Today I had my first foray into the world of commercial real estate. I was scouting locations for a new laundromat. It wasn’t something I up-and-volunteered for (okay, I guess it was), but I received two free meals for my dedication to the project, and got to visit Palm Springs, which I’ve dreamed of visiting ever since Bugs Bunny took a vacation there at the end of Daffy Duck’s Quackbusters.
The plan was simple. Wake up early, head east on Interstate-10 and stop at five or six potential properties that could potentially become profitable laundromats. While one or two locations were new developments with available space, most of our destinations were laundromats that were in trouble of failing in the near future. I guess the company responsible for setting up this expedition buys failing laundry businesses in somewhat depressed areas and remodels or reforms them in order to somehow reinvigorate the business.
The first location was a recently-closed auto parts store in Ontario. I soon learned that auto parts stores and laundromats are somewhat synonymous in low-income neighborhoods. It’s pretty shitty how these developers have in-depth statistics on household incomes, and choose ones where the majority of the population live below the poverty line in order to set up their business. Furthermore, they see no problem in opening up a brand new, high-end business on a street where a lower-end business already exists and completely blowing them out of the water. For example, on this street in Ontario, there was a classic-looking laundromat three blocks away from the location we were scouting. No one cares whether or not that location has been servicing the community for decades, if this new site could make big bucks, fuck the smaller, less upscale business. I guess that’s the nature of business, though. And that’s why I work at a record store. I’m not cut-throat enough to survive in the business world.
There was a Church’s Chicken across the street from the possible future home of the laundromat. It reminded me of Lindsey’s directions when I was leaving her and Brian’s house in Saint Louis two years ago: When you pass the first Church’s Chicken, you’re okay — the highway entrance is just beyond it. If you see a second Church’s Chicken, turn around and get out of there as soon as possible.
Before leaving Ontario, we had to drive each direction for 1.5 miles to what the competition would be for a new business in the area. This is where I learned a great deal about scouting locations. Pretty much every other stop we made along the trip, I had valuable contributions to make when it came time to write down our notes on the different laundromats we visited. Whether it was in reference to in-line versus end-cap location, anchoring businesses, surrounding areas or the types of washers and dryers at the site, I was able to successfully size up a situation on my own. In fact, I was trusted to scout one or two locations all by myself. That felt pretty cool.
The second location was maybe twenty miles further down I-10 East. There was already a laundromat in this shopping center, but the company was planning on buying the entire strip, which includes a hearing aid store, a Mexican restaurant, and a liquor store that sold some sweet beers, including Avery The Czar and two other Avery beers. Unfortunately, it would have been unprofessional to buy beers at 11:00am on the middle of a somewhat business-oriented trip.
Somewhere around here we stopped for lunch. Persian food at a tiny restaurant in a strip center. I’d never eaten Persian food before, but I stomached it and even enjoyed it. Shish Kabob, basmati rice, a char-broiled jalapeño pepper, and flat (or unleavened?) bread. We ate quickly, then returned to the Interstate.
The third site was in a completely depressed neighborhood. I don’t want to say the name of it, because I don’t want to spoil the site for the company if that means it’s a good place to start a new business (it doesn’t make sense to me why, but I’m no investor or commercial real estate baron). It seemed like every single store on the main stretch was closed down and abandoned. Houses were tattered. There was a cool-looking old inn that was decrepit and falling apart. There was a nice theater. There was even a used video game store that specialized in Nintendo and Super Nintendo games. I’m pretty sure it was a front for some seedy drug trafficking business, but it was pretty cool to see a store that sold old Nintendo games. Anyway, that site was nice, except there was a large tree blocking the sign for the laundromat.
Twenty more miles down the road we entered the Palm Desert. There were two locations to scout within a few miles of each other, so we were able to complete our scheduled tasks at a reasonable time.
From there it was time to explore Cathedral City and Palm Springs. We stopped first a small shopping center with a movie theater and IMAX, where we stretched our legs and walked around for five or ten minutes. At the center of the small district were lush greens and a fountain where children played and ran under the various water spouts. I ran under a few of them as well.
The road into Palm Springs was impressive and scenic. The chain of mountains that seemingly ran parallel to the Interstate for hours now rapidly encroached on the car, until we were driving along the base of enormous cliffs. The trees were plentiful and vibrant. Palm Springs itself is a bit weird. It feels like a retirement community. One of the three people we talked to echoed that sentiment, saying it was something of a haven for very old people to vacation or retire. On Thursday evenings, a section of Palm Canyon Drive is closed to traffic. A fair of sorts takes over the street, with plenty of fresh foods, artwork and music. It’s a nice communal affair. I loved how the musical acts were taking themselves so seriously, even when they were performing less than ten feet away from fucking donkey rides. There was nobody even remotely as young as us in attendance, but it was cool to experience nonetheless. The highlight of the fair was definitely the “Ask The Rabbi” booth. My natural tendency to speak with strangers compelled me to stroll up to the rabbi and ask him, “What is there to do in Palm Springs?” This question confused him, and he responded by huffing and pointing out the flurry of activity that was occurring around us. In turn, I decided to rephrase my question, and asked, “No, no, I mean…like, where are the batting cages?” He gave exact directions to the batting cages, and then asked me if I knew it was Passover on Saturday night.
“I did know that, but I have to work until 8 on Saturday. Plus, I haven’t Seder’d in a very long time.”
“You should come to my house, and join me for Seder.”
Oh man, I know it seemed funny when I decided to ask the rabbi about batting cages, but now this had gone too far. I found myself involved in a very touchy conversation about serious matters with someone who I didn’t really want to offend. I somehow — very tepidly — tip-toed my way through the remainder of the conversation, and I don’t think I made him feel too bad about my attempt to make a joke out of his presence at the fair. If he did, I guess I’m going to hell. But then again, I don’t think Jews believe in hell.
Before leaving Palm Springs, we needed to visit the casino across the street from where we parked our car before heading to the fair. I contemplated gambling all the contents of my pocket ($25) at the $5 blackjack table, but decided against it when I remembered just how poor I am. Tom was feeling much more daring, and decided to gamble the entire contents of his pocket ($5). He got blackjack on his first hand, and after a few more hands decided to exit the table up five bucks. All in all, it was a good trip to the casino. I only lost $1 to a slot machine.
Before finally returning to LA, we needed to go to the rabbi-recommended batting cages. His directions to a place called Boomers were perfect. But, unfortunately for us, the rabbi didn’t know that the batting cages at Boomers were closed two years ago because too many kids were breaking in after hours. Instead of driving home depressed, we decided to eat dinner at a pizza parlor across the street from the supposed batting cages. We parked and began walking towards the restaurant, when we noticed that there was another place upstairs that appeared to have outdoor seating. It was called Sidewinders. We climbed the stairs and opened the heavy wooden door. We walked inside and noticed a large bar that stretched across the majority of the space. Country music oozed softly from the PA speakers. There was a line-dancing class taking place on a small dance floor. I searched the walls for a menu while Tom hung around near the bar. When I grew tired of searching, I started back towards the door. Tom soon appeared around the corner and said, “I don’t think they have any food here.”
We walked down the stairs, and Tom said quietly, “I think that was a gay bar.” At that moment, I realized that as I was watching the line-dancing class, I remarked to myself that there were only men partaking in the class. I guess I just figured they were doing it to impress their wives. Tom then said he realized it was a gay bar when he noticed all the photographs of shirtless cowboys behind the bar. I didn’t even notice. Our theory about Sidewinders was confirmed by the pimple-faced kid who took our order at the pizza place. We were equally amused and embarrassed.
Dinner was good. We had a beer, watched Baseball Tonight in the company of fellow heterosexuals, and then drove home to Los Angeles. Now I’m sitting and watching some stupid program on the Preview Channel. Nicci loves these trashy TV shows.
