"The Roundhouse" by Andrew B. Hurvitz

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The Roundhouse
By Andrew B. Hurvitz

2040 A.D. I am riding on the magnetic train at 2 am. I can see the lights of the San Fernando Valley in the distance, the yellow stars of houses, cars and the twinkling flickers of the firmament. The train I ride is so smooth, so quiet. The blue carpets smell fresh, the pure air is spiked with oxygen, courtesy of the LAPE. (Los Angeles People Express)

I am 40 years old and have lived in this city my whole life. When I was very young, things were very different here. The traffic was horrendous. One of my earliest memories is riding in the back of my parent’s 1999 Chevy Suburban as my dad screamed at my mom.
"Sarah, I can’t stand this city anymore."

"Quiet, the baby is sleeping."
"The baby is up! Can’t you see him smiling? I see him in the rear view mirror! Hi, Hobby! Daddy hates this traffic and wants to move his family out of L.A! Don’t you think we should get out of here? Hobby, do you want Daddy and Mommy to move you to Las Vegas?"

Naturally, I couldn’t really respond rationally. I just knew from an early age that Dad was miserable in the City of Angels. He was a frustrated film- maker, enjoying little success and depending on his wife to earn the bucks as an architect. Mom made good money and quietly supported us through Dad’s tantrums and ejections from the studios of Hollywood.

We stayed on though. California’s population grew from 35 million in 2000, to 60 million today. Los Angeles was losing people early in the 21st Century but that was before the Roundhouse. God bless the Roundhouse, that’s what people say all the time. Without it, Los Angeles would have died. California might not have become the nation it is today without the Roundhouse.

The train begins its gradual descent into the Valley and I see the Roundhouse in the distance. What a beautiful sight it is! Ten stories tall, round, built of red brick with thick Roman arches at the base. The roof is built of Spanish tile and lit up with a thousand tiny lights.
The tracks go right through the building and curve around.

I get out of the train and look around the dazzling interior. It is ten stories tall inside and the walkways curve around the building. It’s like the Guggenheim Museum in New York. Except our Roundhouse is a mall. No wait! It is more than a place to shop, it is our holy cathedral. The architecture recalls the interior of the Bahai Temple in Chicago, St. Peter’s in Rome and the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul.

It is so late, and my eyes are heavy, but I want to go say a prayer. My choice tonight: St. Jude. I step before the altar and kneel, and his lovely image comes on screen. I push "Byzantine Jude" and he appears before me as he was painted in 1450. I recite a prayer which I know by heart:

"St. Jude, please intercede upon my behalf and pray to the Holy Father for my liberation. Please free me to leave this city which I love, so that I might again know freedom."

He responds with animatronic grace: "My child, I shall ask our Lord to answer your request. I must ask you one question though: Why would you want to leave this paradise on earth, this city of angels, which God himself has given to St. Disney?"

I cannot answer Jude, right now, for I don’t have an answer really. I just know that I want to get out of this place. I am 40, restless, tired of perfectly sunny days, efficient public transportation, guaranteed health care and the cult of Mickey.

Yes, I work for Disney. But isn’t that obvious since I am a resident of Los Angeles, and a citizen of the National Entertainment State? I live and breathe--the religion of entertainment-- which is one and the same as the holy state. A perfect trinity of celebrity, fame, money. We are all famous here in LA, but mostly we are well taken care of. St.Disney sees to that.

I walk around the Roundhouse in the wee small hours of the morning. Every shop is open, staffed by robots. I pass by: The Shrine of the Gap; The Church of the Holy Banana Republic; Our Lady of Victoria’s Secret. I can either pray or shop. I might do both. Using my fingerprint as collateral, I pick out a handsome brown sweater from the racks at the Gap and pause to light a candle as I leave the store. A voice from inside intones:

"In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, thank you for shopping here."


When I was little, I remember being told that the church was separate from the state which was something different than the corporation. But the War of Passivity (2015-2019) abolished all that. The passive American fell asleep and abandoned his voting rights, his opinions, his public spirit. He became a mere viewer of his country and the result was the bloodless revolution which made America into a National Entertainment State where consumers and viewers live under a Holy Entertainment empire.

Enough of my history lesson.

I’m walking again and I stop at my next favorite shrine, the Church of Samantha which is in Our Brother of Warners. There she is! My favorite saint. She was born over a hundred years ago, a human actress, Elizabeth Montgomery. She lived on Morning Glory Circle and married a mortal named Darrin. Darrin and Samantha had two children: Tabitha and Adam (who were also witches).

I grab a prayer card and recite the following: "May Maurice and Endora bless you my child, for you are the fair haired beauty who weareth the white mini and disappear into the mists of time to work magic upon the world. May Uncle Arthur bring you laughter, Doctor Bombay good health, and Gladys Kravits a concern for thy neighbor."

Ever since I was a little boy, the holy spirit of Samantha has infused me with the greatest hope. I looked to her and imagined that I too could disappear and escape this perfect place. But alas, it was not to be.

A year ago, in 2039, I was arrested. I was riding on the Dreamworks line and had just got on at Culver City and was heading west towards the Airport. I had planned to get to LAX and tell the customs officers that I had official business in Las Vegas. Secretly, I was planning to get to Vegas and hike across the desert to Utah, which is still a part of the United States. If I could get to Utah, the Mormons would consider me an asylum seeker and I might finally get out of Los Angeles.

But I was stupid. I was openly carrying a map of Salt Lake City and reading it on the train. An overhead camera recorded my illicit reading and I had no answer when the policeman in his mouse eared hat came up to me on the train.

"Hi, son. In the name of Eisner, where are you headed?"
"Uh, I have no real destination…."
"What do you mean? What category are you? Producer, director, or consumer?"
"I’m a producer, I think. I’m doing research on Utah for a project in development at Burbank Center. This map is for a script I’m writing for an elderly actor, Leonardo."


"That’s easy enough to verify. May I see your NES I.D. card please?"
"Yes sir. Here it is. As you can see, I am in the Sherman Oaks district on Funicello Street."
"Nice area. You guys won an award for the prettiest geraniums on Ventura Blvd. I think."
"That’s right. We will do anything to make our company proud."
"Let me take your card and I ‘ll just phone into Burbank. I’ll be right back."

He took my card, my ID, and I was suddenly on the verge of arrest. When he came back, I could tell that Burbank didn’t confirm my work record and I would be arrested.

"I’m sorry Hobby. You don’t have any script in development. Why are you on your way to the airport and carrying that map? Be straight with me boy!"

I looked at his Seven Dwarf pointed badge and the engraved medal of Jenna Elfman and knew he was quite devout. He would be a tough cookie to lie to.

Maybe honesty would be the best policy…

"That’s right officer. I lied to you. I was on my way to LAX to escape to Nevada so I could run across the Utah state line and claim political asylum in the United States."

"Son, please stick your arms straight out."

I stuck my wrists out. The cop flashed a laser gun at my hands. My arms froze. The train came to an emergency stop. At the Centinela platform, a dozen mouse cops met us at the train doors.





I was in a jail in Santa Monica. Not like the jails of the 20th Century, but a cartoonish prison full of wacky effects. This branch of the National Entertainment State Penitentiary was one of Michael Graves’ last projects. Picture a turquoise box on flamingo’s feet. The very top of the building (where the guards tower stood) has pink wings which jut out. The sides of the box are painted with red and white stripes like candy canes.

The prison interiors are equally as childish to remind you of what you are missing outside.

If you spoke up and insulted the guards, you risked treason charges. I saw one lady prisoner who laughed when she was first brought in and the guard said, "Lady, laugh all you want because you aren’t going to watch another TV show again! No Internet, no trailers, no US magazine, nothing!" She collapsed right there in the hall.

My trial was speedy. I was brought up before Her Video Honor, Judge Barbara Eden. The Judge was a perfectly preserved specimen of time that could think and rationalize like a human being but instead peered down at me from atop an elevated wide screen TV.

"Oh, my darling Hobby. How it irks me to see that you want to leave our little kingdom! What a naughty boy you are! Perhaps I should blink my eyes and we could go into the bottle and do a little talking! Would you like that my evil sweet?"

I didn’t know whether to laugh or shit in my pants. I was terrified and excited to think that I might be transported into the bottle of the Jeannie and have her rub up against me in her harem pants. But I was also scared that she might blink me and put me onto a bed with a thousand nails as she had once done to Major Nelson.

"Please Jeannie, I mean Judge Jeannie. Do not punish me. I am guilty of wanting to run away. Just as Amanda Bellows wanted to escape Doctor Bellows when you put a spell on her to make her like Roger Healy. I am just like Amanda, I was under a spell. But I am better now. I won’t run away."

"Very good answer. You are well schooled in the tenants of our faith. Were you an altar boy at the Church of the Rerun? It says that you were quite a brilliant theologian who knew all of the episodes of "I Dream of Jeannie" by heart."

"Yes, Jeannie. I would say that I bow in your presence. You are one of the holy spirits of this kingdom and I often light a candle in the Roundhouse at your altar."

"Ah, the Roundhouse! Is it not the greatest gift of his Eisner to the people of Los Angeles?"

"Yes, Jeannie. It is a most high honor to visit the Roundhouse and pray and shop and shop and pray."

I was getting calmer even as I tripped and repeated my words. But something must have worked, for I was released on a first offense charge and put on probation. I would have to report to the Nielsen house of Community service two days a week for the next year.

I kissed the image of Judge Jeannie on screen and then the doors of the prison opened to the glorious sunrise over the Pacific Ocean.

The Nielsen house was in an old section of Van Nuys where gangs had once sold drugs on the street in the early part of this century. A museum called, THE HOUSE OF REMEMBERENCE had many photos on display of the awful conditions present in Los Angeles circa 2000. I was assigned to the photo collection.

An elderly woman, Mrs. Nielsen, told me that her father had been a photographer and taken many pictures of the city and she herself was a keen historian. She knew the history of the old ranchos, the orange groves, the onslaught of smog, the post WWII suburban development, the freeways, thetax revolts of the late 20th century. With great emotion, she explained how Los Angeles life was in the "old days".

"Men carried guns and children went to school afraid for their lives. Many people lived without health insurance, and there was no public transportation or clean air. It was a real angry, violent, crazy place. People would deface the walls and gangs would kill you if you looked at them the wrong way."

"Is that why there were bars on the windows that you see in some old houses?"

Her face lit up. "Oh, yes. You couldn’t live normally in those days. They would just break into your house if you didn’t protect it. Thank goodness we have the National Camcorder Act for everyone’s protection."

It was my silly job to provide tours for the busloads of school children who came to tour the museum. I would scare them with the ugly photos: the pit bulls, the shaved heads of the punks, the bloody murders, the graffiti scarred walls.

You could hear the children’s disgust with the old Los Angeles.
"Icky! Who would want to live in a house with prison bars?"
"How come all of the cars are stuck in traffic? Didn’t they have mandatory carpools?"
"Look how ugly the kids were! They probably didn’t pray to Mickey did they?"

Clean hearted, clean intentioned, the children of the National Entertainment State were perfect little automatons who would grow up to become movie watchers, Internet surfers, web producers, and virtual athletes. They were in spirit most close to the vision of his eminence Eisner, but to me they were fanatic in their intolerance of imperfection.

I would get off work around 5pm and usually take the Magnotrain up to the Roundhouse for dinner. I loved the Old Carrot Cake Factory, because the cakes there had beautiful images of Bugs Bunny on top. This restaurant was free to members of Our Brothers of Warners but I had to pay.

Standing outside of the restaurant one night, as the trains streamed in and out of the Roundhouse, I spotted a gorgeous young blond girl with long denim clad legs and a skimpy cotton lacey top. She couldn’t have been more than 20 years old. I felt ridiculously old, but she was also looking at the carrot cake and seemed too poor to buy herself a piece. I approached her.

"Would you like a piece of that?"
She jumped back as if I had startled her.
"Uh, no. I am just on my way to LAX. I mean I’m going to Pasadena. Good bye."

Something seemed terribly wrong. I thought I had frightened her. I followed her through the crowds in the Roundhouse, careful to not be too conspicuous.


I could see that she was carrying a book: New York, 1960. It was a big book, probably full of photographs of New York in 1960, I thought. She seemed to have trouble walking, maybe it was her two inch clog heels.

She was 20 feet ahead of me, and I dodged in and out of shoppers to try and hide and follow her at the same time. I suspected that she was not on her way to Pasadena, but going to the Airport as I had done a year earlier.

There was no law against riding the rails to LAX, but if you were going there you better have a good reason as it was always under high security alert.

She and I were now riding on the Magnotrain through the Sepulveda pass on our way to the Airport. Traffic was light(as usual) on the freeway. The train ride took 20 minutes and we pulled into LAX and she got out. I followed her and kept one eye on the girl, and another on the invisible cameras which recorded everyone’s moves.

At Mormonair, the young woman stepped up to the ATM and inserted an identity card. The machine spit out a green ticket and she carefully put it into her purse. She smoothed over her blond hair with a deft swing of her left hand and then disappeared into the ladies room.

I waited outside the restroom for her to exit. But 15 minutes passed and I still hadn’t seen her come out. I heard an announcement for a flight to Salt Lake City and knew that the one flight of the day was boarding and the young woman was nowhere in sight.

But suddenly, a dark curly haired woman in a flowered dress emerged from the restroom. Was it her? I couldn’t tell, except this young woman carried a black backpack with a half open zipper.
Again, the flight to Salt Lake was announced and the woman ran to the gate.

I stepped up my pace and tried to keep my eye on her. As she slowed down, she tripped on the floor and a huge copy of the "New York: 1960" book flew out of her bag. Indeed, this was the same blonde woman who was now a dark haired vixen!

She had bloodied her lip on the granite floor and I couldn’t help but run up to help her.

"Excuse me. Are you all right?"
"Yes, yes. Please! I have to make this flight!"
"Wait! I want to talk to you!"

This was the most ridiculous thing for me to say. How could I, a perfect stranger, hope to stop her from catching a flight? But the momentary delay had been fatal to her connection. The doors to the on ramp at Mormonair closed, and this young woman was destined to spend at least another night in Los Angeles.

"Damn! Damn, damn, damn! I wanted to get on that plane!"
"Shush!"
I looked around and hoped that we weren’t being followed. I quickly told her who I was.
"Miss, if anyone asks you. Just say I’m your boyfriend and you are staying with me. I have a National Identity Card with a guest pass and you can stay with me."
"What? I don’t even know you! I have to get out of this fuckin’ Roundhouse, fuckin’ Mickey mouse land!"
"Miss! Please! In the name of the Eisner and the Holy Church of Perry Mason please obey the law!"

Her ruckus had already caused us to stand out. Two mouse eared security attendants gingerly approached us.

"Hi, folks! Hope you’re having a nice day!"
"Oh yes," I answered, "quite fine."
"Is the missus all right? You seem to have a cut on your lip? Would you like a little Red Riding hood band aid?"

She declined. Politely.

"No thanks. I’m OK. My boyfriend and I just were deciding on whether to go to the Roundhouse or go home and watch The Lion King."
The guards seemed pleased.
"Oh, the Lion King. What a lovely picture. Have a good evening folks."
The guards left. The girl looked at me with gratitude.
"I just saved your ass honey. Why don’t you come with me to dinner?"

It was just we two at a little French restaurant downtown on Mary Poppins Place Blvd. As the musicians strummed, "Super-cala-frag-ilicious" on violins, we drank red Merlot and talked in hushed tones about our paranoid feelings.

She confessed that she wanted to run away. Her name was Junia. A beautiful name.

"Did you know that Junia was an apostle of Jesus?"
"Jesus? Was he in PRINCE OF EGYPT?"
"No, you’re thinking of Moses. Jesus was pre-Disney."
"Oh, PD."
Junia, Junia, oh my Junia. 20 year old with green goddess eyes, and dark curly hair. Pretty as a Barbie doll.

"I first saw you and thought that you were blonde."
"I know. I sometimes wear it to piss off my parents. They want me to look like Snow White and she had dark hair. It’s kind of rebellious huh?"

I ventured to find out if she was unhappy at home.
"Do you like you parents?"
"Of course. Doesn’t everyone?"
"Yes. Of course. And we are all happy, well taken care of, and always entertained."

As I spoke, a dancing Dopey came over to the table and sang the Marseilleaise.

We walked after dinner on the lovely Wilshire Boulevard. Couples were arm in arm, reassured by the dozens of mouse cops walking the beat and the cameras which watched over us as electronic chaperones. A restored park with a lake beckoned us onto the grounds. The night air was redolent with jasmine, roses, and her perfume: L’Air d’Ellen Generes.

"I want to kiss you," I said.
"No, Hobby. No."
"Why?"
"I don’t want to get into it."

"Don’t you think I’m attractive? I mean I’m forty, but I work out and I drink creatine shakes everyday."
"Hobby. I’m not going to kiss you."
OK. OK with her. Fuck her. I was an ex-con, over the hill, a peeping Tom, a stalker, a treasonous loser who didn’t even belong in the park with a beautiful doll like Junia.

"Fine, Junia. I’ll get lost."

I started to walk away. But how wonderful reverse psychology can be on an innocent 20 year old girl! She started to run after me! Me! Imagine that.

"Wait! Hobby get back here! I want to be your friend!"

I looked back at her and she seemed so alone and lost that I couldn’t pretend to be tough when I really wanted her so badly. Even ‘friend’ was enough to ensnare me.

We went back to my apartment on Funicello Street in Sherman Oaks. It was 4 am and we were both exhausted. I respectfully (though disappointingly) laid out an air mattress for Junia in the living room. She slept like a stuffed animal or a toy doll. It was too late to call my landlord and tell him that I had an overnight guest, but the hall camera or the elevator camera or maybe the garage door camera had recorded our arrival. All I wanted to do was go to sleep…..

9 am. The Magnotrain platform in Sherman Oaks. It is a perfectly clear day, with the Santa Ana’s blowing from the east. The sun beats down on the gorgeous purple mountains. Electric trains whoosh by the platform and I am eating a tangerine and sprout sandwich on whole wheat bread. I am dragging a large trunk next to me, which has several air holes inserted so that the secret occupant inside (Junia) can breathe.

The trunk is covered with Mickey Mouse stickers and says in bright orange lettering, "For Filming purposes. Camera equipment." I am going to make a movie, or so the world thinks, and this is one of the noblest things I can do in the National Entertainment State.

We are taking the high speed train to Vegas which will get us there in about 2 hours and 40 minutes. It runs almost 175 miles an hour and is really nice.

On the train, I am sitting next to a big tinted window to watch the scenery speed by. On we zoom to Vegas through California towns: Burbank, Glendale, Pasadena, later on Ontario, Apple Valley, Barstow, Baker. Finally, down a huge incline into Nevada and we arrive in Las Vegas, Nevada. It’s a small town of a million and a half residents.

Vegas reminds me of photos I saw of West Berlin after World War II. There are border guards everywhere and the city has a decadent and spy saturated feeling going around. The casinos are full (so I heard) of double agents, and American spies who are trying to get into the National Entertainment State by sneaking across Utah into Nevada.

Proud to say, Junia and I will attempt to emigrate to Utah. I know I want to live in Provo, but I love Salt Lake as well. Maybe we’ll ski and become Mormons. That would be lovely.

I check into Hotel Bellagio, a fine old place with 6,000 rooms and a lovely lake in front with filtered water--- and live hummingbirds in the imported olive trees. I carry the trunk with Junia inside and enter my room and unlock this lovely doll girlfriend of mine.

She gets out and looks around the room. Her hair is a mess and her complexion is lobster red, but other than that, she looks fine.

"I want to take a shower."
"Sure."

She goes into the bathroom and turns on the water. Before I know it, there is a knock on the door. I go to open it.

Two security guards are standing there. They are wearing mouse badges.

"Yes, officer. What is the trouble?"
"Sir, the front desk alerted us that you signed in as a resident of Salt Lake City. Your fingerprint indicates that you reside in Sherman Oaks, CA. Care to explain that?"
"I don’t know if I can."

They smile at me.

"Would you kindly come with us."
"Now? My girlfriend is taking a shower!"
"We can have the front desk call her up and alert her to your absence."

I leave the room and officers follow me close behind.

What will I tell Junia? I march down the casino halls past the card tables, the video poker players, the backgammon players. The casino is a whirl of the sounds of money, of change falling into metal, and a thousand smoking players throwing their life savings away.

They handcuff me and chain me to an ATM machine in the back of the casino. One of the guards is laughing at me. Laughing behind my back, because another guard is carrying an inflatable doll through the casino. The doll is in his arms, a beautiful blond doll with hair like Junia’s.

Up close, I can see the face and it’s………………… Junia!

The guard carrying Junia walks up to me.

"Say good-bye to your friend. Guess she knew you better than you knew her! She was just such a doll, wasn’t she!"

I had made friends with an animatronic doll and now I was alone. Trapped and arrested again. There’s no escaping the happy kingdom is there?

The guard carries Junia away, as her still wet hair drips along the casino carpet.

THE END