his son and learned "We lost dad on Saturday", Marianne and I were kind of stunned. As we have woefully noted, the transient nature of Los Angeles is unnerving. The ground on which we stand, the houses in which we live, the friends, the neighbors and the neighborhoods have such a temporary feel, that it begins to feel like we are living in a film production. The sets and actors are all transient, and "It's a wrap" might be called at any time. For his family, it also came suddenly and unexpectedly.

At his wake, seeing the photos of him throughout his life was touching. I only knew him as a man in his early sixties, but seeing him as the young guy, fresh from Mexico, hopes and dreams yet to be realized was sweet insight into his life.

Seeing Alex in the casket, I was struck, as I always am, by the ritual itself. Rather than raise any emotions, the deflated wax figure made me ponder the strangeness of a "viewing"; a relic from a primitive time to confirm that yes, they are indeed dead. The utterly false representation of the person I knew lessened the emotions I was feeling – until my eyes caught one thing – a tiny wrench placed in his breast pocket. That small piece of chromed steel really got me.

In a town where stars are born, worlds and ideas created and exploited – where wealth and fame reach incomprehensible levels, Alex was a simple man; an immigrant who dreamed of a better life and made one by working hard with his hands. However, if a sign of a man's greatness is by how many people attend his funeral, he was a great man. Every pew in the church was filled to capacity – three hundred or more people. He affected a lot of people in a positive way, myself included. I'm glad to have known him.