The Wrong Opening
“Congratulations,” was the visitor’s opening greeting.
Unanswered, it fell to the floor like a precious vase, shattering into pieces.
Judging by the dour look on Mr. Vorceak’s face, victory was no closer than the next live speech by Abraham Lincoln.
You almost had to be there.
In his late 50s,
After a lifetime of working with his talented, pliable hands that do what he wants,
After raising a family,
After participating in a long, successful marriage,
After building his wrought iron furniture store business and constructing a loyal clientele,
This is Mr. Vorceak’s reward:
As if he were a non-entity, he is being plucked from his modest livelihood by the strong, unyielding fist of City Hall, handed a pittance to pocket for his troubles, then dropped, unceremoniously, onto the nearest sidewalk, like a used-up ragdoll.
Which he feels like.
The money is as hollow to Mr. Vorceak as the center of doughnut.
Why He Was Born
A true craftsman, he was born to work.
He was not, he says, born to be driven for cover at what he still feels is the prime time of his productive years.
He was born to create for a community of clients that may not be sure which end of a hammer to apply.
By nature, the French-born Mr. Vorceak is a stoic.
It Didn’t Work
You might imagine his reaction when a tape recorder was thrust beneath his chin, which formed a sturdy foundation for perhaps the handsomest moustache in Culver City.
No fit. It was like giving Wilt Chamberlain high heels to wear during a basketball game.
Ostensible silence is his most intimate pal.
For those who looked closely, however, he was no more silent than the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
An Act of Emptiness
In the manner of a ventriloquist, he was saying a thousand words, only not with his lips, which drooped, on this day, almost as far as his moustache.
Victory? What victory?
Getting his price from the city for his business — which he never wanted to surrender, but had to because of eminent domain — was the emptiest act he could think of.
He was crying.
Only the tears would not cooperate, and he held them inside.
He Is Extremely Private
Instead of uttering words, Mr. Vorceak’s sagging body was to be studied for a clearer picture of what really was going on.
Expressing agony in public is not what a proud but wounded man does.
Internally, Mr. Vorceak’s turbulent system resembles the intersection of Jefferson and Overland at rush hour.
Every night when he goes to bed, he only wishes he could sleep the sleep of the untroubled.
A Decline in Health
He can’t fall asleep because he worries about finances and what he is going to do for the rest of his life.
His health has been fraying in the 9 months since last June when City Hall rapped on his door, pronounced him dead, commercially speaking, as far as remaining in the neighborhood that has been home for many years.
There was no pleading. No negotiation.
At 58 years old, his business was good, his health was good, the sun was shining —only the city told him the equivalent of tough toenails.
Just Go Away
He should go home and not complain because it would not do any good.
No one (at least on the other side of the table) was listening.
He posted his now famous sign at the front of his business property:
Keep Out!
Dogs, Thieves,
Redevelopment Personnel
Yesterday, in the midst of his grieving, he perked up long enough to say that when he put up the sign, he meant every word. He still does.
Just because his lawyer — the eminent Robert Silverstein, probably the premier anti-redevelopment attorney in Southern California — convinced City Hall to meet Mr. Vorceak’s price, does not mean he won.
Months of Mourning
“I lost,” he said.
“The city took my business.”
It did not seem hyperbolic to describe Mr. Vorceak as being in the 9th month of feeling dumbfounded.
He can’t concentrate.
He can’t joke.
He can’t lighten up.
Sometimes You ‘Lose’
Mr. Silverstein has scored a stack of courtroom triumphs in business owners’ unending fight against freely dispensed eminent domain. He won two more cases yesterday.
“But I can’t always save a person,” said Mr. Silverstein, who won in a way. He secured the price his client wanted — but how do you react when a client says, “I lost”?
By agreement with the city, Mr. Vorceak is scheduled to vacate his property by April 15.
Understandably close-mouthed, Mr. Vorceak has indicated he has no business plans, anywhere, beyond that date.
For the Record
On a related topic:
“I think many more than 49 people turned out to serve on Direction 21 in the late 1980s,” Mr. Salkin says.
“I know. I was one of them. Also there was a citizen advisory committee that made up a charette that walked the city at that time to identify its future look and needs. That, too, was more than 49 people, if memory serves.”
