Somewhere on Interstate 5, between the dream makers San Francisco and Los Angeles, sits the desolate hamlet of Lost Hills — a place where dreams don’t exist. The rich history of Lost Hills can be summed up by the fact that it is home to the last gas station James Dean stopped at before accelerating to his death. If you have a car and stop in Lost Hills, a part of you (if not your entire being) will not just be lost but will certainly die.
My good friends Mark and Allen; my boyfriend, Jake; and I experienced this firsthand on a drive back to San Francisco from a wedding in LA. We took Jake’s 1999 Ford Explorer. And before you ask, yes, it was an Eddie Bauer edition, and thus I thought Mr. Bauer’s long lineage of performance polo shirts and fleece pullovers would translate into automotive robustness. Like Eddie Bauer’s pullovers, the car excelled at keeping us devastatingly warm — the air conditioner stopped working on the way to Los Angeles.
We left LA bound for SF at 11:00 a.m. on Monday, thinking we would be back in six hours if we were lucky. Instead it took 36.
Monday, May 22
Hour 1 — The car started smoking, so we decided to eat at the Lost Hills Denny’s and hope that it chilled out. My friends kept saying that it was probably a belt issue and that it would be no big deal to get fixed. We all ordered milk shakes and reveled in our unbreakable bonds of friendship. I’ve seen the scene in Crossroads where their car breaks down, showing me, worst-case scenario, that we could go to a bar and I could sing to make money for repairs. Whatever.
Hour 3 — During our Denny’s break, the power steering went out, and a tow truck came to take it to a repair shop, whose slogan on Yelp boasts, “If it rolls, we can fix it.” One of the captions for the photo on Yelp reads, “Sing at our lokation,” meaning I’ll finally be able to realize my dream of singing my way out of a problem. Jake and I rode in the tow truck to the repair shop while we left Mark and Allen to drink Sutter Home and color kids’ menus at Denny’s.
Hour 4 — There was an old retired couple ahead of us at the repair shop who were pissed that they couldn’t get to their vacation home. I wanted to tell them that their whole life is a vacation at this point, and that if they closed their eyes or used their already poor eyesight, Lost Hills could be Palm Springs too. The room where we waited to hear about the fate of the car was hot, and there was no air conditioning — just some lukewarm tap water for us to drink. Jake and I got to see each other for who we really are: people soaked in sweat and various forms of regret.
Hour 7 — The repair shop closed at 5:00, but our new mechanic friend, Vidal, was working overtime on what everyone called a “simple fix” back in the glory days of our Denny’s lunch. I began to research our captive town. The Lost Hills Wikipedia page is full of riveting facts, such as when the Lost Hills post office opened and how, because of gentrification, Lost Hills now has sidewalks. It’s a huge farming community without one gastropub. I told Jake that our big-city jobs in the arts could make us the coolest people here; he put his head in his hands. I sent screenshots of the Wikipedia page to my friends back at Denny’s and captioned it with “Learning about our new home.” Mark texted back, asking, “When the fuck are we leaving?” I basked in how well my efforts to lighten the mood were going.
Hour 8 — Death sentence issued: the car had a bazillion (i.e., two) problems that needed parts ordered from metropolitan hubs like Bakersfield. This would cost somewhere around $1 million in Lost Hills dollars. Jake left his kidney, and Vidal grinned and held it like a newborn. We had to stay the night. I called Mark and Allen to tell them I’d booked rooms at the Lost Hills luxury hotel: a Motel 6 with a pool. We arrived and drink more lukewarm tap water and took a nap to pretend that this was a nightmare.
Hour 12 — We woke up to enjoy the LH nightlife: burned personal pan pizzas from Pizza Hut and a frog-infested pool. While most of us were able to call off of work on Tuesday, Mark informed us that he needed to be in San Francisco by 4:00 p.m. to teach a class. Vidal has said we should have the car by the early morning. We sank some beers and drifted off to sleep. I kept waking up, thinking that frogs were on my face.
Tuesday, May 23
Hour 22 — We called Vidal to ask about the status of our troubled child. He said we should know something in two hours. Jake and I paid a visit to the Lost Hills Museum (a place where Subway, Pizza Hut and Cinnabon all converge).
Hour 24 — It was our one-day anniversary! As a gift, we were told that the car would not be ready until 2:00 p.m. Needing to leave by 12:00 to make it back to San Francisco, Mark and Allen begin calling every rental-car, moving-truck and taxi service to try to deliver them from Lost Hills. Unfortunately, those services all know that LH is a doomed destination, so nothing was available. I asked the woman at the front desk of the Motel 6 if there was any way out. She smiled and said, “On Thursdays during the summer, one train comes and takes you to Wasco. That’s it. We don’t have any Uber or nothin’.” I asked her if there was a place to plot four graves; she motioned to every piece of land around us.
Hour 25 — After negotiating their home and future children for a cab ride from Lost Hills to San Francisco, Mark and Allen found the one driver reckless enough to stop here. They left us behind for a better life as we stood by the front-desk woman and heard her chuckle. “Shoulda gone with ’em,” she said. I look at Jake and wonder if he would make it as a farmer.
Hour 27 — We returned to Denny’s. We had cheesecake and remembered the good times of watching The Golden Girls in a city with multiple post offices.
Hour 28 — Vidal called to say that the baby wouldn’t be ready until 3:00. I actually thought that Jake would make a great farmer. He is strong and knows what a Meyer lemon tree is. I’m not sure how great I would be at it, but if all else fails, I could work at this Denny’s since I already knew it so well.
Hour 29 — The car was repaired. Vidal came to pick up Jake and take him back the shop to get the car. I fantasized about raising chickens in our home and making picture frames out of thistles to sell.
Hour 30 — Allen let me know that Mark made it to his class only 10 minutes late. On the way there, their bumper fell off, and everyone in the car cried at one point.
Hour 30.5 — I get a phone call from Jake that sounded like a meteor had hit. Punctuated with “We’re fucked!” I could make out that the radiator had begun blowing out green sludge, as if someone had said the word of the day on Nickelodeon. During this time, Vidal reportedly laughed and said, “You got bigger problems now!”
I told him that everything was going to be OK. I was saying this because I had found a plot of land for us to settle on for the cost of two months’ rent in the Bay.
Hour 31 — Vidal had to retrieve parts from Bakersfield again, so we were in the Denny’s for a bit longer. I ordered a burger and a Heineken. If this wasn’t nice, what is?
Jake returned to Denny’s and began asking if anyone would like to buy his blood.
Hour 33 — After a trip to Bakersfield to get a makeshift radiator, the mechanic told us we were finally good to leave. He could not stop laughing at our predicament. Though he said the AC not working should have been our first hint, he then asked, “But did you guys drink the water while you were here?”
“Yes,” we replied.
“Never do that. It’s bad luck.”
We dumped our water bottles out and gagged ourselves behind the shop. As soon as we had working AC and a working vehicle, my fantasies of a Lost Hills life washed away. Next time I visit Southern California, I will take a more sensible mode of transportation, like a sled or United Airlines.
