An Island in Troubled Waters

This is the story of an exile. A prisoner of the way humans do things. An embattled hostage in protective custody, locked behind steel bars. Absolutely no visitors allowed, except on official business.

It’s the story of No Man’s Land, literally. A tiny, three-sided piece of property at Bundy Drive and Santa Monica Boulevard in West Los Angeles where pedestrians may no longer tread. Call it the Bundy Triangle, a mysterious place where good intentions and good sense enter--never to be seen or heard from again.

Once upon a time, the Triangle was someone’s pastoral yard at the corner of two streets that were hardly more substantial than cow paths. Along came a visionary urban engineer who decided, in the ever-tyrannical interests of traffic flow, to extend Ohio Avenue across Bundy, right through the yard, and connect it with Santa Monica Boulevard. This, however, sawed off a small, odd-sized chunk of civic territory. An orphan weed patch. It was decided to decorate the superfluous parcel--”disguise” might have been better a term--the way one throws nice fabric over an old trunk and sticks a vase on top. You can’t just leave it there, looking like the scruffy, barely legitimate thing that it is. Many lyrical jacaranda trees were planted, and stone benches were installed at intervals over a rustic cobblestone walkway to . . . nowhere. This all took place, according to one longtime neighborhood resident, way back in the 1930s.

Never mind that you could walk around the little plot’s periphery in a brisk 90 seconds or so--locals grandly dubbed it Bundy Greens. (The “Greens” was plural, perhaps, in reference to the tremendous number of grass blades on the property.) It was blessed with not quite enough room for a parking lot or McDonald’s, or both, thus guaranteeing its survival through the decades.

Was it a park? No, not officially. A place to walk your dog? Well, possibly, if your dog had real short legs (or if you consider “walk” a euphemism for “empty”). A place to play a little outdoor chess? Maybe, if you didn’t mind your concentration crushed by a circling, flatulent parade of cars, trucks and buses. Was it an exaggerated bus stop? Sure. Definitely a nice place to wait for a bus.

For the most part, though, the Triangle was nicely landscaped until the modern era of homelessness arrived, and a number of bedraggled men decided it was a good place to sack out. Bundy Greens suddenly acquired a population--a few dozen, all told, by the early ‘90s. It was poetic, in a way. Disassociated people taking up residence on disassociated property. People no one knew what to do with. Property no one knew what to do with. A match made in purgatory.

The citizens of the nation of Bundy Greens declared their own laws, of course. Any food that charitable souls dropped off was met with sincere choruses of, “We’ll divide it up equally!” Littering was allowed, and boozing. There was no ban on public urination, that was for sure. Some of the drifters were said to be veterans who meant no harm. They probably were. Some of them were said to be drunks, dope addicts, thieves and brawlers. They probably were.

You know how it goes. Robberies, burglaries and assaults in the neighborhood rose. Passersby were hustled, sometimes threateningly, until there were fewer passersby. Business owners started complaining. The cops got fed up. The residents got fed up. Councilman Marvin Braude’s office got fed up.

The solution was dramatic. Take Bundy Greens away from free humanity, put it in protective custody. Displace its irresponsible “citizenry.” The tormented lot was to be fenced--but, in keeping with tradition, this would not be any old tacky chain-link barrier. Up went a towering, 7-foot “boxed steel” border, early last year. Cost: $28,000. Fifty-seven dollars per linear foot. The money came, courtesy of Councilman Braude, from a budgetary wonderland called “the unappropriated balance of the city’s general fund.” It was the right thing to do, of course; anything less formidable would have been no proof against hobos seeking a jungle. Besides, it was stylish; you know, kind of like “decorative burglar bars.” A nearby Starbucks erected its own patio-enclosing boxed-steel barrier, just to be aesthetically simpatico.

“We’ve gotten reactions from people saying this is not the way to deal with the homeless,” said stalwart, longtime Braude deputy Claire Rogger. “Indeed, it is not. Since the larger solution remains a big question mark for most of the entities in America that deal with this problem, in the meantime, you do what you can to maintain some kind of community livability.”

*

Thus did this unprepossessing speck of property become the Prisoner of Bundy Drive. Hold your pity, though--this prisoner does not suffer from neglect. At one time or another, the Greens has required the substantial attention of the LAPD, Councilman Braude’s office, the Department of Public Works and the General Services Department. The Landscape Maintenance Division of the Bureau of Street Maintenance of the Department of Public Works was cutting the Greens’ grass until it ran out of equipment and manpower (perhaps it was all used up in supporting the size of its name), and subsequently gave the job to a private contractor (who sometimes couldn’t get in because he didn’t have a key to the fence). Residents sometimes pick up the trash. DPW operates its sprinkler system. Cost of maintaining the bedeviled place is in the tens of thousands. . . .

Last summer, the prisoner faced yet another threat--this time by so-called responsible citizens. Seems they needed Bundy to be wider so they could roll a greater number of stinking vehicles around, in order to keep important appointments. Bundy Greens took a big hit from its west end: losing five or six jacarandas, an undetermined number of cobblestones and about 12 feet of land. A small civic absurdity became even smaller. Or larger, depending on how you look at it.

The story doesn’t end here. Today, Rogger reports, there are many suggestions for liberating and using the Greens. Neighboring resident John Shaughnessey wants to turn it into a “chess island” a la parks in New York. Others talk of dog obedience classes, meeting places for community groups--and other of the types of ideas that have, over the years, disappeared without a trace into the Bundy Triangle.

Although the Greens remains under a life sentence, apparently, Rogger promises that its days of solitary confinement are drawing to a close. Visiting hours are soon to be established, once a bicycle parking rack is constructed at the west end. The trifling parcel will then be opened up “as a park” during the day and locked up at night. Wait--did she use the word . . . “park”? Does this portend the first official recognition by the city of this bastardized territory? At long last, will the little persecuted patch get its own label? A real identity? What might it be named?

“I don’t know,” Rogger said. “How about Rip Rense Park?”

Hmm. A handsome, barely useful oddity that has befuddled authority figures for decades. A troublesome, somewhat quaint little anomaly with pretense of grandeur that no one knows quite what to do with. . . .

Not a bad idea.