Artistic Liberation, Strange Bedfellows, and The Unspeakable Luxuries of the (Itinerant) Simple Life

So the best part of my day already happened. God, I love New York, er, I mean Los Angeles. . .I returned from my walk to find a slightly straggly man looking over my van. I approached with caution. Was he a neighbor snooping around to see if it was occupied? Was he a casual admirer, coming to gawk and beg for war stories? Or was he. . .yes. . .it was the guy who slept in the van behind me last night coming to greet his temporary neighbor.

"This is the Dream House," he praised, as I tried and failed to pull my stuck key out of the sliding door.

"Modern technology," he sympathized. . .

Rubin's van was hardly the pinnacle of luxury my '05 Interstate was, but it had a mystique all its own. He proudly showed me around, confessing, "no toilet, no shower. . .it is small. . .but I made everything myself."

It was incredible. He bought the van at auction for $2000 and bought the bubble top for $45. Everything else, including the statues, sculptures, belts (yes, belts), and shelves he made by hand. It was as custom a job as I have ever seen. A tiny sanctuary of which he was rightfully proud.

There was storage everywhere, under the bed, over the bed, and over the cab. There was some sort of fake wood linoleum slab underfoot, and fabric around the perimeter. The outside had an old school pull-out awning, some sort of abstract art on top, a glass sun roof (how did that not leak?), and I'm pretty sure part of the bubble top was "secured" with those little black folding clips (with the little metal arms) that you get at the stationary store.

It was a work of art, and a most personal one at that. "You can stand up straight. All the way in here. See, see. . ." and I went inside, and sure enough, every one of my 74" was fully relaxed and vertical in his bubble top van. "I measure perfectly," said Rubin, "so I could practice."

Why yes, did I forget to mention that? The music stand and the full size double bass propped up against the wall? This was Rubin's practice studio as well. "I can practice any hour of the day or night. I pull my strings full strength. No neighbors, no practice mute, no trying to be quiet or compromising. I am free here."

What does Rubin practice?

"I played for 12 years in a symphony orchestra in Moscow. A *Symphony* orchestra. Now I play in the Ventura chamber orchestra, the Beverly Chamber Orchestra, and. . ." he went on to name about half a dozen other local groups he performed with, the names of which escape me.

"And I play jazz too."

Well. What were the chances. I made a quick mention of my own sordid past in music, and his eyes widened. "An orchestra conductor? Really?" It's a common response, although this was more reverent than disbelieving, a reliable response from Eastern Europeans (as reliable as the indifference in Central and Mountain time zones).

"This is my book," he revealed, lifting up a well published arrangement of the 5th Cello Suite for Vibraphone and Double Bass. "Too expensive," he said pointing out the $32.00 price tag on the companion review of the piece that he showed me. Without offering to resurrect my skills for a command duo, I offered that I used to play vibraphone as well. Rubin's eyes lit up again, less out of reverence this time than out of appreciation of the obvious cosmic alignment that had brought us together.

"And here are my albums. That's me. And that's me too. . ." pointing out the bass player on a couple of LPs from the old world, signed by some jazz artists that I think I had some memory of, but not enough to remember their names now.

It was a cool meeting. Of course I asked if he had had any problems with neighbors or the popo. His English wasn't exactly broken, but it wasn't exactly fixed either. "They come, they give ticket, I go court, ticket dismissed, they come, I get ticket. . ." he shrugged. "I am good person. I pick up trash outside my van. There used be dog shit here. No more. I clean up. I see you pick something up too this morning." I smiled, allowing Rubin's fantasy of me as a neatnik to go unchallenged (I never did show him around my van. . .). In truth, one of my rings had fallen off the night before, and I couldn't find it in the dark. Devil that am, I have no need to shirk angel status in my friend's mind.

Rubin's grill was, to put it mildly, busted. Teeth, what were remaining, were flying every which way, and he had a neat, but not insubstantial beard. He bemoaned that the police see someone like him and they assume the worst. The neighbors don't bother him, because they are afraid. "Why? I am nice person. I live my simple life. But they only see this and they are scared. Not the police."

I offer that if you just keep still in the van, they will eventually go away. But before I can launch into a discursive exposition on what remains of the 4th amendment, Rubin stops me, saying, "Yes, but why I hide? That is not me. I do nothing wrong. This my home; I open the doors to you. Someone knocks, I open my door to them. I am good person."

It was touching. The Gadsden flag people evidently have not made it to Armenia, Rubin's home. "The *real* Armenia. U.S.S.R. Armenia. Not Armenia from. . .'Greece,'" he scoffs. I smile in recognition, as if I have any idea what he's talking about.

Rubin was a gem. "Are you here a lot?" I ask. "No, I here, there, sometimes a day or two. . .not a week. Here is nice. Is safe. Over on the bridge, not nice people. . .they spray graffiti and bang on your doors. Not nice people. Here nice."

I agreed, though I had never been on "the bridge," nor, likely, would I.

"Will you be staying?" asked Rubin.

"Not tonight. I need to meet my friend in a minute. But I'm sure we'll see us again."

"Yes. God bless. I will see you again."

Well instead of driving up to meet by friend, I decided to try something different and take the half mile walk up Beachwood to pick up my hard drive. As I came back down the hill some 20 minutes later, Rubin greeted me, agitated, but only mildly. "The cops were here. They say someone say I was peeing on the street. People crazy, they want to make stories, they want to make trouble from they jealousies. I not peeing here. They crazy."

"Did they give you a ticket?"

"No, they just making trouble. Why? I cleaning. I live my simple life."

Rubin and his van-shrine were something to admire. That kind of innocence is, for better or for worse, out of reach for me these days. Perhaps if I'd grown up in one of the outer provinces of the U.S.S.R., but it's nowhere on my radar now. In fact, the first thing that occurred to me as I left was, why not start a fleet of practice vans to rent out in New York City? The thought had crossed my mind before, but I'd never seen proof of concept until now. Maybe a little layer of sound proofing. . .maybe a little practice stool or an upright piano. Bam. They'd be parked all over the city, and you could rent them by the hour. Kind of like a combination of ZipCar and AirBnB. Designated movers (or volunteers) would be around for street cleaning mish-mash, and they could congregate in all the appropriate neighborhoods or be moved if there were construction or other distractions nearby. Start-up costs would be minimal, and you could get the app coding donated by some Bulgarian coder/violinist or other, and you'd be up and running in no time. You could even commission local artists (like Rubin) to deck out the vans in different styles. For $2500 a vehicle or less you could have all the practice space you need for peanuts in the most expensive, musician-prohibitive city in the world.

Something to think about. . . But for now, I'll let the overwhelming peace and tranquility of Rubin's sacred space permeate my Sunday, and the overwhelming gentleness of his spirit inspire me as to what is possible for people when they essay even a modicum of kindness and simplicity, despite the madness and angst that swirls all around them, attempting, but ever failing, to disturb the peaceful song within.

Something to think about indeed.