Until January 1994, my neighbor Bruce and I had exchanged no more than friendly waves in passing and occasional pleasantries over the back fence. I knew he was a playwright and part-time actor who lived alone. I’d often see him outside, tending to his beautiful garden.
On January 17th, 1994, at exactly 4:31 a.m., everything changed.
The Northridge Earthquake — a magnitude 6.7 trembler — struck the San Fernando Valley area of Los Angeles.
At least 57 deaths were immediately attributed to the early morning quake, and it’s a certainty that many lives were saved simply because it occurred during sleeping hours and a work holiday for many (Martin Luther King, Jr. Day). It caused over $60 billion in damages, making it the costliest earthquake disaster in U.S. history.
Mind you, this quake wasn’t triggered by the dreaded San Andreas fault, but by the Northridge Blind Thrust Fault.
Until that morning, nobody even knew that fault even existed.
So no — this earthquake wasn’t The Big One. That one is still coming.
The Aftermath
My house was built on the side of a hill near Universal Studios. The quake lasted so long that I had time to wonder if it would slide down the hill with me in it. It felt like a giant had picked up the house and shook it. I couldn’t even hear myself screaming — that’s how loud it was. Everything had been thrown to the floor, including me.
In the hours after the quake, I huddled alone in the darkness, trying to stay warm. I found a small flashlight, but my portable radio was in the car, electronically sealed in the garage.
The constant aftershocks drove me outside, but the darkness and cold would force me back inside. I had lived in LA for over 12 years and experienced my share of quakes, but never anything like this.
Finally, at daybreak, I ventured outside to survey the damage, wishing I had never left Texas. Thankfully, the house escaped with only minor damage. I, on the other hand, was a complete wreck.
I was in the side yard checking for gas leaks when I heard the sound of broken glass. I peeked over the wall and saw Bruce emptying shards into a trash can.
We talked about the latest California disaster, but he didn’t seem a bit fazed. He was calmly cleaning up the mess and restoring order to his life.
As I paced back and forth plotting my escape from California, Bruce laughed — but seeing how shaken I was, he suggested I come over. He had a portable TV that worked and a nice warm fire going. I told him I’d be right over.
Bruce’s Place
As I stepped into Bruce’s house, I was amazed.
Except for a hairline crack in the ceiling and a couple of empty spaces on the living room wall, there was no sign of the major upheaval we had experienced only hours before.
Almost everything had been put back into place, all signs of the disturbance gone.
Bruce beckoned me into the kitchen, where we talked as he prepared the tea. Like the living room, the kitchen was spotless — not a broken dish in sight. The white countertops gleamed, the floor appeared freshly waxed, and a lush herb garden filled a window box over the sink. It felt like I had stepped into a House Beautiful magazine spread.
We sat in front of the fireplace with our tea and muffins, talking about our neighbors and swapping stories about our lives. In the background, the television issued reports of the devastation throughout the city.
Every now and then, Bruce would jump up to straighten a picture that was slightly askew, get more tea, or add another log to the fire.
Bruce was about six feet tall, well built, and appeared to be in his early fifties. He was clean-shaven, with neatly combed silver-gray hair and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses — the picture of an elegant gentleman.
Image Credit: Northernstars.ca
He had a marvelous wit, and before long, he had me laughing at tales from his theater days. A native of Canada, Bruce had moved to Los Angeles in the late ’70s and built a long career in the theater.
He now made a comfortable living writing and directing plays, with occasional acting jobs. He also wrote short stories, and as the day wore on, he shared a few of them with me.
Finding Calm in Chaos
After a few hours, electricity was restored to our neighborhood, and things seemed almost back to normal. I decided to brave the aftershocks at home, feeling that I had imposed on Bruce long enough.
He insisted that I was welcome anytime, and before I left, he made me promise to call if I needed anything — or to come back if the aftershocks got too bad.
I took him up on his offer and ended up spending several nights hunkered down in his spare room. Somehow, the tremors seemed easier to take in a strange bed than in my own.
A Growing Friendship
I’m not sure when I realized Bruce was gay. Not that it mattered — but this was the mid-’90s, when society wasn’t as open as it is now.
Maybe there were hints in his short stories, which often revolved around young men battling AIDS. Or perhaps I knew for sure when, at his birthday party, one of his “gifts” was a male stripper.
I laughed when Bruce once told me that there were only three good men left in Los Angeles — and that I had found one of them.
Bruce maintained a constant vigil over my garden, which he talked me into planting before realizing my not-so-green thumb. I often came home to find little piles of neatly stacked clippings and freshly watered beds — clear signs of his handiwork.
One Year Later
We had a reunion of sorts during the January floods of 1995. I was working from home when a power outage rendered my computer useless. When Bruce heard my voice on the phone, he laughed and suggested another summit meeting.
This time, I was better prepared. Bruce provided the wine and cheese; I brought the portable TV. Together, we built a small, stubborn oasis against the chaos outside.
Epilogue
Bruce went on to star in Traders, a Canadian television drama series that ran from 1996 to 2000. You can read more about his life and career here.
In the meantime, I got married and moved across town. We would still call and catch up from time to time — usually after another natural disaster. Eventually, we fell out of touch when my family moved to Texas.
I was sad to learn that Bruce passed away in December 2017. He was such a character, and such a good friend when I needed one most.
Thank you, Bruce — for the warmth, the stories, and the sanctuary. I’ll never forget you.
Author’s Note:
This story first appeared on Medium.com and is shared here in memory of Bruce Gray.
Friendships are often forged in unexpected moments — and I’m grateful for the one we found.