Charlie’s

House A Novel

By EN Heim

All characters in this story have had their names and

identities changed to protect their involvement. Any

resemblance to any known character in this story is strictly

by chance.

ISBN: 978-1441475640

First Edition

Cover designed by GR Oliver

© GR Oliver 2009. All rights reserved.

I am very grateful to Charlie Chaplin to have had the

opportunity to have lived in his house, or so called first

house. The memories I experienced there will last as long as

I live. The people I met and knew at the house gave me

great insight into life. The parties we had there taught me

how crazy life really is. And above all, what it taught me

about going to the next chapter in my static life.

This story is in memory of Aaron Cohen.

Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in

long-shot.

A man's true character comes out when he's drunk.

In the end, everything is a gag.

Charlie Chaplin – 1889-1977

Life is like an insurance policy, no matter what happens

there‟s always a deductable clause. Anonymous

Once upon a time on Hoover Street

1

In an unlit room, two men watched the evening news. Moe

lifted his bottle of whiskey and took a sip, then snickered.

Mike, his companion did the same with his bottle. They

hadn‟t said a word since the news started, but watched and

sipped their hooch. Mike was baffled by Moe‟s snickering.

Mike gazed at Moe as he watched the TV newscast. He

turned toward the TV to see what amused Moe. Perplexed,

Mike returned watching the newscast.

The news anchor Gus was animated but with a serious

expression across his brow, paused between sentences,

turned occasionally to his co-partner and gave her a smile of

encouragement. She was beautiful and vibrant, almost

bubbly. He turned to the camera, “It‟s just like that folks.

The police are baffled over the missing money that was

found in a warehouse full of cannabis sativa…marijuana. It

was reported to be in the area of five million. The police are

now investigating the matter.” Gus looked over to his co-

partner. “Now I turn you over to our new addition…Alice.”

He gestured to her to take the camera. The director pointed

to the on-camera.

Just out of school, Alice just began on-the-job training.

She constantly looked over to Gus while she reported the

news, and gave him an occasional smile for her support.

Alice looked around from side to side. Bubbly, she said,

“Thanks Gus…you did a fantastic wonderful job reporting

that story.”

She picked up her script, rattled it, and looked into the

wrong camera.

Gus looked skyward. Hmmm, he thought, over done. But

she does have a perky nature and a good set of jugs.

She noticed commotion in the wings and said, “Now we

take this moment to hear these important messages.” The

camera faded to a commercial.

Mike said, “What would you do if you found five million

dollars Moe?

Moe took a swig from his bottle. “Dunno Mike. It‟s too

much money for me to think of…hic.”

“Well I‟ll tell‟ya what, if I found that much money I‟d

run and keep running, just like them CEOs when they get

canned. They get them big severance checks and head for

God only knows where.”

“I hear most of‟em live in Europe somewhere cheap like

Romania, Bulgaria…Turkey.”

“I think I‟d go somewhere south…maybe Argentina.”

“Why Argentina Mike.”

“I hear they have no extradition laws.”

The two men returned to watch TV and sipped from their

bottles. Mike doesn‟t know what to think of Moe: How can

anyone find humor in a TV newscast? It depresses me. What

in the world does he see in that? He took a sip, looked at

Moe and returned gazing at the TV shaking his head.

The news station was bustling with backstage personal

bringing in new scripts and yelling, “Flash…newsflash,

flash.” Across the TV screen, in large bold type, the word

„NEWSFLASH‟ flickered repeatedly for all its viewers to

take notice.

The camera focused on Alice. She was talking to one of

the news writers, takes the script he just gave her and faced

the off-camera.

She said, “We have a newsflash here folks.” Then she

looked straight into the on-camera; her expression was

delightful, she smiled.

“It just came in this very second.” she paused and looked

up to the off-camera and smiled. “Two newsflashes.”

Frantic, the director waved and pointed for Alice to look

at the on-camera.

She turned to her Gus and talked off mic. “Gus, it looks

like we have our day cut out for us. Can you believe it, two

already yet?” She returned to the off-camera. She bubbles

with excitement, turned to Gus smiling, then to her script,

she read, “In Poughkeepsie…” Noticing the director

pointing to the on-camera, she smiled again and turned to

the on-camera. “…a storekeeper was arrested for laundering

money.” She smiled. “They found in his possession one-

hundred thousand dollars in twenties, fifties, and one-

hundred dollar bills.” She smiled and turned to the off-

camera then to the on-camera. “Later that day, he was

released for lack of evidence. The police said the money

may not have been his.” Still perky, she smiled turning to

Gus. “Now I hand you over to our illustrious award winning

anchor Gus Tohrent.” She gave him a large toothy grin.

Gus began to talk, but the camera faded to a commercial.

He looked blank at the director and mouthed, “What the hell

was going on here? Do we have to put up with this again

today?”

The director shrugged his shoulders. “As you know Gus,

we have a new crew…if you haven‟t noticed already.”

After three commercials and back on the air, Gus said,

“Nice work Alice. I guess that‟s the way it goes. You can

never tell what‟s going to happen these days.” He smiled

turning to Alice. She responded with a large grin.

Alice was bubbly, perky. “Nice reporting there Gus. You

do such a marvelous award winning job.”

Gus was baffled: I didn‟t do shit. What was she thinking

of? But she does have a nice set. Oh well.

She looked up to the off-camera. “Another oddity,” she

said, “…another newsflash this morning.” She turned to Gus

and whispered off mic, “Another one…this is unbelievable.”

Then she returned to her script and continued to read, “On

the way to town a monk was found dead along side the road

by two teenagers.” She looked up to the off-camera, smiled,

and then turned to Gus. She began to adlib the incident,

“After roasting for three hours in the baking sun…can you

believe the weather there was one-hundred and two.” She

nodded to Gus; he smiled back, and returned a nod of

confidence to her. “…the coroner,” she went on to say,

“…had a difficult time getting the roasted corpse into the

body-bag.”

Gus frowned, shaking his head while the on-camera

panned back and caught him mouthing, “Roasted corpse.”

Alice turned to the on-camera and gave Gus a big smile.

After repositioning herself in her chair, she looked into the

on-camera and projected a bubbly grin. “The town‟s

coroner,” she said, “is puzzled over the monk‟s death. He

said there doesn‟t seem to be any evidence that caused his

demise.” Gus said, “I guess that‟s the way it was Alice. Nice

reporting. Keep it up.” He smiled into the camera.

Bubbly and effervescent, Alice returned a toothy grin.

“That‟s right Gus; you can‟t ever tell about life these

days…it‟s so precarious.” She smiled. “It‟s just so

unpredictable…blue skies one day…storm the next.”

“You‟re so right Alice…one day things look good and

the next…well what can I say? Kaplooey, it‟s all over.” He

smiled and looked at Alice; his eyes cross giving her a blank

stupid expression.

She returned a blank look, but said under breath, “I guess

that‟s the way it was Gus.”

Gus mouthed, „I guess so,‟ and turned to the on-camera.

“Now for the weather,” he said. “I give you our

weatherwoman Myopia Tushi.” He turned to her, she was

pointing to the weather map ready to give her report.

Myopia straightened her blouse, flipped back her long

black hair off her blouse to expose the cleavage of her

voluptuous breast, and returned a large grin to the camera.

She began to speak pointing off to the side on to weather

map. The camera faded to a commercial. A blank expression

filled her face. “Uh…what‟s going on here?” she uttered.

The director shrugged his shoulders. He motioned to the

cameraman, waving his hand, which way to point it.

Mike turned to Moe. “Why in the hell do you watch that

news station? It‟s so screwy.”

“I like it better than the others stations because they are. I

find humor in screwy things. The networks are too polished

and spiffy. This dumb station can never get it together.

That‟s what I find funny in life.”

2

The next evening, it was the same thing, but by the time

the news came on the air Moe and Mike were quite

inebriated. After every verbal statement the newscaster

spoke, Mike constantly interjected, “It don‟t make no diff.”

Moe, his long time friend and companion, had a

furrowed brow, but continued to listen to Mike‟s rhetoric.

And every time Mike uttered the phrase, it don‟t make no

diff, Moe grimaced. This nightly ritual has been going on

ever since they‟ve known each other.

Paying no attention to Moe, Mike continued saying after

the newscaster opened his mouth. “Like I said Moe, it don‟t

make no diff what he said. It ain‟t goinna do nobody no

good no how, no way, regardless what nobody does. It‟s the

same if you roll dice. What comes up…comes up…take it or

leave it…is what I say. That‟s what life is all about Moe.

What comes…is. No nothin‟ about it. It just is. It‟s just

likethe newsman said; there just ain‟t no reason for those

cars to pile up like that and everybody dies.” Bam. He hit

his fist. “It‟s just like shit hitting the fan! There‟s nothing

you can do about it.”

“I can‟t think like that Mike. You don‟t make no sense,”

said Moe. “Your thinkin‟ is all wrong. People don‟t think

like that. There has to be somethin‟ more than just random

chance…a roll of the dice. There‟s just no logic to your

thinkin‟. If you ask me, there‟s rewards and punishments.

As my old man used to say, „all there is in life are liabilities

and benefits to everything we do,‟ and that‟s it Mike.”

“No. Life is simple Moe. It‟s as easy as one, two, three.

That‟s all. Nothin‟ more…nothin‟ less. You hear me? It‟s a

toss of the dice.” Mike made a patter-patter sound

mimicking thrown dies. “That‟s all there‟s to it!”

“I just think you‟re totally wrong,” said Moe. “You‟re

full o‟dreck. You hear…nothing more, nothing less…and

that‟s all. I‟m outa here. I‟m tired of your gobbledygook.”

“What kind of guy are you anyway?” said Mike as he

watched Moe slog out the room. He turned back to the TV.

The television constantly goes night and day.

Mike continued muttering as he watched the nightly

newscast. “I‟ve known that idiot for nearly twenty years,

and he still thinks like an idiot. And you‟d think with all my

convincin‟ he‟d think like me. No, he still thinks like an

idiot. Hasn‟t he realized by now life is just life? And it don‟t

make no diff no way, no how. It all happens regardless

whatcha do. It just happens. Nothing more, nothing less.

Some get it and some don‟t. Some innocent dude will get

the chair and some go scot-free. That‟s just the way it is. No

buts about it.”

Mike looked out the window, not concentrating on what

was happening on the TV, just gazed into space as he

skimmed the windows across the street. A cool breeze came

through the window. He took a swig from his bottle and

returned watching TV.

3

The Shalimar house was an immense house, three stories.

According to the owner, Mr. Baktlfahrt, it was once owned

by Charlie Chaplin. On the first floor of the house lived six

people: Mike, Bibbie, Russ, Dawg, Kitzi and Dr.

Langweilig. The mezzanine room was occupied by Ms.

Starris Kinnite. On the second floor lived four people:

Putnam, Mr. Talbot, Mrs. Dolmeier and Moe. In the attic

apartment was where I lived, Ean Homes.

When you enter the house, the vastness of the foyer and

the mezzanine Tiffany stained glass fascia was breathtaking.

The sheer size of the foyer with staircase flanking the left

wall passing the mezzanine room looms two stories up to

the attic some twenty-five feet. The centerpiece of the

ceiling was a Tiffany stained glass dome. It gave the foyer a

soft warm glow when lit or illuminated. To give added

warmth to the interior of the house, it still had its functional

gas-jet lights. The house was equipped with electricity in the

early 1920s, but Charlie Chaplin, as the saying goes, liked

the warm glow of the gas burning light fixtures and kept

them. Since the last sale of the house, little attention had

been placed on the gas-jets, and had never been turned on or

used. Mr. Baktlfahrt doubts if they still worked. He kept

them because it added charm and character to the old turn of

the century house.

The house has a large attic with a mysterious room, a

small cellar that contained only a water heater, a one-time

ballroom, and eight rooms converted for rent. The ground

floor was seven steps up from the sidewalk and looked over

Hoover Street. It once was located across the street. Once

sold, it was moved to its present location.

The present owner, Mr. Baktlfahrt often mentioned the

mystery the house held, but didn‟t hold much truth to it.

According to him, it was what the house had that was worth

a fortune. Some old-timers said it was what Charlie Chaplin

forgot to take with him when he left, and was hidden

somewhere under the floorboards, or in the walls between

the studs. Many a tenant came with the hope of finding it,

but left in vain.

Outside next to the main door, hung a makeshift sign that

read: The Shalimar. This pink, grotesque, non-descript

stucco building was built at the end of the nineteenth

century. It didn‟t look like any of the houses around it: a

hodgepodge of Greek revival, Romanesque, and turn of the

century Moderne. The adjacent buildings are typical of early

twentieth century architecture, wood frame craftsman style,

one and two story rambling single family or duplex houses.

To the right side of the house was the common entrance

and driveway, which lead down to the garages. The four-car

garage has never been used, other than storage by Mr.

Baktlfahrt‟s personal things, and a potter that spent most of

his time brewing beer rather than making pots. He was not

popular with three of the tenants. They said his beer was too

green to drink. Rarely ever seen, he came and went

unnoticed. If he made pots, it was usually late at night.

The main entrance to the house faced Hoover Street―a

large four and half- foot wide single door, which was rarely

used. The driveway lead past the servant‟s entrance and

descended to the garages on the other side of the house.

Above the entrance was an overhang that was the mezzanine

apartment. It was once said to be the library or study. It has

stain glass windows on the outside and the inside entrance

to the room. One cannot see out of them, they are made of

opaque Tiffany stained glass, as the owner Mr. Baktlfahrt

has said, “Real Tiffany, not ersatz, but za real stuff…vone-

hundred und fünfzig perzent.” Mr. Baktlfahrt was German

and a survivor of WW2.

From the foyer was a hallway that leads to the main

kitchen of the house. As you enter the hallway, there was a

telephone niche and the first tenant‟s room; it was occupied

by Dr. Langweilig.

The telephone in the niche was a pay phone for the

house. It always seems to be occupied by one person. This

person never seemed to end his conversations. You would

think with all the calls he made, he would have his own cell

phone, but no. This mysterious man was vaguely seen by

some, while others paid no attention to him.

What puzzles me about this vague man, where did he

live? Some said he didn‟t live here at all. No one has ever

seen him go to any room. He just seems to be on the phone

constantly. All the rooms in the Shalimar are taken up with

known tenants.

If anyone wanted to use the phone, it was better to go

down to the gas station on Olympic Boulevard and use

theirs. Sometimes I waited at least fifteen minutes to twenty

minutes for him to get off. When finished, he was back

dialing the same number: 933-259-1151, wherever that is. It

surely isn‟t here in LA. And. I‟m sure it must cost a bundle

to call that area code.

When talking to this person, all you get in return was a

strange snarled expression. I had the feeling did this guy

really exist? He seemed to be living in his own space, not

anyone else‟s.

The whole house was weird. This old house had seen a

lot. If the walls could speak, they could tell you all sorts of

tales. The ghost in my attic could tell you a lot too. But, he

seemed to be more interested in rattling chains around his

space all night long.

4

Gazing out the window, Mike saw a gush of water descend

to the ground; it hit a parked car—whoosh. Mike hung out

the window to look at the splash. It dried quickly in the heat

of the morning sun. He smiled, looked up. He said, “What a

bitch. She did it again…hic.”

Moe walked into Mike‟s room. Mike looked at Moe, and

was astonished he came back so soon.

Mike turned back to his window and chuckled, “She did

it again Moe. I saw it with my own two eyes.”

“No kidding,” said Moe.

“Yeah, just saw it. It came down on Mr. Talbot‟s

car…splat, kaboom…all over it.”

Moe said, “When she goinna learn?”

Mike said, “Moe, when she finally decides to fly back

home…to that outa space place.”

“Venus.”

Mike chuckled looking back to Moe. “You want to go

down to the park? I need a little change. Lookin‟ at four

walls is crimpin‟ my brain. And the view out my window

isn‟t stimulatin‟ my gray matter either.”

“Why, so you can expound on you bullshit rhetoric?”

“No, I just want to get outa this dump.”

Moe looked out the window shaking his head. “The

witch did it again all over Mr. Talbot‟s car, huh.”

Mike said, “Luckily it wasn‟t me she was aimin‟ for.”

“You should live across the hall with that bitch that lives

there. She‟s one hellofa broad.”

“Why?” said Mike. “She‟s more interesting.”

“Let‟s go. I need a breather from this place.”

Moe said, “Meet you in about five minutes. I‟ve gotta do

the usual…my hourly pee.”

The two men finally shuffled their way to the park, sat on

one of the park benches next to the lake and watched people

pass. Moe reached into his paper bag, pulled out a slice of

stale bread, tore it in little pieces, and began feeding the

pigeons. He gave Mike a slice of bread. Moe said, “You

know Mike.” Mike said, “What?” He tossed breadcrumbs to

a cluster of pigeons.

“We‟ve been sitting here about thirty minutes now,

wouldn‟t you say…or would you say more?”

“Yeah, maybe forty-five at the most.”

“Well I‟ve noticed,” said Moe, “why are all the good

lookin‟ chicks flanked by ugly dumps?”

“Because they don‟t want to be bothered.”

“What do you mean, don‟t want to be bothered?”

“Well, let‟s put it this way,” said Mike, “the two of us are

lookin‟ for a good lay tonight.”

Moe nodded and thinks to himself: If there‟s such a thing

at our age.

“And we see these two chicks pass by.” He turned to

Moe. “Would you be willin‟ to take the dump, and I get the

good looker?”

“I‟d get the good looker…you‟d get the dump no matter

how you look at it. That‟s how it would turn out.”

“Like hell it would,” said Mike.

Moe laughed, “What makes you think you‟d get the good

looker when I have the charm, the looks, the brains, and the

longest prick?”

Mike gave out a loud laugh. “You‟ve got the longest

prick. Give me a break you schmuck. Nobody that I know of

calls you…Sir Lancelot.”

Moe looked up to high heaven and said, “In my day…”

mulls over what he just said, “…I was married once you

know.”

“When…in your last life…in your dreams?”

“Here we go,” said Moe, "that ethereal, metaphysical

bullshit. It always starts the same old way.”

“It‟s not bullshit,” said Mike. “You just don‟t want to

realize that life was just a matter of rollin‟ the dice. What is

isn‟t always what you expect. Sometimes you do good, and

all of a sudden…you get the shits from the fan. Why? One

should be rewarded. But, it don‟t work out that way. Most

of the time it just goes limp…dead…and don‟t work out the

way you want it to. It‟s just a matter of rollin‟ the dice.

What comes up…comes. You know what I mean?”

“Mike, hear me out. There are consequences in life. And

the only consequence in life I have is…I have to listen to

you and your never endin‟ prattle.” Moe looked across the

Park Lake and gets up. “I‟ll see you later schmuck. I don‟t

want to listen to you any more and your nonsense.”

Mike kept feeding the pigeons, not looking up to see

Moe walk away. Two women approached the bench and sat

down near him. They were just off from work and had

stopped by the local fast-food takeout for a bite to eat. They

opened their sacks and began eating.

Mike looked over to the two women and said, “You eat

that ersatz?”

The gal next to Mike said, “What else is there besides

McDonald‟s…Burger King…Carl‟s Jr.?”

“There‟s Langer‟s on the corner.” He pointed.

“Never ate there before.”

“No.” Surprised. “You should try it. It‟s the best kosher

deli in town.”

“Have you ever eaten anything besides a BigMac or a

Burger King or maybe Jack…In-The-Box?”

The first gal said, “My boss was in a box once and I ate

him.” She turned away, covered her mouth and giggled.

Her companion broke into a boisterous chuckle and

whispered, “Why do you have to say that to that old man?”

She looked away as she choked on her food. Returning to

her companion, she whispered, “Shelli that old man

probably don‟t know what in hell I‟m talking about.”

Mike leaned over to the gal. “Was it creamy or dry?”

The other gal broke out into gut splinting laugh.

Her companion giggled, “Dry. He had a problem.”

5

Presently, I am having trouble getting my thoughts together.

Deadlocked into dry rot, as one would say, I feel my brain

filling up with holes and rotting away. Could it be

Alzheimer‟s disease? I‟m at that age where one starts to

experience the syndrome.

I‟m two years from retiring. My boss is worried that I

will leave him empty handed. He thinks I might die on him,

or get a better job than the one I have at LALA Inc.

Everyday, I come home from work and try to get

something written down. At home, I do my creative stuff,

but lately my writing doesn‟t seem to go anywhere. I have

been putting my thoughts down for the last twenty-five

years or more, and all I ever seem to impress are my closest

friends, relatives and of course my inept boss.

When I tell people that I am a writer, I get the same

answer; they wish they could be a writer too. Everybody

wants to be a writer, an artist or musician, at least something

creative. Restauranteuring would be better I tell them. At

least they‟d know where their next meal came from.

I don‟t want much in life. All I want was just to have my

books bought. I don‟t care about the veneration, the glamour

or the glitz. All I would like is to get my books published,

have an income away from my present employer and my

do-nothing inept boss, Ellsworth Bunk.

Yes, my boss is a do-nothing goldbricker. He is what I

would call a professional freeloader. By hook or crook, he

got where he is today. It constantly amazes me; he can‟t

even type, let alone use a computer. That‟s how I got started

writing in the first place. It amazes me I‟ve been his doer for

over twenty-five years now. He hired me to do his

correspondence, his proposals and write his manuals, tech

stuff. Ellsworth‟s mental makeup lays somewhere back in

the early part of the twentieth century—barbershop quartets,

horse and buggies, kerosene lamps, and outhouses.

I first meet him twenty-six years ago in Warner Robins

GA where I was stranded and needed a job badly. He hired

me, and since then I became his right-hand man. After some

twenty years, the company expanded its services to the West

Coast. Like my boss, three years ago, I ended up in LA too.

Ellsworth Bunk said he couldn‟t do his job without me. I‟m

surprised I accepted his generous offer I couldn‟t refuse.

Coming back to LA was like coming home. I grew up

here in this smog town. Went to school in this smog town,

and somehow survived. Otherwise, I‟d still be back in the

heart of Dixie doing the same thing I‟m doing now, or

pounding the pavement looking for another job. Tech

writing isn‟t that exciting.

When I arrived in LA, I had of course, had to find a place

to lay my head down at night. I ran into some friends of

mine. We talked about old times, and they said the Shalimar

still existed. “That old dump,” I responded. They kept it

because of Charlie Chaplin, my friend said. One of these

days when all the pensioners die off or leave the place,

they‟ll turn it into a museum. As it is, Mr. Baktlfahrt won‟t

kick them out. I think it had something to do with being a

concentration camp survivor during WW2.

Lucky me, I was able to get a room. I signed an

agreement that I wouldn‟t fall under the house‟s dilemma. I

agreed I would leave when the last pensioner left.

You see I used to live in this old place when I was going

through school. And to my surprise, I got the same old

apartment, the attic―Mr. Ghost and all. I promised Mr.

Baktlfahrt that I wouldn‟t divulge to anyone that I lived up

there, because the fire marshal determined it to be a fire

hazard―no fire escape. The attic was three floors up.

Getting back to my boss, I have to admit, I wouldn‟t have

a job if it weren‟t for him. Thank God for deadweights and

freeloaders. There isn‟t a day that goes by that I have to take

his scribbles and decipher them into intelligible verbiage.

Because of him, I now have my private room to write the

company‟s, as he says, bullshit. I think I was Ellsworth‟s

secrete success. I don‟t know if anyone knew I worked at

LALA Inc or even existed.

When I write my boss‟ BS, the typical catalog or

proposal stuff, it‟s cut and dry, standard descriptive

hogwash you read. But, when I‟m doing my creative stuff, I

often get into writer‟s doldrums. When that happens, I do

the usual. I go through the typical writing exercises: you

hear a thump in the night, you lay in bed and there was

something lurking under it, an embarrassing moment, the

surprise of your life, etc. The usual motivating force every

school instructor uses to get you jump-started into writing.

But presently, I can‟t think of any lurking bullshit or bumps

in the dark babble. Lately, all I seem to do is head for the

fridge, extract a Moose Head and try to sooth the cobwebs

in my brain from pulsating too much or too little.

At present, I‟m doing just that, sitting on my balcony,

drinking a brew and watch the city lights twinkle on and off

in the distance, shrouded by LA‟s ever present breath taking

smog. Another day has gone down the drain and swallowed

up by I wish I could get something to happen inside my

cranial Kopf.

6

Mike opened one eye then the other. He looked around the

room and his eyes skimmed the unfamiliar walls and

surroundings. He looked at the clutter, the clothes hanging

over chair backs, paper on the floor, crumpled paper bags

lying here and there. His eyes stopped at Moe. He didn‟t pay

attention or look in the direction of the radio spewing static

in the background. He wipes his eyes.

“Where am I?” said Mike.

Moe opened his eyes, grabbing his fifth of whiskey and

said, “You‟re in my room. That‟s what.”

“No wonder it looks strange.”

“It‟s better than yours,” responded Moe.

“I keep mine clean and neat…you don‟t.”

“I don‟t what?” Moe blurts out.

“Keep your pad clean and neat.”

“I know where everything is. It‟s neat enough for me.”

“That‟s not clean. That‟s not neat.”

“Trust me it‟s clean…it‟s neat.”

Mike continued to gaze at the room. “You know what?”

“What?” said Moe.

“This apartment stinks.”

“Hell if it does.”

“Yes it does.”

“You know…if you‟re goinna talk about my pad as if it

was the county reclamation center…”

Mike interrupted Moe. “You described it perfectly…the

reclamation center. But I‟d say it‟s more like a dump.”

Moe screamed, “Why don‟t you leave. This place is my

place…not yours, and I like the way it is. So get the hell

outa my pad.”

Mike looked at Moe giggling. “What time was it?”

“Do you have any special time you have to be back at

your dump? If you ask me…it‟s right this second.”

“No, and my dump is not a dump.”

“This whole place is a dump.”

“Truer words never spoken, my friend,” said Mike. “I

need another bottle, and I‟m goin‟ down to the Tap d‟Hat to

get one. You want to join me?”

“What else is there to do at our age?”

“Jerkoff,” said Mike.

“You still doin‟ that?”

“Every mornin‟.”

“Give me a break,” said Moe.

“I‟ll tellya. For every jerk, I see another day. It keeps my

machine mean and clean.”

“Give me a break…another day…my foot. You see

another world through a bottle of Beam.”

Laughing, “That too. You comin‟ with me?”

“Sure, why not. I don‟t jerkoff, and I don‟t…”

Mike interjected, “Pee either.”

“Piss on you.”

“I‟ll tellya Moe, if you‟d jerk once in a while maybe

you‟d be able to pee.”

“I pee fine, except on occasion.”

“You comin‟?”

“Let‟s go. But let me take a piss first.”

“Hurry. I can‟t wait all day.”

“It isn‟t like I can turn it on and off Mike. You know I

have a prostate that‟s been givin‟ me problems lately.”

“Why don‟t you go see a doctor?” said Mike.

“I would, but I‟m afraid.”

“Of what?” “He‟d tell me I got…”

“Cancer.”

“I‟m not sayin‟ anything.”

“Let‟s go.”

7

The Tap d‟Hat was just around the corner on Olympic

Boulevard; a small liquor store manned by one Josh

Joschinsky. His name was changed to Joss when he became

a citizen. Josh Joss was of German Polish ancestry. During

the occupation of Poland by the Germans during WW2, he

was rounded up, like so many of his neighbors and friends

and placed in one of Germany‟s slave labor camps to

manufacture war goods, mainly munitions. These slave

laborers were coined “Freund Arbeiter” Friend Workers. He

was young at the time, healthy and able, the reason he was

able to survive the war. Many of his friends and his family

were sent to other camps to work. The town‟s people, who

were unfit for labor, went to Auschwitz-Birkenau never to

be seen again.

After the war, a friend and he fled Poland when the work

camp was liberated. They came to Los Angeles where he

and his friend started working at the “Tap d‟Hat.” After

several years working under the guidance of the owner, the

owner retired and sold the liquor store to Josh and his

friend. Since then, his friend past away, and now Josh was

the sole proprietor. He lived above the store in a four-room

apartment: a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living room.

He lived alone; since he never married, his store and his

work was his life. He kept to himself, had little friends, and

never asked questions or told anything of his past. Having

one cat as companion, he called him Asche-zur-Asche.

Asche, an old gray and white cat was always seen sleeping

on the counter by the cash register except when he ate or

went to the potty-box. At night, Asche accompanied Josh to

bed, and slept at his head until morning. In the morning,

Asche liked to be let out. Josh would open the bedroom

window and Asche exited onto the rooftop of the adjacent

building where he took his position along the back ledge.

He looked over the ledge onto the alleyway as if he were a

sentry on guard duty. He did this as long as the weather was

good, otherwise, he didn‟t go out at all. After breakfast, he

would accompany Josh in the store and bed down on the

counter top for the whole day.

During the day, Josh had long monologs with his gray

and white cat. Whenever a person came into the store, Josh

immediately stopped his taking with Asche-zur-Asche,

watched the person until they bought there items and left.

He rarely had a conversation with anybody. If he talked to

anyone, it was answering questions thrown at him.

8

That morning I had to make a call to the office, I was

running late—a good hour and a half. That morning seemed

never to go right for me. I didn‟t want Ellsworth to worry

because I knew he always had something for me to do right

off, or what he wanted me to view on his computer.

I traipsed down the stairs to the phone, and sure enough,

the same old guy, short, awkward, wearing baggy pants, too

small of a coat, and supporting a funny mustache, stood

there as usual gyrating his hands and arms and bellowing

into the phone. He always seemed to have the same

conversation. “Look…I just don‟t understand,” he said. “It

doesn‟t make any sense. This whole thing that‟s happening

right now, it‟s nonsense…pure nonsense.” In a silent kind of

mime way, he pounded his fist against the wall. Frustrated,

always in an upset mood, he never seemed to get through to

the person he was talking to.

I interrupted his conversation. He gave me one of his

daggering stares. “May I use the phone?” I asked him

politely. “It‟s an emergency.” Thinking he‟ll get off, if I told

him it was important. No. He just waived me away as if I

was some annoying fly. “Please,” I said, “I need to call my

office. It‟s important.” Still the elusive man didn‟t respond.

I waited. I looked at my watch. “Please.” He turned to me

and gave me a bitter frown as if to throw lances at me. What

could I do but walk away. I decided to take my chances and

see what would happen when I got to work late. It‟s only

fifteen minutes by bus and ten minutes by foot.

Nothing. No one missed me. Ellsworth was out sick that

day. No one said anything. It was as if I was living in a

dream world, and the whole morning didn‟t exist.

Sure enough, when I got home that night, that stranger

was still on the phone, pounding his fist against the wall and

shouting into the receiver, oblivious to the world around

him. Doesn‟t the guy ever quit? It seems his whole life was

on the phone.

I went up stairs, entered my pad, went to the fridge, and

pulled out a beer, a delicious Moose Head. At least that gave

me some relief from the day‟s heat, smog, and nonsense

going on in this world of ours.

9

It was one of those typical late afternoons, Mike and Moe

came sauntering into the Tap d‟Hat. Josh was chatting to his

cat Asche. Mike and Moe laughed and held each other

around the shoulders as chums often do. Mike was telling

Moe about the two gals that sat next to him at the park the

other day after Moe had walked off.

“I couldn‟t believe what that gal said, „…ate da

boss‟…can you believe that?” said Mike.

“I think she wanted you to pick her up.”

“I doubt it. They were too young and immature.”

“Any gal that talks like that isn‟t immature.”

“They weren‟t my type…Moe.”

“They were dumps?”

“No, but they weren‟t my type either.”

“Mike, you‟ve got to learn that any gal who is eager is

eager…it don‟t make no diff what guy she locks up with.”

“See I told you…it don‟t make no diff what happens.”

“What does that have to do with pickin‟ up a little tale?”

Patiently waiting to assist Mike and Moe, Josh looked up

from Asche. He had known Mike and Moe as long as they

had lived in the neighborhood. He was familiar with what

they always wanted for booze. He watched them go down

the aisle as they selected munches. Reaching over to Asche,

he gave her a pat on the head.

Mike and Moe came to the counter with their hoard of

goodies and asked for their favorite bottle of whiskey. Like

an automaton, Josh took Mike‟s favorite off the shelf behind

him, a bottle of Jim Beam, and Moe‟s Tap d‟Hat generic

whiskey brand.

“Zhats all guys…am I right?” Josh said in his thick

Prussian accent.

Moe said, “I‟d like to have some tale, but you don‟t sell

any of that here.”

“No, zhats not my specialty and I don‟t carry it.”

“What‟s your specialty Josh?” Moe returned a little

giggle knowing quite will what Josh would say.

Mike interjected, “He‟s in the hooch biz.”

“Zhat‟s right Mike, I‟m in za hooch biz,” pauses, looked

up to Mike. “Iz zhat all guys?” mumbled Josh.

“What say Josh?” said Mike.

“Zhat‟s all guys?”

“Yeah, for the meantime.”

“Anyt‟ingk else Moe?”

“Naw, I‟m good as is. Thanks Josh, you‟re a good man.

We need more like you.” Moe uttered a drunken snigger.

The two exited the store, rounded the corner and headed

for the Shalimar. They entered the building and saw Mrs.

Rankin. Mike and Moe gave her a nod and headed for

Mike‟s room. They entered and Moe took the chair next to

the door and unscrewed his bottle of whiskey. His eyes

skimmed the room and stopped at the window. In the

corner, the black and white television flickered images on

the wall and ceiling. All the knobs were missing. The

volume couldn‟t be adjusted, and channels couldn‟t be

changed. It was fixed on the one station, the local news

channel.

Mike said, “Whatcha lookin‟ at?”

“Oh nothin‟ in particular. I was just thinkin‟.”

After an hour of drinking, the two are quite inebriated.

Mike slurred, “What‟s that Moe?”

Moe took another sip. “What‟s what Mike?”

“You were saying about you were just thinkin‟…as if,

for some strange reason, you have a thought in your head.”

“When I was married.”

Mike rubbed his baldhead, while giggling and sipping his

whiskey. Another hour passed. He looked up to the ceiling.

“What about when you was hooked Moe?”

Ten minutes passed, Moe responded, “That was a long

time ago, maybe forty years ago.”

“You were married that long ago? No wonder why you

and women don‟t get along. You‟re too independent.”

“Come to think of it, you‟re exactly right, I‟m too

independent and I‟m going to stay that way.”

“At your age…who‟d marry you anyway?”

“God only knows,” Moe drooled out.

“I thought you didn‟t believe in God.”

“Let‟s not get into that stuff. I want to enjoy my hooch.”

Fifteen minutes passed.

“As you were sayin‟ about your old lady,” said Mike.

“Well, she reminds me a lot about someone.”

“You don‟t say. Someone huh. You know, I‟ve heard

talk Mrs. Rankin has her eye on you.”

“She ain‟t got a chance in a life time. Let me tell you,

once was enough.” Moe took a sip of his hooch.

“You mean,” said Mike, “your old lady was that bad.”

“Bad isn‟t the word for it Mike. She was the ultimate in

hell personified. She was a bona fide monster. If she lived

durin‟ the dinosaur days, she‟d be a T-Rex.”

After ten minutes raising and toasting Moe, Mike said,

“T-Rex huh, one-hundred percent, huh.”

“Hic…change that…hic, one-thousand percent.”

“Round it off to a million.”

“I‟ll drink to that.” Moe toasted Mike.

“You know, you never talked about your old lady.”

“She‟s a secret.”

“In what way?”

“Can you believe I was married to her for five miserable

years? How could I have been so stupid to get hitched with

her was a miracle? But, I‟ll tell you, she was one hellofa

deceptive broad.”

Ten minutes passed and Moe kept looking at the ceiling.

“Can you believe, she had me doin‟ everything, and

when I wised up to what she was doin‟, she said she wanted

a divorce?”

“What did she have you do?” said Mike.

“It wasn‟t as easy as you think. She had me doin‟ the

house, the clothes, and the cookin‟. And besides that, I was

workin‟ two jobs. One was my regular job, and the other

was a weekender. She did zilch.”

“Did she have a job?”

“She was a secretary to a divorce lawyer. One hellofa

rich dude he was. And no sooner did I turn around, I was

slapped with divorce papers…one, two, three, bang.”

Ten minutes passed. Moe glanced over to Mike, then

stared at the ceiling for the next ten minutes.

“I didn‟t know what was happenin‟ to me,” said Moe.

Mike said, “Whatcha talkin‟ about…happened what?”

“Divorce.”

“Oh yeah. You was talkin‟ about your old lady.”

“About a divorce my old lady slapped me.”

“Oh yeah. What about it?”

“When I got to court, everything she said about me was

one big lie. Can you believe that?”

Mike turned to Moe, sipped another drink, and motioned

another toast. “It happens every time…to the best of us. And

I‟ll bet she got the dog too.”

“And besides that, I had to pay five years alimony. Five

years, can you believe that? You‟d think after all those years

she would‟ve had some consideration for our relationship.

But hell no, she walked out of that court and didn‟t even

give me a smile.” He took another swig. “And get this; one

year later she writes me a letter tellin‟ me she‟s getting‟

married to her lawyer boss…and to top that…” Moe took a

sip from his bottle.

“Top what?” Mike took along drink.

“She wants me to give her away…as if I was her old man

at the wedding.”

“I‟ll toast to that old man. That‟s one hellofa slam-bam

thank you.” Mike raised his bottle to Moe. Took another sip.

Ten minutes passed, and Moe continued, “Then about a

year later I gets this phone call…and can you believe…it‟s

from her ol‟man…the shyster lawyer?”

“What did the shyster have to say?”

“He shouted so loud I had to keep the receiver two feet

from my ear, „what kind of woman did you give me?‟ he

says. As if I was her father…her old man.”

“And, what did you tell him?” Eager to hear what Moe‟s

response is, he gets closer to him. His ear was almost next to

Moe‟s mouth, and his eyes bulged out with anticipation.

Moe yelled, “I told him she was one hellofa bitch and

glad he finally found his match.”

Mike jerked back, laughing. “I‟ll toast to that too.”

“Now get this Mike,” said Moe, “and after a year I gets

this call from my ex. Can you believe that?”

“No kidding, she called. I can‟t believe it, for what?”

“She wants to get back together again.”

“No…why?”

“She said the old fart had a brain hemorrhage during one

of their fights, and then he keeled over dead…right on the

spot. It was in one of her favorite restaurants down on

Rodeo Drive. She said she was so embarrassed, she felt like

she killed the dude.”

“She probably did. Right in the restaurant, huh? What a

mess! So, what did you tell her? Evidently you didn‟t get

married again, did you?”

“I‟ll tell you, like I said before; one marriage was one too

many…in one life time…forever and ever. And I told her

that too. I said if you want a slave…buy one. They come

cheap. All you have to do was go down to Tijuana and

they‟re a dime a dozen.”

“Did she take your advice?”

“Hell no. She said that would cost too much. So I asked

her, how much money did your old man leave you?

Thinking he didn‟t have much. She‟s what I would call one

of the last big spenders of all time…since the beginnin‟ of

time…and „til the end of time.”

Mike interjected, “So, what did she have to say?”

“She said, „the idiot left me over ten million bucks.‟

Then I hung up on her. What does she think she is anyway?”

“Probably a master of men and slave to none.”

“Literally. I‟ll toast to that.”

And the two did, clink-clink, along with a couple of

added hiccups and more toasting.

After a couple of guzzles, Mike turned to the TV. Moe

closes his eyes, burped, and passed a long fart. Mike turned

to Moe and smirked, “I‟ll toast to that too.”

10

Dr. Langweilig took another drink, then another, then

another. He finished the contents, swallowed looking at the

bottle, and then made a frown. He held the bottle up and

peered down the hole to see if anything was inside. Nothing.

Slurring, “What one has to go through to see if one becomes

an alky…hic.”

He looked up to the ceiling, over to the window, it was

late afternoon, and reached for his wallet. Barely able to

focus, he closed one eye and squinted into his wallet with

the other. A twenty and a ten are stuffed and crumpled to

one side. Not able to see what the bills were, he pulled the

money out and finger- fluffed the bills to view them more

closely. A large grin filled his face. He slurred, “Man, thank

God I‟ve got another bottle.”

Dr. Langweilig slowly stood. Not able to see to well, he

reached over to the table to get his balance, and staggered to

the door. Couldn‟t open it, he reached for the large skeleton

key and turned it round and round back and forth. Finally

pulling it out, he turned the knob. The door was still locked.

He tried putting the key back but couldn‟t get it into the slot.

“Shi‟,” he screamed, staggered back and forth, lost his

balance and caught himself on the table.

A knock at the door turned Dr. Langweilig facing the

sound. “W-wha‟, w-w-wha‟, w-was it? W-whatcha want?”

he stuttered.

The voice said, “Dr. Langweilig is everything okay? I

heard you scream. Is everything okay in there?”

“Is that you Putnam?”

“Yeah, Doc. You okay?”

“I can‟t get up. My legs feel like rubber. Can you open

the door? It‟s locked and I can‟t get up.”

“Sure, just slide the key under the door.”

“I had the key a minute ago. Now I lost the bastard.” He

mumbled, “It‟s somewhere around here. I, I, I just had it. I

know I had it.”

“What say Doc?”

Dr. Langweilig shouted, “I, had it somewhere.”

“Did it go under the table…the bed…the chair?”

“Somewhere,” he shouted back.

Dr. Langweilig managed to get to his knees and crawled

under the table, moving his hand back and forth to feel if it

was there. He hit the skeleton key, and it slid across the

room careening from the wall and stopped under a chair.

“I hit it Putnam,” he screamed. “I hit it. It‟s somewhere

over there.” He pointed in the direction of the key.

“Well, go get it Doc. It ain‟t goinna walk off you know.”

Dr. Langweilig shook his head. “Putnam, I can‟t believe

I‟m this drunk. The world is spinning out of control.”

“Did you find the key Doc?” said Putnam.

“No,” shouted Dr. Langweilig. “No, but it‟s got to be

here somewhere. I just hit the damn thing.”

“Doc, don‟t move. I‟ll go around to the back door. Make

sure it‟s unlocked…okay.”

“Right Putnam.”

Crawling on all fours, Dr. Langweilig scooted to the back

door, reached up turning the knob. It opened. Putnam

entered and looked around the room.

“You okay Doc?”

“Do I look like I‟m okay? Shit, I‟m drunker than an ass

on all fours.” He looked up. “Can you believe that?”

“You shouldn‟t drink so much Doc.”

“Hey, I‟m not going to get anywhere if I stay sober.”

“You‟s not gettin‟ anywhere if you‟s in that condition.

How much did you drink Doc?”

“A whole bottle of hooch.”

“A fifth?”

“A fifth…a forth…whatever the bottle is.”

Putnam finally got Dr. Langweilig to his feet and a chair.

Barely sitting on the chair, he looked up to Putnam with a

stupid expression.

“Now tell me?” said Putnam, “What‟s the problem?”

“I‟ve got to get another bottle.” Dr. Langweilig‟s head

shook from side to side.

“That‟s no problem. You‟re lucky I just happen to be in

the hall when I heard you screamin‟. I‟ll get another bottle

for you. You got money. I got time.”

“Yeah…somewhere here. When I couldn‟t get the door

open, I lost my balance and threw the money somewhere

around this damn place.” He looked around the room.

“Somewhere here.” He pointed here and there.

Putnam eyes skimmed the room and spotted the two

crumbled bills, one lying on the floor and the other on the

bed. He picked them up. “Are these the two you‟re talking

about Doc?”

Dr. Langweilig looked at Putnam‟s hand, squinted.

“Yeah, yeah…that‟s the two. Can you get me some more

hooch? I can‟t get there from here. I‟m drunk as hell.”

“Sure Doc. What kind, the same old Jack Daniels?”

“Jack D or whatever…as long as its got hooch in it.”

Putnam walked out of Dr. Langweilig‟s room and passed

the strange man talking on the telephone. He looked at the

stranger in silent conversation and just shook his head as he

walked by.

“Look…I just don‟t understand,” said the mime. “It

doesn‟t make any sense. This whole thing that‟s happening

right now, it‟s nonsense…pure nonsense. You hear. What

do those people think I am…some kind of pinko? They‟re

all crazy as loons. You know what I mean.”

11

Dr. Langweilig was on a sabbatical from the University of

Chicago. Newly divorced, he took his sabbatical on the

West Coast to pursue a theory, and to be away from his

nagging ex. His theory was to see if there was a real cause

to alcoholism, mental or physical. His aim at the Shalimar

was to become an alcoholic to prove his theory.

The reason for his divorcee, as he said, was his ex-wife

lacked the ability to tap his libido and excite his muscle. In

other words, she didn‟t like sex and wanted no thing to do

with the pastime after they had their only child, which he

doubts was really his. As he told Putnam, not having sex for

long periods caused him to pursue willing maidens in need

of a good grade.

As he told the story, his wife one day walked in on him

after class and caught him caressing one of his students. His

excuse was she had no idea what a kiss was all about, and

since he was a professor of psychology, he was obligated to

give her tips and direction in such matters. After that

episode, his wife went directly to the lawyer‟s office and the

bank. She left him with nothing but the pants and shirt he

was wearing. As he said, when did they ever get together

anyway―on their anniversary―which became a moot point

in their arguments. She acted like a virgin every time they

went to bed―don‟t touch me until I‟m ready—which ended

up being never. He said sex was not in her vernacular, nor

was it her avocation, and would never become her hobby or

her pastime. Whenever they saw a movie that had a

passionate love scene, she would storm out of the theater

shouting, “Porno, porno, porno. Why do you take me to see

such godawful movies?”

When he came to the Shalimar, Putnam and he hit it right

off as if they were lost buddies from the Vietnam War.

Everyday they drank a bottle of whiskey each. Dr.

Langweilig liked Jack Daniels. Putnam didn‟t care as long

as it was wet and fortified with the right libation―namely

seventy-five proof or higher. Anything less he considered it

a chaser or a miserable joke.

Putnam was a retired military cook. Most of his years

spent under Uncle Sam‟s service were occupied by drink

rather than attending to meals. After getting out, he opened

a diner, but couldn‟t hold onto it because of his strong desire

for drink over food. He drank up his profits, which in the

end left him with no money to buy food.

Dr. Langweilig considered himself lost in the wrong

dimension. His wayward ways led him down the wrong

path, as he often said. In class, he often stated when on the

subject of bliss, “Cleaning the noodle with the right

preparation was paramount to a sexual work-out. It was

better to use a natural lubricant than manufactured…in other

words, saliva over petroleum jells.” Guys in his class would

cheer; gals would give raised eyebrows.

The two men were never seen without each other when

they were away from the Shalimar―often comparing notes

on their experiences. And of course, to see how much hooch

they could gulp down in a day. Putnam, a drinking pro,

never seemed to be out of line. Dr. Langweilig, on the other

hand was a novice. He never could see the point of

following a straight line, especially the line of morality.

Dr. Langweilig finally stood erect before the table, holding

on as if he were on a boat ready to tip over. To him, the

ground was swaying back and forth. He looked out the back

door to the houses below, and watched the houses sway to

and fro. Putnam walked in.

“Got your hooch…your Jack…right?” said Putnam.

“Yeah, that‟s it. Give me the bottle.”

Putnam handed Dr. Langweilig his bottle, unscrewed the

cap and gulped one swallow, then wiped his mouth with his

sleeve. “Man, did I need that bad.” He looked up to Putnam

and took another swig.

An hour passed. Dr. Langweilig passed out. Putnam took

one last swig from his bottle and recapped it. He slowly

lowered the bottle to the floor and passed out. The two

slumbered until they were awakened by noises outside the

door.

* * *

12

Ms. Starris Kinnite stared at the ceiling. Her eyes are fixed

as if she were in a daze. She didn‟t blink, nor did she move

her eyes from one side to the other, but continued an aimless

blank gaze into what seemed to be another world. At ten

that evening, she began to move one finger, then the next,

until all of her fingers drummed the arm of the overstuffed

chair where she was sprawled. The motion indicated for her

to take a pee. Reaching for the empty can, she peered into it.

She blinked once, twice, and a third time. She smiled. She

turned it upside down to see if there was a drop or two left

inside. Then, she lifted her dress and peed into it without

getting up or moving. A yellow stream arched into the can.

She murmured, “Bull‟s-eye.” After a moment, she leaned

her head back on the overstuffed chair and released an

exhausted sound of relief—aaaaahh. Before she left her

apartment, she tossed it out the window.

Ms. Starris Kinnite, better known as Starry Night, lived

in the mezzanine apartment. During the day, she slept most

of the time. But during the night, she wondered the streets

and looked for what she said were the night travelers.

The mezzanine apartment was an eight foot by fourteen-

foot room once reported to have been Charlie Chaplin‟s

private study. He was known to favor the room, as told by

Mr. Baktlfahrt. It was where his best creations came from.

The mellow glow of the soft light coming in from the north

was said to rouse his productive and reproductive energies.

It was also a favorite room for copulatory exploits with

female companions. He claimed it rounded out the day from

his hectic chaotic hours at the studio.

The mezzanine apartment was what Ms. Starris Kinnite

called her womb of stimulation. When Starris first set foot

into the room, she said she had to have it, a must under any

condition. She said it was the personification of Mother-

Earth—warm, rich and sensuous. It didn‟t matter if the

bathroom was up one flight or around corner to the right on

the first floor. She loved it. The mellow light coming in set

her mood for erotic space adventures, which she was

commonly accused of, because of the aroma that emitted

from the room after she left—a strong pungent smell of

estrogen and urine.

The tenants of the Shalimar often wondered why she

never used the bathroom, and why she poured her pee out

the window instead of taking it down to the bathroom. As

she told Mr. Talbot, a tenant one flight up: to her a

bathroom was an unnatural abode that was as man made as

plastic, nylon, and Uncle Sam. She hated the idea life had to

be manufactured. Life to her had to be all natural and

spontaneous. She told Mr. Talbot during one of their

arguments: if you gotta go, you gotta go. You can‟t just put

a cork in the situation and plug it up.

It was that time, the ever-unfailing hour of her exit when

she went onto the street and disappeared until the glimmer

of sunrise. Moe was locking up his apartment when Ms.

Starris Kinnite came down the grand flight of steps. He

nodded. She walked by him without giving him a glance,

and murmured, “Lethal weapon number two.” She noticed

someone in the phone niche, but didn‟t bat an eye when she

passed the stranger ramping and raving and hitting the wall

in silent comic mime.

Moe responded, “What say bit…,” he caught himself

before he continued the word bitch.

“What say?” she uttered as she continued out the door.

Then without hesitation, he whispered, “Bitch. You‟re a

bitch, you scum bag.”

Starris continued down the steps and screamed, “Bitch!

You call me bitch. You‟re going to die for this…you

fuckingbastardasshole!”

Moe screamed back, “Ditto dippo shitto.”

He watched her cross the street devoid of the oncoming

traffic swerve around her. It was as if she were untouchable

to anything coming close to her. She walked unafraid,

straight ahead until she reached the other side of the street.

Drivers screamed out their window, “What the hell…you

crazy or what?” and “You crazy bitch, can‟t you see?”

Stopping before the curb, she slowly raised her left leg, put

her foot on the sidewalk and stepped up; took a sharp right

turn and walked down the street into the black starless night

screaming, “You‟ll be dead by morning…never to be seen

by me or any living creature of God.”

“I can‟t believe it,” said Moe as he entered Mike‟s room.

Mike looked and said, “You can‟t believe what?”

“That bitch Starry Night. She walked across Hoover

without gettin‟ hit. She‟s oblivious to everything. She acts

like she‟s invisible.”

“If you ask me, she‟s always been transparent.”

“Yeah…no substance to that meat-bag.”

“Let‟s not dwell on false reality. Let‟s go to the Tap

d‟Hat and get some real reality. What say…huh Moe?” said

Mike.

“I‟m witcha. Let‟s go.”

They rounded the corner on Olympic, Mike looked up to

the sky. It was amber in color. He pointed. “I remember

when the sky was clear as crystal. You could see every star

in the sky. Now you can‟t see but one, two and the moon.”

“I‟ll bet you couldn‟t see Starry Night.”

Paying no attention to Moe‟s statement, Mike went on,

“You could even see the Milky-Way back then.”

“What happened, somebody drink it?”

“The smog, the amber lights, God only knows what took

away that beautiful heavenly sight.”

“There you go again Mike…talking about God again.”

“I‟m not talking about God.”

“You mentioned Him.”

“That‟s just an expression.”

“Expression, my foot…you said the word.”

“Come on. Let‟s keep it civil.”

“Let‟s get to the Tap d‟Hat. Last one‟s a limp weenie.”

Mike shuffled as fast as he could. Moe trailed behind

shouting, “You cheater. You‟re not fair. You‟re movin‟

faster than me. You can‟t do this to me…you cheater.”

“Old man, pick up your feet. If you can‟t keep up with

me, you need a wheelchair.”

“Hell if I do. You need a new brain.”

“I need a new body, not a new brain. My brain is okay.

Yours is full of potholes…you Alzheimer.”

The two fight to get into the Tap d‟Hat. Moe squeezed

first into the store leaving Mike angrier.

“Ugh, ugh…I‟m in first…you old coot,” said Moe.

“Maybe you‟re the one with alls-heimer, alls somethin‟ or

other. Whatever you call yourself.”

Without the two noticing the ominous figure, the strange

dark dressed man quietly rushed out the door as Moe and

Mike head toward their items they came in to buy. He was

never seen by anyone as he slipped out of sight and down

the street. Once he reached a good distance, he pulled a wad

of cash from his pocket, money he just took from the cash

register of the Tap d‟Hat, and thumbed it. He turned the

corner, headed up an alley and peered back to see if

anything out of the norm could be seen. Nothing, a single

car passed, a homeless man pushed a shopping cart trudged

on the other side of the street looking for discards. A cat ran

across the street without mishap. The night was still. He

walked further down an alley and took refuge among

discarded boxes and trashcans. Caressing his gun, he smiled

with assurance that he was safe. He kept a watchful eye on

the street, and continued to fondle his take.

13

The two chums stood in front of an aisle. Moe looked

down one side to the other looking for some munchies. He

walked over to the next aisle, didn‟t see what he was

looking for.

Mike said, “You see Moe, you can‟t remember from one

day to the next where you got the chips. You‟ve got

Alzheimer‟s. You hear me Alzheimer‟s.”

“You‟ve got Alls whatever, not me. I can remember

everything since I was one. Like, they‟re down that aisle.

The end aisle.” Moe pointed. “See.”

“No they‟re not. They‟re down the last aisle on your

right.” Mike grabbed Moe by the arm and dragged him to

the aisle. “See, this one on the right.”

“No they‟re not. I‟ll show you,” said Moe. The two walk

down the middle aisle, Moe looked from side to side. Mike

snickered. Moe stopped. “Okay smarty, where are they?”

“Like I said Alzheimer, they‟re down the right aisle.”

“Show me.”

Mike took Moe by the hand and entered the last aisle,

took a bow and gestured with his right hand pointing to the

chips. “See old man, right before your eyes. They‟ve never

moved and have always been there, since day-one.”

They gathered their favorite munchies and turned to the

cash register. Josh isn‟t in sight. Mike yelled for Josh. No

answer. Asche, Josh‟s cat jumped on top of the counter and

meowed for attention.

Mike yelled into the back room for Josh.

Moe noticed the cash register open. “Hey, look Mike.”

“What?” Mike said.

“The cash register is open…nothin‟s in it. You think

there‟s been a robbery…somebody robbed Josh?”

Asche continued to meow.

“I‟ll be.” Mike looked over the counter and noticed a

body lying on the floor. “Look,” he said pointing, “It‟s Josh

lying on the floor.”

Asche jumped on Josh and lied on his back. The two men

went behind the counter and Mike felt for any life. Moe

noticed blood under Josh‟s body. He touched the blood.

Mike said, “The blood is warm.”

Moe said, “Is he still alive.”

Feeling for a pulse, Mike turned to Moe. “The man‟s

dead.” He looked over to Moe.

“I‟ll call the cops,” said Moe. “You see if anything else

has been taken.” Moe dialed 911 and waited for an answer.

“Damn, you think LAPD would answer their line.”

Mike looked around the back room. “Why should they?

They‟re out havin‟ coffee.”

“Or a little,” said Mike.

“Damn, what‟s wrong with LAPD? Can‟t they answer

their phones?” He dialed again. The line had a busy signal.

“Isn‟t that like them when there‟s an emergency? They‟re

always busy or never there.”

“It‟s a whole different world with them Moe. You should

know that.”

Looking around the back room, Mike said, “Come

here…look here Moe what I‟ve found.”

Moe entered the back room. “What?”

“This sack. It‟s full of cash.” He showed Moe.

“Wow, how much do you think is in there?”

“One…two million. A whole hellofa lot if you ask me.”

“This ain‟t teller money. This looks like payday,” uttered

Moe as he peered into the store. “Why do you think Josh

has all this money, and for what?”

“Two mil, three mil, maybe more…money like this, I‟m

sure it ain‟t for the bank.”

Mike scratched his baldhead. “You think it‟s laundry?”

“Let‟s take it and get the hell outa here…fast.”

“I‟m not sure about that. I‟ve heard tales,” said Moe.

“You and your tales, I‟m getting‟ the outa here and

thinkin‟ about it later. See ya.”

As the two men left with the sack of money, Asche

followed and meowed behind them.

Mike slung the bag over his shoulder as if it were his

laundry. Asche weaved in and out of Moe‟s legs.

Mike looked down and said, “You know what, I think

that cat likes you Moe.”

“Yeah…she always has. You think I could keep her?”

“Josh isn‟t alive now. I‟m sure no one‟s goinna say

anything about her being gone. If she stays back at the Tap

d‟Hat, she may starve, or the pound will pick her up and

she‟ll be gassed.”

“Well, if you don‟t mind, I‟m keepin‟ her.”

“She ain‟t comin‟ to my room you hear. You keep her in

yours. Cats get dander and micro hair all over the place.”

“I will. Don‟t worry about it. She‟s a nice pussy.”

Moe turned to Asche and picked her up, stroked her, and

gave her a little kiss-peck on her head. She returned a loud

purr. They walked up the driveway to the Shalimar and

entered the house.

14

Nothing could be heard on the first floor. The room on the

northeast side of the Shalimar was dark and silent. The only

thing giving light to the room was the street lamp outside

the window. It gave just the right amount of light for Bibbie

Black to see things in her room. Chairs and a table in front

of the window are mismatched. Left over food remained on

a plate, and a half filled glass of white wine.

Bibbie sat up. She had been lying naked on her bed for

some time. Her boyfriend hadn‟t come home yet. He said he

was going out and wouldn‟t be back until he made a deal

with his bookie. It was hot and stuffy in the room. She got

up and opened the window wider. She didn‟t care if anyone

saw her. Standing before the open window, she took a big

breath as she felt the warm breeze caress her bare body. She

stretched and ran her hands down across her breast and

along her sides.

After standing in the breeze, she turned and took a sip of

wine from the half- filled glass. She swirled the wine in her

mouth and swallowed slowly, savors the mellow half-sweet

nectar of Blanc de Blanc. She took two more sips.

“Only if I had…,” she murmured, “…a good man that

had some responsibility to his soul. I need a responsible

man…a man that knows his position.”

She turned and sat back down on the bed and waited.

15

Bibbie Black came to the Shalimar three months ago. Mr.

Baktlfahrt introduced me. I was standing in the foyer after I

got my mail and flipped through the envelopes to see if I

had any important letters. Unfortunately, there were no

publishers in the group, just bills and junk mail—what I call

toilet paper. After Mr. Baktlfahrt left us, Bibbie told me she

had lost her job, and was on unemployment; otherwise, she

would be living like one of the bag- ladies frequently seen at

MacArther Park. For some odd reason, maybe it‟s because I

have that confessor kind of face, she started to give me her

life story. Her part-time work, as she said, consisted of men

eager for her boudoir talents. I had to take a back step on

that one. I didn‟t stop her; it of course could be important

info for a good book. As she went on to say, she often

picked up men at the “William Penn.” It‟s a popular place

for the lonely and once art students, when Chouinard Art

Institute was located just down the street. Bibbie needed

affection, she said, lots of affection. She stressed the word

affection a lot. Her aim was to find herself a man that would

take care of her, so she wouldn‟t have to spend her time

pursuing other eager men. In return, she would give him all

he desired―from head to foot―with no exception.

Why was she telling me this crap, went though my mind.

Why doesn‟t she just come out and say, “I‟m tired, I‟m old

and I don‟t want to hustle anymore. I just need somebody to

take the load off my cunt.” Or maybe it‟s because I look like

I‟m on my last leg, and she could make a big killing? I

doubt it. I haven‟t a penny to my name. LALA Inc keeps the

money I make and doles it out just enough for me to survive

on―the rest was invested, as Ellsworth told me, in a 401K.

He told me it was one of the benefits of working for LALA

Inc. I sometimes wonder, whose benefit.

She got into her past. After her mother‟s death, Bibbie

became the companion to her father. He never remarried

and she became the object of his passion. What was in the

household was better left to the household, her father often

said. She was well versed in her father‟s pleasures. Being

introduced at an early age of eight to his manly bliss, she

spent most of her youth in his tutelage. At the age of

seventeen, her father died and she was left up to her own

years, she spent her life in one brothel to the next, from CA

to NV and back. She knew where they all were, and could

take me to anyone anytime I wanted.

Great, that‟s all I need was another diversion from my

most important work. But then thinking about it, knowing

what sells these days, it could be the basis for a best seller.

16

The lone man was hunkered down between trashcans. His

back was against the wall, and sporadically he looked over

the containers down the alley to see if a cop car cruised by

or some innocent bystander happened to come his way. The

trashcans were loaded for the next day‟s pickup. The smell

was dominant. He covered his nose to smell his palm rather

than the stench around him. Fifteen minutes past. It was

calm. Russ had walked as fast as he could to stretch out the

distance between him and the Tap d‟Hat. As far as he could

tell, he was now safe. Another fifteen minutes passed and

still no sign of anything or anyone around. He stood,

reached into his pocket and withdrew the wad of cash he

pulled from the cash register. The money was in a clump.

He slowly flattens each bill and raps it up into a roll.

Thinking, he smiled, knowing he made a good take this

time. Recalling the event that occurred at the Tap d‟Hat and

what he did to Josh, he smirked over the situation. It was

unfortunate, but survival was survival, as the thoughts went

through his mind, besides the old man was old. He has seen

his days. His mind continued to consider the past event. I‟m

sure this take will get me out of here. Anything is better than

living in West Los Angeles, MacArther Park. He didn‟t

know about Josh‟s WW2 experience.

Russ didn‟t count the money; he figured it was the best

take ever. All he wanted to do now was to make it back to

Bibbie, settle into her arms and show her his take for that

night. Maybe, they could get married and settle down, go

somewhere out of Los Angeles, far. He now had the money

to show her, a good sizeable sum; he wasn‟t sure how much,

but he knew it was big. He didn‟t know the money he took

from the cash register was part of the store‟s laundry.

Each month a large bag would show up at the Tap d‟Hat

for Josh to recycle through the organization. There were no

questions asked, it just was part of the deal with the

organization. When Russ went into the Tap d‟Hat, Josh had

just taken enough money from the bag in the back room to

fill the register to make it look like the „day‟s take‟. The rest

was to be picked up by the organization as an agreement by

the two parties. The organization was the silent partner in

his ownership. Josh never suspected that a robbery would

take place, because of the bargain between the group and he,

which meant security from thieves, burglars and vandals.

Russ didn‟t know the Tap d‟Hat was one of many liquor

stores throughout SoCal being controlled by the mob.

17

I don‟t know what it was, but I seem to be caught up in

something I couldn‟t shake. I looked at what I jotted down,

leaned back, and gawked at the computer monitor. Put my

hands behind my head and leaned back to get a better

perspective of what I just did. I was lost for words again;

they just didn‟t come. I didn‟t want to have another day

sitting behind my keyboard doing nothing. Life was too

short for idleness. I‟m tired of playing solitaire. This was the

only time I get to put my words down without being

bothered by my boss‟ nonsense. All day long, I give all I

can to my boss, to LALA Inc, and all I get in return was a

week‟s measly paycheck. For what, so he can get the credit

and make the company richer? There‟s got to be more

returns to all this sweat and toil than a mindless blank mind.

Staring at the monitor was mesmerizing. I don‟t want to

play another game of FreeCell or Spider or Klondike, it just

didn‟t get me nowhere, no how, nothing fast.

I turned to the fridge, opened it and nothing but bread

and butter, an opened can of beans, and ketchup. The

ketchup I don‟t like; it‟s only good over spaghetti when you

have nothing else to eat with it. That‟s why I have it. It‟s

kind of like eating rice and soy sauce—a poor man‟s meal.

There was no beer anywhere on the shelves. I was

looking for a bottle to sooth my aching cranial cavity.

The day was smoggy and I needed something to sooth

my hoarse throat too. I have a tendency to speak out loud

when I type. That way I can hear what I‟m typing. It‟s like

listening to the radio or someone telling you a story. You

get all sides working together―ears, eyes and mind.

Nothing in the fridge, so I decided to go to the Tap d‟Hat

for beer. Going down stairs, I passed Moe and Mike. Mike

was holding a large bag. It didn‟t hit me right off, but it

looked like a laundry bag. I didn‟t pay much attention to the

matter. I thought maybe it was their weekly laundry and

they were returning from the Laundromat, since they

weren‟t carrying the usual bag of munchies and booze.

I thought it odd Moe was carrying a gray cat I‟ve seen at

the Tap d‟Hat. Moe kept stroking it as the two walked into

his room. I didn‟t look back, just walked out and headed

down the street toward the liquor store. The only thing on

my mind was beer and a possible story, anything other than

another game of solitaire.

When I rounded the corner, there were gobs of people

standing outside the place, the cops where there too, an

ambulance and the paramedics off to one side. Traffic

slowed down to a creepy crawl. The area was cordon off

with yellow ribbon. It looked serious.

“What‟s the problem?” I asked a bystander.

“Old Josh has been murdered. It looks like a robbery,”

said another fellow, “bullet right in the heart.”

An old woman said, “The poor old man. He was such a

nice man. God will have a place for him. He was nice to

everybody. Why did this happen to such a nice old man?”

Well, there went my beer. Now I have to hoof it up to

Seventh and Alvarado to that funky liquor store. I don‟t like

that place because they never have any good beer, and

besides they patronize all the druggies that come out of

MacArther Park. So regardless how I felt about MacArther‟s

liquor store, I headed my nose in that direction; I bought

some local brand, Brew 102.

Finally back at my pad, I extracted one can of Brew 102

from its six-pack and put the rest in the fridge. My favorite

beer is Chihuahua or Moose Head. MacArther only carries

American brands. Brew 102 was the cheapest and the only

one in the cooler. I don‟t like warm American beer. It has a

tendency to taste like warm seltzer water, and lacks body,

even though the coldness takes the edge off the seltzer taste.

I flipped the cap and took a good swig. The amber liquid

tasted good going down my throat, cooling and refreshing,

but the after taste was bland and weak. What can you expect

from local generic? What the hell, life‟s too short for

complaints. I‟ve got better things to think about than

complaining about fuzz water with alcohol.

I took a seat on my back porch and gazed out across the

LA pitscape. The night- lights twinkled in the dark haze,

which was typical of an LA night. Today it had been very

smoggy, and a good beer felt good to my raspy throat. I was

beginning to sound like the dudes down stairs, those old

codgers that live off Uncle Sam‟s dole and complain all day.

I hope I have more time on my hands when I get that old.

But, as luck my have it, I‟m not going to be any better off.

I toasted the skyscape and watched a plane descend

toward LAX, and finished off the last drop. After getting

another brew, I toasted the LA pitscape‟s twinkling amber

lights as they disappeared in the murky distance. I looked at

the label, read the can, Meier Brewing Co of LA, brewing

beer since 1875. I felt like I was in another dimension, not

in this one, back in the 50s when Brew 102 was popular.

Across the way, the next house over, I noticed motion in

a well- lit room. It was that young chick undressing in front

of the window again. She took off her blouse and gyrated in

front of the glass as if the window were a mirror. I chuckled.

If only she knew I was watching. Then she stood directly

still, and slowly her hands came up along her side and

around the back. Her bra fell to the floor. How innocent she

was. How innocent youth is. I toasted to her beauty.

My sixty some years still get a little tingle when I see a

young gal disrobe. She stood there for five minutes

admiring her youthful body. She had the nicest shaped

breasts―two well formed udders that looked as if only God

could have sculpted them. Her head tilted one way then the

other. Watching her was like watching my girl friend at the

time when I was young and innocent too. We never had

intercourse. She said that was for married people. We

played around orally. She said that was the safe way to have

fun. I never argued the point. I was young, she was young,

and the world of sex was one big adventure, especially for

me at nineteen. She was twenty-three. Any teenager eager to

venture into a woman‟s lair would be eager to be tutored in

the ways of adulthood.

This dance of life across the way happened every night,

almost right at eight. You can set your watch by it, give or

take a minute or two. Often the art students down stairs

hung out their back porch and watched too. Sometimes it

got to be like a burlesque show with everyone watching the

innocent exhibition.

Lately, no one came to see the show. I guess they‟ve seen

it, been there, and tried it too. After seeing the same thing

over and over, everything begins to take on a lack of

interest, and ends up a bore. I had a buddy once in the army

that said sex was boring to him, and why couldn‟t there be a

little toe licking to change the tempo a bit.

Tonight I‟ve got her all to myself. I dream. I ponder. I

reflected on my past. Lucky me. I see her go through her

motions. Youth was wonderful. How many times I‟ve

envied youth. It‟s innocence. Searching. What fun it was.

But no longer. I‟m an old man with different values and

different drives.

I‟ve made friends with the art students down stairs. They

go to Cal Arts up the hill from Los Angeles along the

Grapevine, the I-5. I asked why they lived down here and

not up there on the hill, it‟s such a distance, such a drive?

They said Westlake was the best place to live for an art

student. It‟s the past where Cal Arts began. It was known

then as Chouinard Art Institute. Kitzi said in this area all the

ghost of the past live here. I couldn‟t argue with that. This

place, the Shalimar was filled with at least one. My

apartment has a nightly visitor. I don‟t know why he still

haunts this place, even after all these years. I guess he‟s

caught between a dream and no man‟s land, and can‟t cross

over. Lucky me, I have him. I wish he‟d tell me his story.

But, I guess ghost don‟t talk.

The artsy duo was crazy as hell. What are these kids

thinking of today? They pierce their bodies all over―studs

here and studs there. I mean, this gal Kitzi Crump has studs

all over her body. She even has them on her tits dangling

from her nipples. She showed me. And without humiliation,

she pulled down her shorts and right in the middle of her

right buttocks was this stud, a shinny diamond twinkling

right at me. Can you believe that? That‟s these kids today.

What will the next generation think of next, if their lives are

studded with ouch here and ouch there? I‟m sure it‟s going

to be tattoos—maybe, fingernail and toenail transplants.

Like the studs they have dangling from their tongue, they‟ll

have a thumbnails and toenails growing out of it.

We weren‟t any different either, come to think of it. I

came out of the beat generation, which evolved into the

hippies. We started it all, free sex, free drugs, and free food

whenever we could get it, and free lifestyle. Whatever

happened to that free life? Some say we grew up, got jobs,

stopped dreaming and took on responsibilities.

I don‟t think I ever stopped dreaming. Every night I try

to dream up a good story, a bump in the night, what was

your most embarrassing moment, the girl next door, a

dream. At the end, this ritual of exercises turns out to be a

boring game of no-go nowhere solitaire.

I toasted one more time at Sherry Jung, the young chick

down across the way. I hope she never finds out the past

was watching her, and she doesn‟t mutilate her body as the

kids are doing today. That beautiful sculptured torso would

be a shame to see it covered in studs or body art or

fingernails and toenails. I hope she leaves it pure and

innocent the way God made it.

18

Presently, I live on the third floor of the Shalimar, the

socalled first house of Charlie Chaplin. Maybe his ghost

haunts the attic. Next to my room are the bathroom and the

staircase going up to the tower. It has a three-hundred and

sixty degree view of LA from up there. On a clear day, I can

see all the way to Santa Monica and the Channel Islands.

That is, if and when LA has a clear day. Next to the bed is

the closet. At the end of the walk- in closet is a door leading

to the attic. That has always puzzled me, an attic door

through the closet. It‟s weird in there. I mean you can‟t

imagine how funky it is. I mean, on the other side of the

attic is a single room. Not just any room, but this room has a

screen door in front of the door with a lockset and deadbolt

as if it were outside. Why would there be a screen door in

the attic room anyway? Why the room? That‟s what I mean

it‟s just weird, funky. The whole setup is mysterious. Did it

house one of Charlie‟s secretes? A treasure? What?

When you enter the room, you are astonished to find

wallpaper on the walls, and all the amenities of a room that

could be down stairs. Why, I ask again? Maybe Charlie

wanted it that way. Maybe, he planned someday to haunt the

old house, and that‟s where he wanted to stay. Legend has

it; he loved this house, the mezzanine room―according to

Mr. Baktlfahrt. Maybe, the attic room was where he kept his

trollops on hold. Who‟s to say? They say he was a lady‟s

man, a man about town, a cocksman of sorts. I don‟t know. I

just go by rumors, what people tell me. Most of the

information I got about the house came from Mr. Baktlfahrt

and some from Mr. Talbot.

My apartment takes up the whole floor plan, some 2500

square feet. In the main part of the room, where I pound

away at the computer, the entire wall on the Westside is

made up of windows, from wall to wall. I mean, I can see

just as good from there as I can see up in the tower, but not

360 degrees. What‟s nice about the room, lot of light comes

in and illuminates it. What I don‟t like about it, it heats up

something unbearable during the summer. Winters are okay,

the warmth is inviting. But summers are something else.

Since I can see 360 degrees from the tower, I have a

good view when LA burns. It can be quite a chilling

experience seeing homes and building go up in smoke.

During the Rodney King episode, I‟ll bet one could see dots

of smoke flare up here and there all over the basin. You

could tell how safe you were or not by the approaching

puffs of dark smoke. Luckily, none came this way. I guess

there wasn‟t much to burn in the MacArther Park area.

Fortunately, for our artsy-craftsy body-pierced couple down

stairs, the ghosts of once upon a time from the Chouinard

period, remains in this house―lucky me. I got him.

Another thing that‟s weird about the Shalimar, on the

second floor live two bizarre people, a Mrs. Dolmeier and a

Mr. Talbot. Mrs. Dolmeier is one old cracker. She doesn‟t

speak to anyone much except to Mrs. Rankin, who lives on

the first floor. She doesn‟t speak to any men that I know of;

at least I‟ve never seen her, except to Mr. Talbot. They

scream and holler at each other a lot. Every time I pass Mrs.

Dolmeier in the hall, for some odd reason, she looks the

other way to avoid eye contact. Is she hiding something? A

secrete? Does she know where the treasure is? If she found

it, I doubt it if she‟d stick around.

All the people in the house are pensioned, except the art

students, Bibbie and beau, and of course me. I should be

pensioned. I‟m past sixty-three. At least drawing Social

Security, but I want to wait until sixty-five to get full

benefits and Medicare―that‟s if I get that far. Sometimes I

wonder if I‟d like to reach those aged years, seeing the

weirdoes in this house. I‟m really a mismatch for this old

place. I think I‟m just too normal to be living here. Maybe,

as Mike often said, chances are God planned it that way.

Maybe he‟s right, and there‟s reason for me being here. A

good story, a possible book, and that‟s why I really don‟t

move. It‟s like when O. Henry said why he liked NY,

“There‟s a story in every apartment.” This house lurks a

story in every room.

I would think at the time this old place was built, around

the turn of the century, it would be a solid structure, br ick,

stone, but it isn‟t. No, it‟s not well insulated either. You can

hear everything that goes on. Not in detail, but you can hear

voices, music playing, and movement throughout the house.

I can hear my attic ghost too. He, she, it, drags a chain

across the floor, and it‟s quite audible. Sometimes I lie in

bed and count the times it rattles its chain between shuffles.

I can‟t say it causes any problem; it‟s more like listening to

sheep. It does put me to sleep though—that dull

monotonous drone of the chain dragging and rattling with

little clink-clanks here and there. Usually around fifty-six

clink-clanks I‟m out and enjoying another time zone. Like

when I drink Brew 102, it kind of brings you back to the

1950s when LA was trying to be big-time.

19

The side door opened, and Russ slipped into the foyer,

stopped to listen if there was anything or anyone nearby. He

saw no one, but heard something, but didn‟t know what was

babbling. “Look, I just don‟t understand,” said the

mysterious man, “it doesn‟t make any sense to me. This

whole thing that‟s happening right now, it‟s nonsense…you

hear, pure nonsense. I‟m not ready for this. No way in hell

am I ready. You hear.” He pounded his fist against the wall

in silent motion, bam-bam. Frustrated his pantomime

gestures didn‟t get through to the person he was talking to.

Cautiously, not wanting to be heard or seen, Russ

stepped quietly past the strange man on the phone and

stopped outside Bibbie‟s room. He looked in the direction of

every door he passed. Nothing was heard, not even soft

music or street traffic outside except a soft dead drone voice

coming from the phone niche. The man didn‟t seem to

notice Russ, nor did he care about the ominous person

slithering past him.

Russ quietly knocked a soft tap on Bibbie‟s door. He

heard her groan.

Seeing if the door was unlocked, Russ turned the knob

and entered, Bibbie was in a state of rapture. Taking his

place next to her, he ran his hand over her sumptuous body

and caressed her breast until he reached her pubis, and

removed her hand to work her to completion. “Oh Russ,”

she whispered, “Don‟t stop. It feels good down deep.”

20

Mr. Talbot ran his arthritic fingers down the stack not trying

to injure the evenly placed newspapers along the wall, and

slapped another LA Times on the stack. He smiled at his

pride of sixty some years of newspaper collection. The

collection lined the walls around the room, a twenty-five by

fifteen by ten foot room over looking the backyard and the

next house to the left. An ardent smile filled his face as he

stepped back to admire his collection. He heard voices in the

hall just outside his door. Knowing who they were, he didn‟t

want to open the door to be caught witnessing the gossiping.

He stood by the door and listened. The two women, talked

about grandchildren, food, shopping. They laughed, giggled.

Mr. Talbot shook his head and muttered, “Simple minds

linger on simple subjects.” He pressed closer to the door and

listened more intently. “Dribble, dribble, dribble…nothing

but dribble. Can‟t they ever talk about anything other than

babies, cooking and shopping?”

Hearing enough of the conversation, he opened the door

and the two women turned seeing Mr. Talbot emerge from

his inner sanctum. The two women caught a glimpse of the

newspapers lining the far wall. Mrs. Dolmeier turned away

so that Mr. Talbot couldn‟t look her straight in the eye. The

two women stopped their conversation. Mr. Talbot passed;

nodded, and descended the staircase. The two women

watched him descend to the first floor.

Once Mr. Talbot was out of sight, Mrs. Dolmeier said, “I

wonder what he‟s doing with all those newspapers.” She

craned her neck to see if he was still in the house and

couldn‟t hear her, she continued, “There must be tons,

thousands, millions of them…why? Why would anyone

want to hoard newspapers? It‟s beyond me.”

Mrs. Rankin said, “It‟s a mystery that‟s for sure. They‟d

sure make a big bonfire if this house ever caught fire. Woof,

the whole place would go up in smoke, and we‟d be looking

for another place if not counting clouds and shinning stars.”

“You mean dead.”

“You said it Sweaty…dead, charred, ashes to ashes, all in

one inferno blaze.”

“Why doesn‟t he throw them away? Doesn‟t he realize

they‟re dangerous, a fire hazard? If not, I‟m sure he‟s

harboring rats, if not cockroaches,” said Mrs. Dolmeier

elevating her voice to „rats and cockroaches.‟ She leaned

over the banister trying to catch a last glimpse of Mr. Talbot

going out the door.

“He‟s a packrat, a trash collector. He keeps anything,

collects everything, he‟s sick. I know, before I retired I

worked for a psychologist, one of the best in town. I know

all about these freakos,” said Mrs. Rankin. “You‟re right;

I‟ll bet he‟s got rats, if not roaches in those stacks.” She

stopped, paused, looked down into the foyer. “I‟ll bet he‟s

got a whole hive of bookworms, termites hidden in there

too, and doesn‟t even know it.”

“I‟m sure. You can never tell what he‟s got in that

room…could be a dead body in all those papers.”

“Sure…anyone that keeps anything over a week must be

sick…especially newspapers,” said Mrs. Rankin as she

twirled her finger by her temple.

“I‟ve been here a long time…and to tell you the truth,

I‟m beginning to believe everybody in this place is sick,

especially that crazy woman the lives in the mezzanine

apartment. What‟s her name?” whispered Mrs. Dolmeier.

“I think they call her Starry something or other…Night

or Starry Bright or something like that. I really don‟t know

her real name. She‟s one weird kook.”

“If you ask me, she‟s hardly bright. She‟s crazier then

that old man downstairs next to those crazy art students.”

“Who‟s that Hon?”

“The art students?”

“No the old man?”

“Oh that old man, that‟s Mike. He‟s nice accept when he

drinks and gets all drunk up.”

Mrs. Rankin said, “I hope he isn‟t an alky-holic.”

“I think he‟s crazier than a loon. You know he

propositioned me once,” said Mrs. Dolmeier.

Shocked. “You‟re kidding…that old man? He‟s such a

nice old man. He doesn‟t look like the type.”

“Yes, that old man. He has a dirty mind. I‟ll tell you, the

old fart has a filthy mind. I don‟t trust him for anything.”

Mrs. Rankin looked up to the ceiling to the Tiffany

stained glass dome, across the hall and down again. “What

is this world coming to? Once upon a time, it was safe for

any gal to walk the streets. But now…oh my God.”

“You said it Sweaty. It‟s not even safe to step outside

your door anymore these days.”

“You telling me. I was beginning to think he was a fine

gentleman. Did you know that he has a good size pension?”

“What from…what?” Mrs. Dolmeier‟s eyes open wide.

“He told me he was in the navy and had achieved a high

rank. I think he said he was a Petty Officer, second in

command to the Admiral.”

“I‟ll bet he was one petty alright. I‟ll bet he was just

buttering you up and telling you all that nonsense just to get

into your pretty pink panties. Petty Officer…my eye.”

“He also told me he was a monk at one time, but didn‟t

like the loneliness. He wanted more to life than praying.”

“That old man,” Mrs. Dolmeier murmured. “If you ask

me, he came straight from hell, not from some monastery.”

“But, he has such a spiritual nature about him.”

“An evil sprit if you ask me. If he has any spirit in him,

it‟s all that booze he drinks.” Mrs. Dolmeier looked down

the stairwell and over to Mike‟s room and smirked. “He‟s

not what you think he is. It‟s too bad he‟s that way.” She

looked at Mrs. Rankin in the eye and shook her finger while

looking down at Mike‟s room again. “I‟ll tell you Deary that

old man has to be watched.” She paused. “I‟ll tell you

what,” said Mrs. Dolmeier. “I don‟t feel comfortable talking

in the hall. Why don‟t we step into my room and I‟ll make

us some coffee. I just got a wonderful coffee from my

nephew. You know he lives in Europe these days.”

Mrs. Rankin said, “You don‟t say, huh!”

“Yeah, and he sent me this really good coffee. It‟s called

Prodomo, and it tastes heavenly. Would you like to come in

and have a cup?” Her eyes brighten up. “Whatcha say?”

“Sure Honey, why not. I‟ve got all the time in the world.

I‟m glad you asked me. It‟s nice to be pensioned.”

Mrs. Dolmeier said, “You know, I just don‟t want to tell

anyone this, but I have my eye on that Dr. Langweilig

downstairs. He reminds me of my once-upon-a-time

husband. He‟s so cute, even though he drinks a lot.”

21

Mr. Talbot has lived in the house for some thirty odd years.

Before he retired, he was a proofreader for the Los Angeles

Times. Everyday, he would take the entire newspaper and

check for typos. Even today, he skimmed the pages looking

for misspelled words, grammatical errors and misaligned

columns, and other out of place things. Today with the

computer, there are very few imperfections. But in the old

days when everything was set by hand and linotype, he ran

into many typographical flaws. He never missed a typo. His

eyes were keen and sharp, but today, after all those years of

reading, he has a sight problem. Mr. Talbot has extreme

presbyopia, a condition where the eyes can no longer focus,

and myopia, an extreme condition of nearsightedness. One

eye is better than the other, which makes his eyes look

cockeyed due to the thickness of the lenses. When he walks

down stairs, he has to hold onto the railing. He needs new

glasses to correct his distance, but never seems to get around

to going to the optometrist. The glasses he wears makes his

eyes appear to look as if he is seeing through bottle ends,

bulging bug-eyes, because of the minus-five correction.

Living for thirty years in the house, Mr. Talbot has seen

many people come and go, and many things happen. He has

records of the house being moved. When he first came to

the house, it was across the street on Hoover. After five

years, it was moved and placed at the crest of Hoover Street

near Olympic. Some say the old house was never torn down

because it was once owned by Charlie Chaplin. Mr. Talbot

has all the records documenting its existence since he started

living there. As he has said many times, a treasure trove of

history, if not a real treasure lurks somewhere within these

old walls, under the floorboards, if not in the attic hidden

away collecting dust.

That morning, as usual, Mr. Talbot left his room,

gingerly walked down the stairs past the man on the phone,

but didn‟t notice him going through his gyrations. As he

passed, he heard him mumble, but didn‟t pay any attention

to his constant rambling.

“Look…I just don‟t understand,” he said. “It doesn‟t

make any sense. This whole thing that‟s happening right

now, it‟s nonsense…pure nonsense. You hear. It‟s as if I

don‟t exist in this real world. I have the feeling I‟m none

gratis.” He continued to pound his fist against the wall in

silent mime. The strange man appears as an angry

pantomime in action, making little sound that only can be

heard by a few. Again, Mr. Talbot glanced at the elusive

man and shook his head.

Mr. Talbot exited the Shalimar, entered his car, and

noticed another died splash left by Ms. Starris Kinnite. He

shook his head and turned on the window wipers. It scraped

the semi-dried urine into a murky mess. Then he turned on

the window washers until it was clear enough to see out. He

drove toward MacArther Park, hoping his buddies would be

there and another day from Ms. Starris Kinnite‟s perpetual

pissy nightmare.

22

Mr. Talbot entered MacArther Park, walked over to his

favorite bench at the senior‟s center, sat down next to his

friends, and watched the game of checkers. He didn‟t say

anything at first, just watched.

After a long awaited move, Mr. Talbot winced at the

choice his friend made. “Why Sam. Can‟t you see that Joe

will take your man and then the king?”

Without looking up, happily Sam gestured. “Joe, please

take my man and king. They‟re all yours.”

“My pleasure Sam.” Joe hopped over the man, the king,

then picked them up, and returned a gleeful smile.

Sam scrutinized his next move, hesitated, and then with

one swoop of his hand, jumped five of Joe‟s men.

Joe screamed, “What the hell are you trying to do?”

“Beat the living shit outa ya. That‟s what.” Mr. Talbot

ripped into a hilarious gut bolting laugh.

Calm as can be and without batting an eye Sam said,

“You owe me twenty bucks Joe.” Smiling, then looking up

to Mr. Talbot, he gestured. “You want to play Tal?”

23

The money lied on the floor. Russ had his legs spread

around his take. Bibbie sat opposite with her legs spread

apart and overlapping his. They were both naked and

enjoying the sight that lay before them. Each denomination

was in neat little piles, nested between their legs. Bibbie

grabbed her groin with her two hands and pressed.

Russ said, “You okay Hon, anything wrong there?”

“No…it just looks so good it hurts…it pings right up me.

You know,” she giggled, “it…it turns me on awful.”

He forced a cough. “Let me take care of that.” He

reached over, cupped his hand into her crotch, and pressed.

She moaned gently. He pressed her again. She reached over

to him and pulled him on top of her. After an hour of coital

gyration, she rolled on top of him and rotated her groin

bringing him deeper. Out in the foyer, audible groans could

be heard coming from her room.

“You owe me,” she said working into a heated orgasm.

Grasping for air, Russ gave her one last deep climatic

plunge and grunted, “Anything you say Hon…anything.”

The money was scattered all over the floor from their

work out. After their heated rapture ended, Bibbie reached

out to one of the bills and fingered it. It was a fifty. She

smiled, and then started picking up the strewn bills one by

one. Russ watched her quietly as he caressed her buttocks.

She giggled, “I‟ve never had so much fun.”

“We could have more fun…if we get married. How

about it?”

She didn‟t say anything, just continued picking up the

twenties, tens and fifties. Russ fondled her body.

She said, “You know, there must be at least five-thou.”

“I figure.”

“What are we going to do with it?”

“We could get married.”

“We could. What else?”

“We could go to Vegas and play the slots.”

“There‟s no money in the slots in Vegas. Just sluts.”

“Well Sweets, didn‟t you tell me you played that court

once? Well, I figure we take the money and set up shop.

How does that sound?”

“Me hooking?”

“Who else? You think I can hook? I‟m not into guys.”

“There‟s a lot of gals out there who are looking for a

good whip…one that‟s long and strong.”

“Sounds like a good plan. When do you want to go?”

“Not right off. I heard there‟s going to be a big bash

coming up. With this kinda money, we could buy several

bricks and offer them at the party. What do ya say Hon?

Does that sound like a plan?”

“That sounds great to me. When‟s the party?”

“I‟m not sure, in the next week or two on Friday.”

24

Next door to Bibbie and Russ live Dawg Conan and his

sweetheart Kitzi Crump. They are what I would call bodyart

advocates. They enjoy having studs placed all over their

body, especially Kitzi. Dawg wears a queue dangling from

the back of his head, besides all the punctured stuff he‟s

done to his body. Coming from Ireland, he is as Irish as

Irish can be. Sometimes I have a suspicion that he is an

illegal alien. He gets edgy when people ask him questions

about how he came to America. His roomy Kitzi, have some

kind of bet going on who can adorn more pain dangling

spears and studs on their body. From what Kitzi has shown

me, she‟s ahead of the game. I sometimes wonder if they

don‟t get locked during their body-to-body contact and

workouts.

The other day, while tethered, hand to hand with Dawg,

she stopped me in the hall and had to tell me all about

Dawg‟s new stud. Dawg went into his room looking a little

faint. I looked his way as he entered their room.

She giggled, “Don‟t mind him; he just had his cock

altered with prickly bumps.”

“You don‟t say.” I said, trying not to be surprised. “I‟ll

bet that‟ll give you an added tickle.”

She giggled, “Permanently Frenched I would say.”

It‟s amazing how art students make it in the world these

days. I guess it‟s all part of who you know. I mean, they‟re

so out of touch with reality. If I went around looking like a

freak show, I‟m sure I‟d be canned the next day. How in the

world do they make it from day to the next has always

puzzled me. Freaky seems to be part of art students these

days. During my art school days, we were weird but not

freaky. Today, they go around looking like something that

came out of a Barnum exhibition.

Every year, Dawg and Kitzi throw two big parties, one at

the beginning of the school year, and one at the end. And, it

seems every time I turn around; they have some kind of

happening going on in their pad. They are unbelievable. If

one can imagine a room full of art students and God only

knows what, dancing, drinking, drugging, to name a few of

the things that go on, it‟s just amazing they don‟t get tossed

into the slammer.

I don‟t do drugs. I‟ve only tried it twice in my life. I

don‟t think I ever will try it again―it‟s just not my gig―it

just doesn‟t do it for me. I had a buddy that came back from

Vietnam and was hooked on drugs. I don‟t know if it was

the war, but he shot himself in the head. His father told me

he kept having nightmares about shooting women and

children. I think I would shoot myself too if I had that

experience. And, that‟s why I don‟t do drug. You might say

it‟s in memory of Carl.

Anyway, Dawg and Kitzi are throwing their annual this

next weekend. It‟s the end of the year celebration, a

commemoration to Chouinard Art Institute. The last one

they had in September was too wild for me. I got about an

hour in and had to go up to my loft. In the middle of the

party, one of the freaks disembowels himself. He must have

been on heavy drugs. Even though I‟m on the third floor the

noise and music vibrates throughout the house something

terrible. How the other tenants put up with all this is

amazing. I mean it just shakes the house as if you‟re

experiencing a seven-point-niner. As Dawg and Kitzi have

always said, “If the house was a rockin‟, don‟t come a

knockin‟, just come on in, and be part of the din.”

I try to be out of the house when they do their parties.

25

Bright and early the next morning Mike or Moe began to

stir. Asche was lying on Moe‟s lap when she became stirred

by his movement. Stiff, Mike stretched out and fell back on

his bed. He grasped for breath trying to get it together. Mike

kept looking at the laundry bag of money.

In the corner, the TV was recounting yesterday‟s news

events. The light from the black and white set flashed dark

and light images against the walls and ceiling.

Moe watched the flicker bounce off the walls and ceiling;

it displayed strange patterns. He didn‟t pay any attention to

the news being announced.

The brassy sound of the old black and white TV echoed

between the two anchors: “…the war isn‟t making much

progress. A lot of killing has taken place. The insurgency, as

usual, did their worse ever yesterday…killing one-hundred

and fifty-six people and injuring three-hundred and sixty.

The damage to the theater was total destruction. The

commander said he doesn‟t think this war will end in the

near future. He said they just don‟t have the replacements or

the supplies.” The anchor smiled, paused, and turned to his

partner. “Now for a brief commercial.” The scene faded into

a shot‟em-up Western movie due out at the theaters Friday.

Moe took notice of the commercial and mouthed, “One

hellofa mean cowpoke. If only I could be like him.” He

mimicked the quick draw with his finger. “Bam-bam.”

After five commercials, the news team reappeared.

“Good job Tom,” said to the co-anchor. “Now for a brief

wrap-up of LA‟s traffic.” He smiled. “There was a traffic

jam on the six-o-five.” He turned to his partner and smiled.

His partner was talking to the weathergirl. He turned back to

the on-camera. “Evidently, the six-o-five was experiencing

the action of one irate driver. He rammed another car, which

the spectator said: the „you-know-what finger‟ was flipped

to the irate driver causing the incident.” He smiled then

chuckled. “Now for a brief commercial announcement.” The

camera faded to a public announcement, a soap commercial,

a toothpaste commercial, a BigMac announcement, Internet

commercial, a car commercial, then to a rap-up commercial.

The anchor reappeared on the tub. “That was great

reporting Sam.” He turns toward the weatherwoman

Tapioca Puddin. “Tapioca will bring you the latest weather

news from the weather satellite and her report of the

volcano happening in Mexico.” Pausing, he turned to the

weather set. The director pointed for her to take camera one.

“Thanks Tom,” said Tapioca Puddin. “Now for the local

weather…” Her finger pointed to the oversized weather map

behind her. “As you can see this storm front is…” She was

interrupted by a newsflash blasting away across the screen.

“What the he…,” she said.

The screen faded into a commercial.

Finally breaking the silence Moe said, “What if we get

caught? We‟ll go to jail.”

Asche got up and stretched. She bumped against Moe‟s

chest and purred. He petted her and scratched her chin. The

gray cat pointed her nose at Moe and he gave her a little

kiss-peck on her muzzle.

“We won‟t get caught,” said Mike. “We won‟t go to jail

either. Who knows that we got the stuff?”

Moe whimpered, “Somebody‟ll find out if it‟s the banks

dough, they‟ll put an all-out alert on us.”

“How‟ll they know if we have it? Besides, who is that

somebody goinna be…YOU?”

“The COPS,” blurted Moe.

“I don‟t think so. I don‟t think it‟s even the banks.”

“Then whose?”

“If it‟s going to be anybody‟s money, it most likely will

be the mob‟s…not the bank‟s…not Josh‟s…you hear.”

“Oh shit, then they‟ll come after us, and we‟ll become

fish bate for sure. You know…shark feed.”

“How‟ll they know it‟s us? We were the only ones in the

store. No body saw us go in or out. I figure Josh had been

layin‟ there for about fifteen minutes to half an hour. If you

ask me the murderer got away clean and clear. I‟m sure it

was just a druggy looking for fast cash. That‟s why he never

looked inside the back room. Maybe we came and

interrupted him and he took a quick out before we noticed

the dude. I‟m sure if we saw him we‟d be history.”

“I‟m not too sure. We should turn the money in.”

“Are you kidding? To who?”

“The police.”

“The police! Are you crazy? They‟ll put us through an

interrogation that won‟t quit.” Mike looked up to the ceiling

raised both his hands waving them frantically in the air. “If I

know you, you‟ll tell them we killed Josh.”

“I feel like we did. We witnessed his dead body.”

“Seein‟ the murder and seein‟ the dead dude isn‟t the

same thing. And besides, we don‟t exist…as far as anybody

is concerned. We are nix, nada, zero, null, the ex-factor in

the equation. You know the unknown. As far as I‟m

concern…God is the only one that knows…and He‟s not

goinna tell nobody.”

“I‟m not too sure.” Moe covered his eyes. “I need a

drink.” Asche gave out a little purr-meow. “And you need

somethin‟ to eat too, don‟tcha, my dear little pussy?”

“Remember, all we took out of that store was a bag. The

munchies and hooch we didn‟t take. You know, we didn‟t

pay for it. We just took the sack of laundry.”

Outside Mike‟s room, a door opened, and they stopped

talking and listened. Mike put his finger to his mouth to

indicate silence. They sat without moving or saying

anything for another half an hour. People could be heard out

in the foyer. Dawg and Kitzi were talking to unfamiliar

voices. The voices got louder. Doors opened and closed.

Footsteps rushed back and forth passed Mike‟s door. Moe

frightened, watched the shadows move and fleet across the

threshold gap. Moe cringed with ever passing shadow.

Mike whispered, “Don‟t be such a pansy. Nobody

knows. Nobody will ever find out. And if they do, you‟ll be

the one that will spill the beans.” He pointed his finger at

Moe. “You…you hear.”

Moe shouted, “Me!”

“Yes you. I‟m completely in control of this matter.

You‟re falling apart. You‟ve got to be watched until this

whole thing blows over. If I let you out of my sight, I‟m

sure you‟d run to the cops…just to save your wimpy halfass

ass. Then you‟d really get us in trouble. We‟d become two

canaries in a cage, and you‟d be singing to the tune…we did

it. We killed Josh.”

“They‟re comin‟ after us, I‟ll tell ya Mike. I know it. God

and the mob is goinna punish us.”

“God my foot. It don‟t make no diff. God isn‟t goinna

punish us…you are and you know it. I‟m sorry I ever got to

know you. I‟m sorry I let you come with me to the Tap

d‟Hat. I‟m sorry I was born into this miserable mess.”

“I‟m sorry I ever talked to you that day you stepped into

my life,” said Moe. “If I had kept to my business, I wouldn‟t

be in this predicament today…you know. Shit, if God ain‟t

goinna punish us…it sure will be the mob.”

“I doubt it,” said Mike.

* * *

26

The din of chatter got louder in Dawg and Kitzi‟s room;

they are getting ready to go to school. The Shalimar was

awake. Not a tenant was sleeping. Mrs. Rankin sat in her

rocking chair and read “Little Women,” a book she never

seemed to get tired of reading. She sometimes puts the book

down and recites a favorite paragraph or two. Not being able

to hear her voice over the hubbub, she would speak louder,

and often times into a shout and acted out the dialog.

Dr. Langweilig and Putnam toasted each other and

passed out. They are oblivious to the clatter next door. Dr.

Langweilig‟s room is next the Dawg and Kitzi‟s room. After

an hour of inebriated sleep, Dr. Langweilig heard something

strange. He couldn‟t say what it was; it was odd and eerie.

His eyes opened wide. In front of him was a strange looking

man, as if he were a bum just off the street. The man wore

baggy pants, a coat too small for him and on his head was a

bowler. The stranger stood there looking at Dr. Langweilig

disgusted as he leaned on a bamboo cane.

Dr. Langweilig said, “W-w-who are you? And what are

you doing in my room? Then all of a sudden, the stranger

disappeared into thin air.

Not knowing what to think of the situation, Dr.

Langweilig shouted.

Sleepily, Putnam came to his senses and woke up. “Uh,

uh, uh, wha, wha, what you say Doc?”

“Who was that man?”

Putnam said, “Uh…I uh, I don‟t know. What man?”

“The man that was standing there.”

“I don‟t see any man. Where?”

“I don‟t know. I must be seeing things, or this booze is

finally working.”

27

Moe whispered and tried not to be heard across the room,

“How much do you think was in that sack Mike?” He

stretched his nick out as far as he could toward Mike and

pointed at the sack.

Mike looked at him and blinked repeatedly. He

screamed, “I don‟t know. You want to count it?”

Moe fanned the air hysterically, “No, not so loud. I‟m

afraid.” Asche jumped up to his lap.

“Of what?” screamed Mike.

Moe whispered between his hands, “The cops may see us

and search us.”

Mike spoke above normal,” The only thing that‟ll see us

is God.”

“That‟s what I‟m afraid of,” whispered Moe. “He sees

all, hears all, knows all…and will tell the cops.”

Mike looked Moe in the eyes. “You know Moe, with all

your self-conscious behavior and guilt feelings, you will be

going to hell if not to jail by the time you get your senses

together…you know that.”

“That‟s what I‟m afraid of.”

Mike whispered, “Let‟s count the dough.”

There was too much money, Mike and Moe couldn‟t stop

shaking their heads. The money was all over the floor in

neat little piles of twenties, fifties, and one hundreds.

“What do you imagine this money was for?” said Mike,

shaking his head back and forth. “I can‟t imagine.”

“I think Josh was saving it for a rainy day.”

“In a sack…in the back room…you‟re outa your cotton

pickin‟ mind. The guy was launderin‟…recyclin‟ cash.

“For who…for what?”

“I‟m sure for the mob.”

“I‟ve never heard of such a thing. LA doesn‟t have the

mob or any organized crime…that‟s Chicago…New York.”

“LA doesn‟t have the mob…organized crime. You must

be kidding. Let me tell you kiddo…LA was one big

organized crime syndicate. Every Mom-n-Pop, every liquor

store, every bar, every filling station…any biz that has

across the palm cash was somehow is linked to the mob.

Every sports event, every race track, every bookie is linked

to the mob. Every lawyer, every politician, even the police,

our own LAPD is linked. Don‟t you read the newspapers?

There‟s corruption everywhere…even in this old city of

angels, and every town from Long Beach to Ventura…from

Santa Monica to San Bernardino.”

Moe scratched his head and tears came to his eyes. “I

want to go back to mommy,” whimpered Moe.

Looking at the money and pointing at each stack of bills

Mike said, “You know; it looks like we have in the area of

five-mil on our hands…more or less. It‟s too much money

for me to count. I keep loosin‟ track of where I‟m at.”

“Yeah, too much for me to look at.”

“You know what Moe?”

“What Mike?”

“This dough was just like receiving a freebee from the

US Treasury with no strings attached. We‟re scot- free of

any obligation. You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, so…what‟re we goinna do with it?”

“That‟s a good question Moe. We can‟t go out and

splurge…that would attract too much attention. We can‟t

take it to the bank…they‟d just ask questions, and the Feds

would be knockin‟ at our door. I really don‟t know Moe. I

guess we could bury it and little by little use it up.”

“Five million…at our age that would take forever.”

“The way I see you spend money…not in this life time.

You‟re such a penny-pincher.”

“Well, the cost of everything these days, you‟ve gotta

watch every penny. Geez man…what do you think I am?

I‟m no John D.”

“The way I look at it. Today, you can be right up there

with the best of them and call yourself John D, if not

Rockefeller or Gates or Buffett. We got it and nobody, and I

mean nobody, knows we got it.”

28

After I watched the burli-Q show down across the way, and

downed my last can of Brew 102, Sherry finally donned her

nightie and turned out the light. I decided the only

alternative I had was to try to give my computer and brain

another try at verbal exercising. I sat there, what seemed

like ages. My stare turned into a glazed gaze fixed on the

monitor. Nothing happened. Nothing came to mind. The

Microsoft Word white writing field turned into a huge

effervescent glow that mesmerized my thoughts. I began to

have the feeling somebody was in the room, and I couldn‟t

move. All I could think of was my over worked imagination

malfunctioned. Then, I felt as if a hand press against my

shoulder. I jerked my head toward the imaginary touch and

saw nothing. Looking around the room, I saw nothing out of

the ordinary. The sofa was in the right place. The table I sat

at hadn‟t moved. My bed was still in the same corner, the

same shape I left it this morning, unmade and wanting

attention. The closet door was open, as always. Some

clothes were on the floor. That was strange I thought. I may

not always make up the bed, but I always hang up my

clothes. And then there was this strange energy emitting

from the closet, almost as if I could see it―a kind of energy

that quivered and shimmered. You couldn‟t see it quite;

only somehow sense it. It gave me an eerie strange feeling.

I looked down at the computer‟s clock to see what time it

was. It wasn‟t quite ten. So I wasn‟t sure what was going

on. I knew from experience, Mr. Ghost didn‟t emerge in the

attic until after ten. So, I was puzzled. What was going on in

there? Could he be in trouble? Should I go in? Or, should I

do what? There was this understanding between the two of

us, since I lived there years ago. I was never to go in after

the hour of ten. It was his domain from that time on.

I uttered, “What do you want from me?”

This energy persisted. There was this query kind of

sensation emitting from it, it persisted and wouldn‟t let me

have any peace. It kept hounding me.

“What is it?” I screamed. “Can‟t you leave me alone?

Why are you doing this to me?”

Still no answer came from the closet.

I got up from the computer and looked straight at the

open door. I didn‟t go near it or enter it. I just stared at the

gaping doorway.

Finally, I said, “If you won‟t tell me what the problem is,

at least don‟t bother me until you have something to say…”

I hesitated. “…or show me. Give me a sign that you are

trying to communicate with me.”

The strange energy dissipated back into the closet. For

the rest of the night I was left to my computer. For the first

time in weeks, I began to write furiously nonstop.

I don‟t know what I was putting down; it just came in a

flash, scene after scene. Later that night, three in the

morning, I had finished a short story about an abandoned

love. Was this Mr. Ghost doing this to me? Was he telling

me something? Or was it just my overworked imagination

making this all up?

Then all of a sudden, I was stirred by shouting

downstairs. What‟s wrong now? I looked over to the clock.

Three o‟clock sharp it read. Am I out of my mind? Whoever

was screaming was out of their mind. What am I doing up

so late at three in the morning? I saved my story, logged off

and went to bed, and listened to the chaos that was

happening down stairs.

In the mezzanine room, Ms. Starris Kinnite shouted. She

opened one eye. She couldn‟t open the other; it was glued

tight with accumulated dried tears. She rubbed it; it finally

separated and was now able to open it, but slowly. Turning

to the clock on the table, she jumped up and screamed, “I‟m

late. They‟re waiting for me. I‟m late for the encounter…the

most important encounter of the year.”

It was three in the morning, and she missed an important

session with her celestial klatch, an encounter with aliens.

This was an important date for her.

She looked from side to side for anything to put on.

Screaming in a high-pitched voice, “I will miss it, I will

miss it…the event,” she said nervously. “They won‟t trust

me anymore. I‟ve failed them. They won‟t believe me. Oh,

my God what‟s going to happen to me? Oh my God, what

will they think of me? I‟ve failed them. They will no longer

include me in their adventures to far away celestial places,

Mars, Jupiter, my birthplace…homeland…Venus.”

She grasped for breath. “I‟ve gotta take a pee.” Her head

darted from side to side looking for something, but what,

she didn‟t quite know. “Oh…that‟s what it is…my can.

Where‟s that stupid idiotic can of mine?” She repeated, “Tin

can…tin can, can…where are you…tin can? I‟ve got to go

bad.” She looked around the room and spotted it under the

table. Finally, she gave out a breath of release, picked up the

can and peed into it.

After a sigh of relief, she uttered, “Bull‟s-eye.”

Smiling, she looked down at her achievement and

effortlessly said, “Out you go.” She opened the window and

tossed the amber liquid to the air. It showered down on top

of Mr. Talbot‟s car―whoosh, splat. The urine dribbled over

the side of the car leaving yellow rivulets along the way. It

dried to a yellowish crystal scum.

* * *

29

Bright and early that morning I pulled myself together. I

didn‟t want to go to work. All throughout the night, my

story was on my mind. I had a good draft down and was

eager to get in to it. What the hell, I wasn‟t getting any sleep

anyway. Thinking a shower would get the sleep out of my

eyes; I emerged from the cubical wet and still tired. The

water hitting my face nudged me somewhat awake, but the

strong coffee did the job.

While I was munching on an English muffin and sipped

coffee, I thought about what Starris was doing last night.

She woke me from my hypnotic concentration, which

brought me to my senses. I should get to bed if I wanted to

be productive at work. But, I couldn‟t stop thinking about

the story I had put down. I tossed and turned all night

envisioning my story and Starris‟ scream. The two meld

together into a mélange of disorganized images.

At eight, I stumbled down the stares to emerge in front of

Ms. Starris Kinnite. I looked at her, she glanced at me, and

Mr. Talbot was one upset man.

Stuttering, “S-s-s-she…s-she…she threw her piss all over

my car again,” said Mr. Talbot.

The traumatic incident happened every time he parked

his car under her window.

I looked over to Mr. Talbot and thought…thank God it

wasn‟t shit.

“Mr. Talbot,” I said trying to calm him down, “you‟ve

got to remember not to park your car under her window.” I

looked at him straight in the eyes. He calmed down a little.

“Do you understand? Can‟t you park it in the back by the

garages like normal people do?”

Ms. Starris Kinnite said, “The man is an idiot. He‟s

senile. If he had any intelligence, he‟d remember by now.”

She gave Mr. Talbot a beady stare. “You don‟t park it in the

driveway. What if somebody has to get to the garages?”

Mr. Talbot said, “B-but, I have a right to park there. She

doesn‟t have the right to pee all over my car.”

“I didn‟t pee on your car,” said Starris.

“Yes you did…all over it.” Mr. Talbot raised his voice,

“You want to see it?”

“No. I know what pee looks like,” she said.

“It‟s all dried and caked on the windshield. It‟s a mess

and I can‟t drive it with that piss all over it. I can‟t see out of

it. It fogged up the windshield something awful.”

“Oh you earthlings,” she said, “You‟re all idiots, stupid

imbeciles that can‟t remember one thing to the next. Let

alone…see anything. Can‟t you just wash it off?”

I turned to Starris. “You know there are regulations that

forbid urinating or defecating in public?”

She turned to me, gave me a toxic stare and snapped, “I

don‟t urinate or defecate in public.”

“You know it‟s a health hazard,” I said.

“What‟s a little pee anyway? It‟s just water with salt in it.

Some people…you know…drink it.”

Mr. Talbot interjected, “You know what it tastes like?”

“Shut up, you feeble minded scumbag. I‟m talking to this

gentleman here.”

I smiled, nodded to Mr. Talbot to take it easy. “We all

can‟t be perfect. Where would the world be if everyone was

perfect…we wouldn‟t have problems to solve?” I gave Mr.

Talbot a wink. “Right.”

He nodded. She nodded.

“Just remember Mr. Talbot,” I reassured him, “not to

park your car under Ms. Kinnite‟s window.” I glanced at

her, smiled, and then back to him. “It could be dangerous to

ones health, especially yours.”

Starris said, “You hear…it‟s dangerous…you Martian!”

Mr. Talbot jerked back. “If you ask me, your pee is

dangerously contagious…you Venusian freak!” He walked

off grumbling to himself.

I interrupted her reaction to Mr. Talbot. “Ms. Kinnite,” I

told her, “It is a health hazard to throw waste onto the

streets. Can‟t you use the bathroom? There‟s one downstairs

and one on the second floor.”

“I have to walk downstairs or upstairs for that. It‟s a

hassle for me.” Holding her nose high, she continued to

articulate her haughty verbal explanation, as her multi

colored spiked coif flipped back and forth. “And beside, I

don‟t want to get crabs, gonorrhea or syphilis or warts or

anything else by sitting on a seat that that man Mr.

Talbot…that nincompoop Martian…has been sitting on.”

“Why don‟t you use sanitary wipes?”

She flinched, gave me a stern stare. “Wipes!” She said.

“Yes, wipes. They‟re sanitary, disinfectant tissues.

They‟re made to kill anything that is harmful, bacteria,

germs…whatever.”

“Like that Martian…that idiot Mr. Talbot. I‟d like to

germicide him for good…once and for all…and flush him

down the toilet.”

“By the way Ms. Kinnite,” I asked, “out of curiosity,

where do you come from anyway?”

Her stern unexpressed dark makeup eyes locked on mine.

Suddenly from her black, over painted lips she jabbed,

“Venus. Where else would a goddess come from, definitely

not from Mars?”

30

“Another day, another buck,” said Ellsworth Bunk. “Like,

can‟t there be anything better than this?” Ellsworth and I

stood shoulder to shoulder in the elevator at LALA Inc.

The gal next to Ellsworth said, “The beach.”

The guy next to Ellsworth interjected, “To me a bed with

satin sheets and a warm active body lying next to me is the

ultimate euphoria.”

The gal in back uttered, “Only said by the male gender.”

“I knew a gal once,” quipped the fellow next to me, “that

like the bed better than anything else in life,”

“I‟m sure,” she grumbled.

I just stood there listening to the hogwash, wash by, and

thought maybe it‟ll have a purpose for the grand story. I put

it back in the recesses of my crinkled gray matter and played

dumb to the useless small talk going on.

The elevator stopped at my floor.

Ellsworth nudged me. “This is the last stop Ean.”

The gal next to him said, “I hope not. I‟ve got lots riding

on this party tonight.”

The guy said, “I‟ll bet there‟s a bed that‟s included in the

arrangement.” He winked at Ellsworth.

I smiled and headed for my room. Ellsworth went

straight to the break room for coffee.

Ellsworth made sure that he had a corner room that had

wall to ceiling windows on each side of the corner. He has a

view that spans ninety degrees and overlooks downtown LA

to the west. His view of smog is spectacular. I‟m glad I

don‟t have that room; I get a little phobic when I look down

to the streets below.

I have the most unique room on the floor. Ellsworth

arranged for me to have it. He took me out of the main hall

and had this room done-over, refurbed as they say. This

little cubbyhole, the size of a large walk- in closet was

originally designed as a unisex toilet. The women

complained that men didn‟t clean up after themselves and

LALA Inc made a separate room for the women, and so it

was done, only they made two, and I got the unisex toilet. A

sink was still attached to the far wall, but the toilet was

removed to make space. I hung the letters „WC‟ on the door

outside as a joke. Some think the letters mean „Ward-

Custodian.‟

The day of the big move Ellsworth said, “A man of your

talent and stature has to have a quiet room to work and think

in.” I agreed with him. I‟m not one to argue with a gifthorse.

It got me away from the office water-cooler people who

constantly talk shop. Plus, it was my chance to

mentalmasturbate in peace. My WC was were I spend most

of my time doing the work that Ellsworth should be doing,

pounding away at the computer keyboard, since he can‟t be

bothered to learn the machine or even type.

I leaned back in my ergonomic chair, put my hands

behind my head, looked at the sink, the toilet hole, up to the

ceiling, and thanked God I had another day, another buck,

and went into a mental masturbation state thinking about my

story I started last night. Whatever Ellsworth had for me

could wait until better times. I wasn‟t in the mood to do

proposals and his gobbledygook.

31

The big party was one of the biggest shindigs in LA.

Unofficially speaking that is. A little bit about the history of

the Shalimar semi-annual party, which took place at the

beginning and end of the school year, marking the

beginning and the end of summer? It all started, according

to Dawg and Kitzi, the body-piercers downstairs, back when

Chouinard Art Institute was in its heyday, back in the 50s. It

dwindled when the infamous Shalimar group (Aaron Cohen,

Dean Cushman, Larry Bell, and Gary Oliver, known to

everyone including the LAPD as the infamous four) split

after graduation and went their separate ways to find their

separate occupations in their separate dimensions.

When Dawg and Kitzi rediscovered the famous house

that Charlie Chaplin once owned, they revitalized the bash,

the festivity of long gone.

After Chouinard became the school that it was today,

CalArts up on the hill in Valencia, it had no purpose to

encourage the unofficial, unauthorized, ramp roaring,

cavorting event. It was too far from town for the kids to jam,

bash, and get drunk anyway. Understanding the conditions

of the „off-campus‟ event, the school was relieved because

the kids today would not only have spirits at the party but

anything that would help skyrocket their informal bliss.

Let‟s face it, school is rigorous, and anything to ease tension

was welcomed by any student―as all students know.

When Dawg heard rumors and stories about the

Shalimar, his aim was to resurrect the unforgettable event.

Fortunately, in his favor, he located the famous house on

Hoover Street near Olympic Boulevard. By surprise, he got

the same room, the ballroom, which the Shalimar group had,

and where the uproarious semi-annual events took place.

Aaron Cohen, the originator, was the party man. He

started the event. This twenty foot by forty-five foot room,

on the ground floor, saw the greatest show on earth all

happening over a two and half day period, ending at the mad

climatic hour of two on Sunday morning. Jazz groups

stopped by after hours to add to the erotic homogenous

school‟s models stripping to their tempo, while students

watched and dirty danced adding flavor to the strip, and this

was all under the innocent influence of Bud, Beam, Brew

102, Coors, Schlitz, Miller, Daniels, and Southern Comfort.

Amazingly, this all happened under the enjoyable eyes of

the LAPD rookies that were on duty in the area. It was an

event never missed. Often the young cops would stop by the

house to see when the next bash would take place, and

talked about how great the party had been.

It just wasn‟t a party were students drank and made fools

of themselves; everyone was encouraged to wear a

costume―crazier the better. Most just wore themselves, or

at best as little as possible. One guy came as a „flasher‟

wearing only a condom and of course his overcoat. One gal,

one of the models at Chouinard, wore a stripper‟s outfit with

loincloth and tasseled pasties to cover her nipples. It was

easy for her to do her routine.

This madhouse of students, non-students, drunks off the

street, cops, and gays, frolicked until they dropped behind

the sofa, under the bed, in the tub, or sardined themselves in

the closet. If they were up to it and had better sense, they

would make it home before the light of day.

The party was known far and wide. The police

department knew of it too. There was even rumor it was

know up in San Francisco, North Beach, the home of the

Beats. According to Dawg, it was wild, all without pot,

crack, and amphetamines―just the natural stuff nobody

seems to enjoy these days except winos, boozers, alkies.

The party usually started late on Friday evening, went

through Saturday with a break during daylight hours to

clean up. It ended on Sunday morning depending on who

was still standing. It took all day Sunday to clean and put

the room back in order. It wasn‟t so much the mess that was

left; it was trying to get the bodies out from under the bed,

out of the closet and out the door that took the time.

32

When there was downtime at LALA Inc, I write my stories.

I was in one of my fantasies when a shout interrupted my

creative thought process. My fingers were flying over the

keyboard when I heard, “Ean,” the voice screeched, “Ean…

come right here…now.” It echoed throughout the floor,

“Fast…right now!”

Startled by his bluster, I shook back into reality. I

skimmed over my story I was in the middle of, and I quickly

saved it, and closed it off onto my thumb-drive. I knew

Ellsworth would be coming into my room, madder than hell,

if I didn‟t jump to it like Gang Busters.

I shouted back, “Coming boss.”

“Now,” he shouted, “now, right now, I need you now,

desperately.” You could even hear the anger hissing from

between his teeth.

“Yes,” I screamed and rushed into his office. “What can I

help you with Boss?” Like I didn‟t know.

I enter his posh office out of breath.

“Yes…what?” I said.

My eyes fixed on the smog obscuring my vision of the

street below. It was going to be another one of those days,

included Ellsworth‟s ineptness.

Aggravated and frustrated, Ellsworth grumbled, “I can‟t

tell heads or tails what to do next.”

“Like I said before…take a course in MS Excel.”

“I can‟t, it‟s too complicated. My mindset isn‟t fixed on

this day and age‟s technology.”

“I know you live in the twentieth century if not in the

nineteenth, but you‟ve got to take some of these courses to

be current in this day and age, otherwise you‟re not going to

get promoted to a higher position.”

“Yeah I know. Back in the seventies, it was great when

things were easier and simple…one wrote longhand.” He

paused. “Ahhh, I was floating most of the time, and those

were the days of wine, women, and whoopee.” He looked at

me. “You know the age of the three-dubbleyoos.”

“I thought that was the age of…gas, grass and ass.”

“You‟re one step ahead me Ean.”

“I guess I missed that era.”

A smug look came over him. He responded with an irate

tone, “You studied…went to school and learned something,

prepared yourself for the world, didn‟tcha?”

“That‟s right, how to work…how to make a living…all

the responsibilities of life.”

He shook his head. “How boring.”

“What did you do Ellsworth during the age of G-G-As?”

“Like you said, gas, grass and ass. What else was there to

study between joints and loins…and zooming down the

freeway?” He gave me a smirk, “Me and George W have a

lot in common.”

“I guess great minds think alike don‟t they?”

Ellsworth shot me a twinkled wink. “Come over here,

beside me. I can‟t figure this damn thing out Ean. How do

you get the sum in a column of numbers? I know there‟s a

key function, but which one. I‟ve looked all over the place

for it. Where was it?”

I‟m sure he looked under the desk, on top of it, and in his

bookshelves. This was what it‟s like everyday. I had just

gone over this with him yesterday and the day before, and

the dude still didn‟t get it. Last week it was how to use

PowerPoint. He doesn‟t even remember how to save his

work. I have to show him every time. And, he screams and

ramps until I come to his rescue.

“You know Ellsworth,” I said, “…what would you do

without me?”

“Get another man. What else should I do?”

“Learn the program. Be up to date.”

“Why should I when your kind was a dime a dozen.”

That‟s what I get everyday―I‟m a dime a dozen.

Ellsworth clicked off his work and popped up a porno

site. His voice turned to glee. “Look Ean…,” he said. He

had the largest grin on his puss and could hardly get the next

word out, “…w-w-what d-d-do thinks of this chick Ean?

She‟s Russian.” He busted out laughing. “Did you ever see

anything like this before in your life? Isn‟t she a gas?”

I looked at the heavy- laden gal on his monitor. I mean

she had jugs as large as watermelons―thirty pounders, if

not more. I responded, “She doesn‟t look like she‟s rushin‟

to me, more like she‟s couldn‟t go anywhere. You know,

anchored to the ground.”

Ignoring my comment he continued expounding on her

form, “Can you believe it,” he said. “How can she walk

upright with those things?” He pointed at the monitor.

“I‟m sure she has a back brace or a wheelbarrow.”

He laughed. “Now look at this next chick.” He clicked to

the next photo. “Don‟t that blow your mind away?”

My voice perked. My eyes popped out. I took a double

take. I whispered, “She‟s sucking a vibrator.” We laughed.

“With that vibrator up her mouth, I wonder if she has any

teeth left.”

His voice calmed down to a soothing, “I‟ll bet.” Then

giggled. He clicks on another site where you can respond or

place a comment. “Do you think if I put my name and phone

number in, I‟ll get an answer?”

“Sure…as long as you pay the bill.” “You party pooper.

I‟m looking for a freebee. Ain‟t there any women today that

are just looking for a little fun these days anymore?”

“Come to the Shalimar party this weekend. I‟m sure

you‟d get your pick and fill.”

“Really, isn‟t that where you live, over by MacArther

Park…the Westlake area?”

“Yeah, upstairs in the attic.”

“Mmmm, that‟s an idea. Freebee, maybe some free ass

and free…” I walked out of his office as he finished under

his breath, “…grass too.” He shouted out the door, “Count

me in Ean…one-hundred percent.”

“Yeah, it‟s a gas.” And, I‟m sure plenty of southern-wind

too. “Be early so you don‟t miss out on all the good stuff.”

He shouted back, “Is it for real?”

“One-hundred percent Ellsworth. You can count on it.”

Which I doubt he can do.

33

At work, the rest of the week was uneventful. Ellsworth, as

usual, spent most of his time looking at dating services and

porno sites. I had more time on my hands to work on my

story. There isn‟t much he does or accomplishes at work. I

often wonder what his worth is or how he keeps his job.

There must be something between him and his boss in order

to keep him on the payroll.

Friday I completed ten chapters on my story. When I

walked out of the office and into the elevator, I said to the

familiar faces the same verbal rhetoric, “Hi everybody. Is

everyone going to have a good weekend this weekend?”

Some exchanged their weekend ventures, and asked me

what I was going to do.

I told them, “I don‟t no yet, maybe a party.”

The gal that responded to Ellsworth remark in the

elevator the other day said, “I‟m goinna get hell outa this

smog-town and head for the beach where there‟s clean fresh

air to breath and no crude remarks.”

Today Ellsworth didn‟t walk out with me. It didn‟t hit me

until I got on the bus heading toward MacArther Park. He

always trailed behind me like a kid getting out of

school―fleeting fury.

I took the bus from Flower to Seventh Street to Alvarado

Boulevard, and then I walked the rest of the way. It‟s just a

short jaunt. I felt adventurous, so I stopped at Langer‟s for a

hot-pastrami on rye. Now that‟s what I call luxury,

regardless of what comes after. After my pastrami on rye, I

went down Park View Avenue, past the old Chouinard Art

Institute―it‟s now a church―then I headed up Eighth

Street to Hoover. It takes me a good half an hour depending

what I do along the way. That night, my gastro system had

its revenge. All nightlong was a long dog-night―intestinal

barking took place―but man it sure was worth that

delicious pastrami on rye.

34

It was one in the morning. I had been up all night working

on my story when I stopped and opened the window to let

the gaseous fumes dissipate―gastronomical hounds were

barking inside and outside from my delicious unbelievable

Langer‟s hot-pastrami on rye. There also was noise coming

from down stairs, which caused me to stop. So, like a good

neighbor, I ventured to the lower depths of the Shalimar

party―the rejuvenated infamous Chouinard bash.

No sooner did I open my door, it was evident the party

looked like the party of parties. People in the dark hall were

drinking, getting high on whatever, making out, and one

couple trying their hand at baby-making. They were up

against the wall with her legs around his waist, and he was

giving her the ugh-ugh-oomph treatment. No one was

paying attention to anyone but what was in their hands, a

joint, a bottle, a glass, whatever. All the doors on the second

floor were open, and the tenants were all hanging out

enjoying the escapade on their floor and downstairs.

Mrs. Dolmeier was leaning out her door as if she were

looking for someone. As soon as she saw me looking her

way, she shut the door―bam, as I passed.

Mr. Talbot was enjoying the view and atmosphere,

grinning and tapping his foot to the boom-tempo taking

place down stairs. He looked at me and said. “They look

like they‟re really having a lot of fun…don‟t they Ean.”

I respond, “I hope so.”

“You joining them?”

“It got too noisy for me upstairs, so I gave up what I was

doing to see what‟s happening downstairs. I hope something

more inviting than what I was doing.” He nodded as I

descended to the next level.

There weren‟t any lights on in Ms. Starris Kinnite‟s

mezzanine room. I‟m sure she was off on one of her

celestial adventures. Thank God, she wasn‟t around to give

more pee problems to Mr. Talbot. But then, that could

happen later on. The morning isn‟t over yet. She may be

sound asleep, or she has yet to return home from her nightly

celestial voyage.

The downstairs looked like a snake pit, an undulating

wave of bodies, pulsating to a rap-rock beat cacophony

stereophonically dissipating everywhere. There wasn‟t a live

band playing like in the old days, just the blare of a

multiamplified system Dawg and Kitzi set up throughout the

ballroom and foyer. Blaring from it, I‟m sure was the latest

wonder-disc of this disconnected age. It all sounds chaotic

and detached to me anyway. Whatever happened to the

song, the melody, the harmony, and the rhythm? To me,

today‟s music is all noise, a continual buzz of static with a

punt-tap-boom structure. I never did learn to accept the

nuances of today‟s music. It‟s like body piercing. Isn‟t there

enough pain in the world to inflict it upon oneself, let alone

upon others? What has come to this world anyway? Isn‟t

there any beauty to life anymore? On the other hand, you

have aimless souls seeking a kitsch dream world, something

they want but can‟t touch. Maybe that‟s why they indulge in

the hyper drug scene. Does today‟s world only have the

ugly, the miserable, and the horrible? I‟m beginning to think

so. Whatever happened to intellect, reason, harmony? It

isn‟t here at the Shalimar tonight. That‟s for sure. It‟s a

wave of undulating lost souls, searching in this random

chaos for euphoria.

I passed the phone cubical in the hallway, leading to the

kitchen and noticed the perpetual stranger bellowing into the

receiver. “Look…I just don‟t understand,” he yelled. “It

doesn‟t make sense. This whole thing that‟s happening right

now, it‟s nonsense…pure nonsense…it‟s pure chaos out of

control here. You hear. It‟s as if I don‟t exist and the world

around me is going insane…as if I live in a bubble…and the

world around me is passing me by. You understand Oliver;

it just doesn‟t make any sense anymore.” He pounded his

fist against the wall, bam-bam. Frustrated, he couldn‟t get

through to the person he was talking to on the phone. He

was oblivious to the people drinking, smoking, drugging all

around him shoulder-to-shoulder, mouth-to-mouth, groin- to-

groin, swaying as one homogeneous body.

I walked into Dawg and Kitzi‟s room amongst the throng

of lost effervescent souls. The menagerie was

unbelievable—heads bobbing, jerking to the beat playing

throughout the house.

35

The noise was too loud to bear. My ears were bursting from

the repeated earsplitting blasts echoing throughout the

house. I couldn‟t believe it but the windows were rattling

from the sound. I couldn‟t even hear them rattle, but I could

see them shimmy. I covered my ears. Are they having a

party or was it WW3? The booming was too much to bear,

and the crowd of people resembled a menagerie, a zoo of

sorts gone astray. A gal came up to me and offered me a

drink. It wasn‟t Kitzi. She started up a conversation. I

couldn‟t hear her either. I faked it. I nodded when she came

to what I thought was an end of a sentence. She giggled, and

offered me something that looked white. She said

something, which I couldn‟t make out, and again I faked it. I

faked by taking a pinch, and faking a sudden look-there

direction. She fell for it.

I knew what the stuff was―angel-dust or something

similar. She wasn‟t fooling me into a delirious cacophony

like everybody else. I like to know where I am at all times.

When she turned around, I was swallowed up by the

undulating menagerie. Shouting at the top of her voice,

which I couldn‟t make out, she waved her hands and arms

above the bobbing heads keeping time to the rap-rock

playing. I don‟t think she was aware I had been consumed

by the packed bunch. Whatever was in her hands was now

fluffed to the masses. They probably welcomed the added

gift to whatever they were smoking or drinking.

Since I was swallowed by the crowd, which didn‟t come

close describing the packed room I had entered. It was as if

we were pressed into a solid mass that undulated to the

boom-bang of the rap-rock playing. If there was a fire, I‟m

sure all would parish. I couldn‟t move, only be guided by

the heaving rhythm of the crowd as if we were one pulsating

body. Everyone seemed to function as if they were a shoal

of fish, wavering and waning to the demands of the

dissonant deafening sound. Let‟s face it; these are students

playing to the beat of their generation. I was engulfed and

couldn‟t do anything about it, but just go with the stream.

I finally made it to the kitchenette where I found

something that was recognizable to my generation, a can of

beer. Looking back at the crowd and thanking God I was no

longer consumed by it, I made my way to the back of the

kitchenette, to the waiting display of beer cans on the

counter. They were arranged like samplers, and the gal at

the bar said pointing to each of the beer can, “This was jib,

ice, crystal, tina, glass, P, and yaa-baa.”

I asked for „ice‟ because I like my beer cold. What do I

know about the other flavors?

She handed me the can with a big smile, and said, “Five

bucks.”

I gladly handed her a fin.

36

The room quivered, shook, and trembled as if in the middle

of a six-point-seven tremor nonstop. The walls shuddered.

The windows and doors rattled. Moe held his ears. Mike

sprawled on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and watched the

TV flicker across the surface. Asche had the best idea of all;

she crawled under the billow.

Mike said, “You know what Moe?”

The noise was so deafening neither one could hear

anything but the numbing tremble coming from outside the

room. The TV news continued its brassy sound while the

news team reported the daily rap-up. The two newsmen‟s

silent words were never heard over the din of the den next

door. The screen dissolved into five commercials.

Moe shouted, “I‟ve gotta get outa this damn place before

my head explodes into millions of pieces.”

“What did you say Moe?”

“I‟ve got to get outa here.”

“What did you say?”

Moe screamed, “What?”

Mike threw his hands up, pointed to the ceiling. “Look,”

said Mike, “look at that fuckin‟ ceiling.”

Moe looked in the direction of Mike‟s finger. “What did

you say?”

“The ceiling…look, it shakes like hell.”

“Fuckin‟A…it‟s goinna to come down on us.”

Mike screamed, “On us…on me.”

“On us,” repeated Moe. “Let‟s get the hell outa here

before it comes down on us.”

Mike held out his arms. “I‟m not budging one inch.”

Above the din, Moe shouted, “Why!”

“Because.”

“‟Cause why?”

“The dough.” He rubbed his fingers to indicate money.

Moe fell back into his chair. “Oh shit the money. Oh shit

we can‟t. Oh shit I‟m goinna shit my pants.”

“If we leave and the ceiling falls, it‟ll be all covered

up…and then we‟d be up Missoula Montana.”

“They‟ll find it,” Moe sobbed, “…and they‟ll point the

finger at us and we‟ll go to jail for robbin‟ and murderin‟

Ol‟Josh.” He moaned.

“I‟m stayin‟ no matter what.”

Pointing to himself with both hands, Moe shouted louder,

“You…me too.”

Mike sat up and shouted, “Me too what?”

“I‟m staying,” and with the loudest yell yet Moe

screamed, “Too!” He fell back on the chair looking up to the

vibrating ceiling. His eyes closed and tears ran down his

cheeks. Whimpering, “Me too, me too. We‟re all goinna

die…we‟re all goinna die…and God is punishin‟ us.”

37

Paranoid, Dr. Langweilig eyes skimmed the room. The

walls shook. He clutched on to his hooch as if it were a

valued treasure. Putnam took another sip from his bottle. Dr.

Langweilig‟s eyes darted back and forth, up and down,

looking at everything in the room and out the door to the

night scene. He sat up, turned to Putnam. “What the hell is

going on in here?”

Putnam was oblivious to Dr. Langweilig‟s questions.

He shouted, “Are we having an attack…a Nine-

Eleven…World War Three?”

Putnam took another swig and still didn‟t pay any

attention to Dr. Langweilig. He was oblivious to everything

around him.

Dr. Langweilig shouted again, “What‟s going on here?”

His intoxicated voice bellowed out and finally caught

Putnam‟s attention.

Putnam faced Dr. Langweilig. “Uh…what say Doc?”

Putnam repeated a series of hiccups.

“What the hell is happening? Where‟s the noise coming

from? Are we having an earthquake or what?”

“Damned if I know…hic,” said Putnam. He looked at the

walls, tried to stand up; he finally made it over to the glass

door, and placed his hand on it. “She-eeeeeee- it, the house is

goinna come down. We‟re havin‟ an erd…quake.”

Dr. Langweilig sat straight up in his chair; he teetered,

fell to his knees, and slid under the bed.

Putnam laughed, “What the hell are you tryin‟ do Doc?”

Realizing it‟s not an earthquake, he looked under the bed at

Dr. Langweilig. “Shit, if we had a real earthquake, this old

house would be a pile of toothpicks.”

Half off his chair, he bent over looking at Dr.

Langweilig, then swaying he lost his balance and toppled

over smashing into the bed frame. “Uhg…uhg,” Putnam

uttered. His bottle flew across the bed, careened off the wall,

whiskey spattered across the room. “What the hell, my

hooch,” he groaned. Then fell and slipped to the floor.

Finally, Dr. Langweilig popped his head out from under

the bed spilling his whiskey. “My hooch…my hooch, my

precious hooch.”

The noise was deafening. Dr. Langweilig tried to pick up

his bottle, but only hit it and it rolls farther away from him.

Trying to slide out from under the bed, he was caught by the

bed frame. “Uh…uhg…uhg,” he yelled. “I‟m caught.

Something‟s got me. I can feel it pocking me in the ass.

That isn‟t you Putnam…is it?”

Putnam laughed. He couldn‟t hear a thing, just felt the

vibration from the next room. He reached for his bottle that

came to a rest in the corner. Finally, Dr. Langweilig pulled

himself out from under the bed, and had a hard time trying

to stand. Finally, on his knees, he couldn‟t get one foot on

the floor to pull up, but slipped back onto his knee. He tried

again, but couldn‟t make his feet stay firm on the floor.

“Shit,” he said, “We‟re having an earthquake.” He giggled.

“The fucking floor won‟t stop moving.” His foot bounced

up and down from the noisy vibration. He looked up to the

ceiling, to the walls and outside. “This old fucking house

will fall any minute,” he screamed.

Putnam fell back onto his chair laughing. He raised his

bottle to take a swig but missed and the whiskey dribbled all

over his head and down his face. “What the hell is

happenin‟?” he sniggered.

Shouting at the top of his voice, Dr. Langweilig blurted

in one breath, “We‟re having an earthquake you idiotic

imbecilic pinhead.” Taking another breath, his words

exploded, “An earthquake. Can‟t you see it…Dummkopf?”

38

I was given the local generic, ersatz amber colored fizz

water, mostly CO2, with an after taste of three-point-two

alcohol. I downed the can and began to feel a bit floaty.

Strange for a 3.2 beer to give me that affect so soon, but

sure enough I felt like I was floating off the ground. I looked

down at my feet, but my feet seemed to be anchored tight to

the floor. I couldn‟t move them. I couldn‟t even make the

first step. I was sure I had a little of that white powder

mixed in my brew. I began to feel dizzy. I looked up to the

ceiling, and the room began to move slowly around in

circles. My eyes focused on the back window of the

kitchenette and it began to spin into a blur. I began to spin

out of control. I was a blur.

The gal standing next to me shouted, “Look, another

spinner. He‟s a whirly-bird spinning round and round.”

I couldn‟t help it. I was out of control. The room was out

of control and a blur. Everyone in it was a blur. My mind

blurred out. The next moment I looked at the ceiling,

everyone around me was a blur, I was spinning, and the

cacophony shook me into an added blur. After a minute or

so, I could hear everyone distinctly. I could see everyone

distinctly—sharp as sharp focus in every detail. The world

around me was disjointed, crazy, and jerking hypnotically to

the erratic beat of the rap-rock boom-bam-boom.

After that, I somehow got up. How? That would be a

good question. At least I was head high with everyone. I

don‟t think I was floating. I surely wasn‟t going to have

another beer. Or, what everyone was dipping into from

those little bowls placed around the room. I‟m sure if I took

any of the that stuff, being a novice at such things, I‟d surely

buzz right out the window and head straight into the solar

system to join Ms. Starris Kinnite on one of her nightly

adventures to Mars, Venus, or the moon. I was spaced into

the outer hemisphere with my feet on the floor―zoom—

unbelievable—unreal―I was in another dimension. This

one sure didn‟t feel real. I was somewhere between two

dimensions, not the real one but entering the faux.

I was near the kitchenette and I swear I heard

conversations distinctly across the room. Anyone I looked at

I could hear every word said. Conversations centered on

their last class, their last assignment, how wonderful their

teachers were, or how bad they were. One fellow stated if he

didn‟t get a decent grade he was going to switch over to

Otis. His companion was talking at the same time, a pixie

looking gal, reassured him she was going to join him if she

didn‟t get a good grade.

The pack of people was so dense it was a wonder how I

got to the other side, but I did. Maybe I was still so high I

floated. I started talking with one of the art students.

Her speech was slurred, but I could understand her. She

began twirling her finger on my collar and unbuttoning her

blouse. “So,” she said, “you go to CalArts.”

“No,” I said. “I go to LALA Inc.”

“What kinda school is La La Ink?”

“They‟re into management,” I said.

“Ohhhh,” she said. “You know everyone is talking about

there teachers; you got a favorite teacher you like?”

“Yeah.”

“What‟s his name?”

“Ellsworth Bunk.”

“What kind of teacher was he?”

“Easy going.”

The gal on my left interjected, “Bunk. What does he

teach?” She was cute and vivacious, and talked as if she

were ready for bed. She didn‟t have any top on except her

bra. “It‟s hot in here. I‟m hot.” She took off her bra and

flung it into the maddening throng.

“He teaches…how to make it,” I told her.

“Make what?” said the first girl.

“Proposals and propositions.”

The second gal said, “I make proposals and propositions

too.” She batted her eyes wetting her lips.

“What kind of grade did you get?” said the first gal.

“All straight „A‟s.”

The second gal said, “I‟m getting straight „A‟s too.”

The first girl said, “My teach said I‟m so good I could get

straight „A‟s any time he wants it.”

“Uh…that‟s great!” I shouted.

The second gal said, “Yeah, but could you get it by doing

your own work instead of his?”

“How else does one get a good grade these days?”

By chance, I turned my head and saw Ellsworth Bunk

saunter through the door. His eyes were as big as saucers.

He spotted me and came over.

“Man,” he said, “this place is jumping like hell. It looks

like this place is loaded with ass and grass.”

“All the way to the kitchenette…out the back door, down

the street, wherever…to the moon,” I said.

He looked around. “Man, nothing but grass and ass.”

“There‟s some candy around the place too.” His eyes

perked up. “Where?”

“Most of it is in the back of the kitchenette.”

“Where?”

“Over there.” I pointed waving my hand in the direction

to the back of the long immense room.

Ellsworth stood on his tiptoes, looking over the bobbing

heads. “Man, how does one get over there?”

“Float,” I punched out. “You‟ll get there without any

trouble. Just point yourself in that direction and go. You‟ll

be swallowed up by the menagerie and before you know it,

you‟re there.”

The gal standing next to me said, “Hold onto me, I‟ll take

you to the stuff.” She reached out and grabbed Ellsworth by

the shirt collar.

Ellsworth took her hand and she cupped it around one of

her breasts. Ellsworth gave me a wink, a big smile, and a

thumbs-up as he gripped to his guide.

* * *

39

Bibbie stood by the window, her stare was fixed, but her

mind was on the party next door. Russ sat on the bed

separating little packets of amphetamines. They were both

enjoying the vibration emitting from next door as they

swayed to the pulsing beat. Russ mouthed the cacophonic

thump of the rap-rock. Bibbie oscillated to the tempo.

Bibbie turned from the window and said, “When we

going next door. It sounds like hellofa party.”

“After I get this stuff together. Did you know that I got

three kilos?”

“How much money do you think we‟ll get?”

“Oh…I‟m sure a whole hellofa lot.”

“Let‟s get going. I want to get into the action.”

“You getting dressed first or are you going just like

that?” said Russ.

Bibbie was wearing a thin transparent oversized blouse.

“I think I‟ll just tie a ribbon around my waist. That way I‟ll

look sexier. Whatcha think?”

“It don‟t matter to me. My cutoffs are just as fine.”

Bibbie said, “It‟s just too hot to put anything else on. I

just feel like going over there the way I am.”

“Me too. Let‟s go,” said Russ.

“Don‟t just go out there…see what it‟s like first.”

Russ cracked the door, peeped out, and then opened it

wide. He saw people packed from wall to wall. He turned to

Bibbie. “I don‟t think it makes any difference if we‟re

dressed or not. Nobody‟ll see what we‟re wearing anyway.”

Bibbie eyes enlarged. She stood on her tiptoes. “Let‟s go.

What are you waiting for? There‟s a hellofa lot of customers

waitin‟ out there,” she said.

Russ grabbed twenty or so packets, and gave Bibbie half.

The two entered into the pulsating cacophony. Bibbie kept

to the beat of the sound‟s constant thump, jerking forward

and back. They squeezed themselves along the wall. No one

noticed the two new guests entering the ballroom. The

crowd danced, jumped, gyrated in unison. Bibbie grabbed

onto a fully dressed man.

She turned to Russ and said, “What a candy store. I can

make a lot of money here.”

“More power to you Bibb…the more we get, the better

it‟ll be in Vegas…or Reno.”

Bibbie pulled the man down behind the sofa and stripped

him to his socks. He didn‟t care, but accepted the brazen

treatment. Giggling, she flipped his clothing into the crowd.

He didn‟t fight but watched and enjoyed the moment. He

saw it as if it were one big fantasy going on in front of him.

She centered herself on top of him, extracted his wallet and

took what bills it had. Five minutes past, Bibbie got up and

aimed herself toward another take, and began a new willing

client. The abandoned man laid dumbfounded and confused

while he stared at the whirling room—his head wobbled

back and forth with the motion to the downbeat echoing in

his ears. He was picked up by several people and raised

above their heads, and carried from person to person across

the room. All across the room, people pointed at the limp

body being heaved across by the swarm. It was Ellsworth.

Another body began the aerial ride, and then another until

the room was whirling with naked bodies.

Ellsworth couldn‟t stop his aching smile. The fun, the

excitement, the elation, the rush was too much for him to

contain. He was flung out the side door onto the driveway

below. Ellsworth rolled into the brush lining the driveway,

stopped, face up, and gazed at the brown smog filled night

sky. Finally, he passed out from his high dive merry-go-

round. His eyes remained open as if he were dead. The only

thing moving was his tongue; it wobbled up and down as if

he were licking something.

40

Moe and Mike finally decided staying in the room was

hazardous, as Moe had said; the cops might come and

suspect the worst from all the noise, and want to search the

house for whatever they could, mainly drugs. Mike agreed

and the two men decided to leave out a back window since

the foyer was jam packed with, out of controlled crazies,

dancing to the disharmonic rock-beat static hum taking

place in the house.

The strange elusive man talking on the phone seemed

more like another erratic moment, his arms and hands

pounded the air as if he were a conductor at the LA

Philharmonic. Mike and Moe made it out the back and

crawled along the wall to the driveway. They found Mr.

Talbot tossing beer cans at Ms. Starris Kinnite‟s mezzanine

Tiffany stained glass window.

“Whatcha doing there Talb?” said Mike.

Inebriated and hardly able to stand upright, Mr. Talbot

staggered, weaved back and forth, and continued to toss can

after can.

Slurring, he said, “If that Starry Night can toss her piss

on my car, I can toss my cans at her fucking window.”

Klink-clank went a can, careening off the window, down

across the other side of the driveway, and rolled out to the

street. Passing cars hit the unsuspected cans and they

careened and bounced adding a high-pitched tone to the

Shalimar‟s gig inside. Mr. Talbot oblivious to the dull

vibration inside the house continued to toss beer cans, and

shouting at the top of his voice, “Here‟s another one you

Venusian Bitch.

Moe said, “Right. Do you mind if we join you?”

In a wispy voice, Mr. Talbot said, “Be my guest.”

He and Mike took the pile of spent cans and continued to

hit the Tiffany stained glass window. There was no response

within the mezzanine room.

41

After an hour listening to the constant chaotic noise next

door, Dr. Langweilig said, “I‟m out of hooch.” He peered

down the hole of the bottle and repeated in a high vibrating

voice, “I‟m out of hooch…you hear.”

Putnam laughed, “You outa who?”

“HooCH.”

“What?”

“HOOCH!”

“Me too,” giggled Putnam. He held his bottle upside

down. “See, nothin‟ comes. Not one iota. Nothin‟.”

“You ass,” said Dr. Langweilig, “you poured it all over

yourself, you silly ass.” He laughed knowing by now it‟s not

an earthquake causing the vibration, but the party next door.

“It‟s the party making all that, shaking, no ise. Not a

earthquake as I thought. It‟s that noise next door” The two

men busted out into an uproarious laughter.

“I need some hooch,” said Dr. Langweilig.

“Me too.”

42

I couldn‟t take the party any longer, so I aimed my way to

the exit and out the back door. The front door was too

jammed to try to egress. Once I made my way to the

kitchenette, I saw Bibbie humping some guy in the corner

who didn‟t know what she was doing to him. She was

extracting all his cash from his pockets as she gyrated over

him in a Kama sutra position. The guy wobbled his head

back and forth and yelled, “Ride‟em cowboy.”

It was amazing, everyone oblivious to the world around

them, standing, wavering, pulsating to the rock-beat, where

unaware of the orgies taking place on the floor. I‟m sure

there was one behind the couch, under and on top of the bed

and every corner of the room, bathroom and kitchenette was

filled with nooky-knocking, pill-popping party bangers.

I finally made it out the door and onto the back porch.

All I could say was I‟m glad I didn‟t become part of that

weenie-whipping ensemble. I‟d be wrenched, wacked, and

womb-broomed to death.

If there was a night the neighborhood had any peace, I

didn‟t see it. It seemed everyone in the area was at the party.

I couldn‟t count the numbers, there was just too many,

coming and going, taking part and having a good time. Half

the people were naked, if not getting undressed. I walked by

some naked guy on the back porch peeing. He looked at me;

he was high as a kite and said glancing at me, “Ain‟t this a

gas? And I‟m full of grass.” He made a long shuddering fart.

“I‟ve never had this…hic…much fun since I was

fifteen…hic…back in the seventies.” He turned to look at

me, and continued, “You know what I mean?”

I nodded and continued on my away from the high-potted

poke.

Rounding the corner of the house, I made my way over

the ones that didn‟t last inside. Bodies strewn here and there

down the embankment to the next yard lay like discarded

logs. When I made it to the driveway, I notice Ellsworth

lying on his back in the bushes holding his arm up and

pointing his finger to the sky. He jabbed the sky and

counted, “That‟s fifty-six, that‟s fifty-seven, that‟s twelve,

that‟s one-hundred and twenty, that‟s sixty-nine,” and

giggled. Then he began all over again pointing at any star he

saw twinkling in the smog filled night.

“Ellsworth,” I said to him. “Let‟s go up to my place. I

think you need a good night sleep.”

He looked up to me, surprised to see me standing over

him and said, “Uh…why it‟s you Ean. Ean this is one

hellofa party…isn‟t it?” His hand continued to punch the

sky, and then he released a high-pitched giggle.

All of a sudden, a cop car pulled up at the entrance of the

driveway. The cops got out. I stood there and watched them

go into the house. I tried to get Ellsworth up to my room,

but he was too much in a stupor and confused at what was

going on. He repeated slurring, “I want to count them

twinkles up there in them skies before they disappear.”

Then, he went into, “Twinkle little star…”

“Ellsworth, my man, there will be plenty of time for that

tomorrow. The cops are here, and I don‟t think it‟ll look

good for you on your resume coming Monday.”

His eyes widened. He returned a pungent stare; it looked

as if his eyes would pop out.

I said, “You‟d better come up with me fast.”

Past the menagerie, past the cops, and past the half and

full naked cavorters doing their thing in the hall, I finally

got to the back stairwell and Ellsworth up to my stall. I

didn‟t think of it at the time, but the door was open. Maybe,

I just didn‟t lock it and thought I did, but anyway, my mind

was on getting Ellsworth up to my room and safe from the

cops downstairs. I finally put him on the couch and placed a

blanket over his naked body. He was totally out and had a

big smile across his face.

The only thing Ellsworth had on were his socks, and I

wasn‟t going down there and try to retrieve his clothes while

the cops were down there. I‟m sure the cops weren‟t there to

watch the show either.

Surprised, I saw one fellow sprawled out halfway under

the table. I nudged him. He opened his eyes, blinked, and

turned his head to see where he was. “Uh…that was quite a

blow. What hit me? Did you do it?”

Since I noticed the closet door open, I realized he had

gone into the attic, and Mr. Ghost gave him one hell of an

experience. I walked in and found this gal cowering in the

corner. She was shaking all over. Her eyes were as big as

saucers. Her teeth were rattling. I shook her gently, but it

didn‟t do any good, she was in a hypnotic terrified daze.

It took a while to get her out of the attic and get some

coffee down her and her friend. After they came to their

senses, the fellow asked me, “What was in that room there?”

He pointed in the direction of the closet.

I had to tell them. “You went into a room you shouldn‟t

have. A ghost lives there, and he doesn‟t like intruders.”

All he could say was, “Really!”

I returned a, “Really.”

43

Finally, at six the boom-bang vibration ended in a sudden

dead stillness. The silence didn‟t stop the humming in my

ears, and I didn‟t realize the rap-rock had really stopped.

The buzz continued for some time. I looked out the window.

The sun was just coming up. The sky above was somewhat

bluish, but the horizon was that awful yucky beige smog

color. In the east, the sun had that burned umber tone. I

looked over to the closet and bid good night to Mr. Ghost.

He too, I‟m sure laid his head down to rest.

I lied down, fell asleep, and didn‟t wake up until noon. I

was restless sleeping and finally got up to take a pee. The

two people I found in my apartment were waking up too. I

made coffee, and we sat around talking about the party, the

ghost, whatever came to mind. The couple seemed like

straight people, young professional types, who heard about

the party, came to have a look-see, and ended up somehow

in my room. After bidding them goodbye, I settled back on

the sofa and just sat there and thought about nothing while

haphazard images raced through my mind.

It was getting late. Ellsworth was still sound asleep. The

day was warm as always, the sun blasting down on

everything, trying to scorch anything and everything in its

oven environment. I glanced out the window, over to the left

and saw Moe and Mike turn the corner onto Hoover. Their

hands were waving, gesturing, as always in a comic sort of

way as if they were Italian. The two were made for each

other just like a pair of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy

comedy―one fat and the other skin and bones. Only the

smart one, Mike, was the skinny one, and the dumpy one

was Moe. The only difference, Moe always seemed to be in

a perpetual stupor. While Mike, no matter how much he

drank, always seemed to have it together.

I couldn‟t see them enter, but I could hear the door slam

shut and their steps shuffle across the floor.

Standing in the midst of the human debris, Mike said, “Just

look at that. It looks like something out of Auschwitz. Just

look at all those naked bodies all over the floor…dead like.”

Moe started counting them, stopped, shook his head, and

uttered, “Just too many to count. There must be millions.”

“Look Moe,” said Mike, “over in the corner there. Does

that look like what I think it is?”

“What‟s that Mike?”

“That guy with the police cap on. He‟s naked.”

“You think it‟s a cop?”

“I‟m not goinna wake him, unless you want to find out

for sure.”

“Me,” Moe pointed to himself and flinched back, “I don‟t

trust those guys. He may be naked, but I‟ll tellya…he might

be an undercover agent.” He blinked looking at the cop as if

he really didn‟t believe his eyes.

“You know what they say about cops, don‟tcha?” said

Mike. Moe shrugged his shoulders. “A cop is a cop no

matter what uniform he wears…and that includes birthday

suits.”

“Yeah…I think you‟re right. Let‟s get inside fast before

he wakes up and sees us, and then wants to question us.”

The two stood in the middle of Mike‟s room, they

couldn‟t believe what they saw. Bodies scattered helter-

skelter on the floor. One fellow opened one eye, the other

seems to be stuck and couldn‟t open it; he blinked trying to

part the other eye. In the corner, a naked couple wrapped in

their coital grasp looked as if they were frozen in time.

Mike stepped over three bodies, tried not to disturb them

and went for the laundry bag they didn‟t know what to do

with. He looked under the bed and noticed nothing. He

looked at Moe and whispered, “The money is gone.”

Pausing for a moment. “I can‟t see the money anywhere.”

“Uh, huh…I…uh…uh,” Moe said under breath and

mouthed, “I know.”

Mike said, “What happened to the…money?” Then

spelling it out, “M-O-N-E-Y,” into Moe‟s face.

No one in the room stirred. Moe cringed, held his hands

in front of his face. “Not so loud…you jerk…you‟ll wake

everybody up and drop the beans.”

Catching himself, Mike covered his mouth. “Where‟s the

damn m-o-n-e-y you idiot? Don‟t tell me it‟s gone.” He

looked under the bed again. “You bastard…it‟s not here.

Where did you put it?” He hit his head with his hand.

“What‟s goinna happen now?”

Moe looked behind the TV; it flickered throughout the

room as the newscasters reported the morning rap up.

44

After counting the money from their nights work, Bibbie

stood by the bed with bath towel swathed around her body.

She just stepped out of the shower. Russ looked at her as he

flipped through the bills. A smile came to his lips.

Russ said, “How much do you think Bibb?”

“I think I raked in a good five grand.”

“You know how much I took off that gig?”

“How much Hon?”

While you were in the shower I counted ten.”

“Ten grand or ten dollars.”

“Grand, you silly dupe…of course ten thousand.”

Bibbie turned to the window and said, “And the party is

still going on tonight. How much do you think we‟ll rank

in? You think more or about the same?”

“To tell you the truth Bibb, I‟m copping out.”

Shocked. “What? But we made so much money.”

“Did you see those cops come in early this morning? I

don‟t think they left. I‟ll bet the department is wondering

where they‟re at.”

“But, they, uh, became, uh part of the bash last night.

The one cop I banged is still in the hall.”

“The other one I know disappeared. I don‟t know where

he went. Can you see if the car is still out front?”

She leaned out the window, came back in. “No. I don‟t

see the car. The car is gone.”

“That‟s what I‟m afraid of. His partner will be back with

the squad…later.”

Bibbie pondered, and then she slowly whispered, “I‟m

getting the hell outa here too. I don‟t want to go through that

mess again. One week in jail was enough for anyone.”

“Before you get dressed?” He laughed.

She looked over to Russ, smiled. “I hate clothes. They‟re

such an inconvenience.”

45

Dr. Langweilig looked up at the ceiling. Putnam looked up

at the ceiling. They were both on the floor head to head. All

around them lay bodies, naked and half dress. Some only

had one sock on. Some only had their shorts on. Some only

had just a t-shirt on. One fellow had only a tie around his

neck and a large grin filling his face. On the bed was a nude

couple in a sleeping embrace, she gripped onto her

companion‟s limp penis.

Dr. Langweilig got to his knees and tried to get up. The

bed acted as support and he pulled himself up by the

headboard. He smiled, looked at the couple in their amorous

clutch, and tapped the naked gal on the shoulder.

She opened her eyes and pulled from her sleepy embrace.

“Huh,” she mumbled, then looking up to Dr. Langweilig

giving him a half smile.

“My dear,” Dr. Langweilig said with a hangover slur,

“your bouquet has wilted.” He wiped his face smiling.

She looked down at what she was holding, and all of a

sudden, she shrieked, “Ack! What the hell is this?” and

jerked her hand off her companion‟s penis, screaming,

wakening her lover and the rest of the menagerie lying on

the floor.

“Well, I‟m sorry, but…uh…I…uh…,” stammered Dr.

Langweilig then giggling, “I, uh thought you might want to

get a new one or freshen it up a bit.”

She sat up, covered her breasts. “Who are you? What am

I doing here? Where am I?”

“You‟re in my room. I‟m Dr. Langweilig, psychologist,

and what may I ask you…what do you think you‟re doing

here besides giving your companion a palm-job.”

Looking around the room, she looked at him, at her

lover, again at the bodies coming back to life. She realized

what she had gotten into and began sobbing. “Hell, I don‟t

know. What have I done?” She looked up to Dr. Langweilig.

“What day was this anyway?”

“If it isn‟t Saturday…it must be Sunday.”

“Sunday.” She shrieked, shaking her head. “What

Sunday…Sunday! It can‟t be Sunday.” Blinking, tears pour

from her eyes. “W-what time is it? I hope it isn‟t late.”

Dr. Langweilig looked at his watch. “It‟s just going on

twelve noon.”

She looked around the room. “My clothes, where are my

clothes? I‟ve got to go to confession before one o‟clock

mass. Where are my clothes?” She looked around the room.

“Have you seen my clothes?”

“No I haven‟t my child. Going to mass sounds like a

grand idea…but…”

Sobbing, the young girl looked around the room. “Where

are my clothes? I had clothes.” She looked back at Dr.

Langweilig. “I need my clothes. What‟s my mother going to

say?” Tears poured from her eyes.

“I think you should ask…what your „Father Confessor‟ is

going to say, besides tell you to say ten Holly Marys and

Our Fathers, and drop ten into the pot.”

Her eyes enlarged, her mouth dropped and in a dumb slur

dribbled out, “H-h-huh, my mother.”

“Father Confessor…your Father Confessor my dear, not

your mother…we know what your mother will say.”

“Oh yeah, my Father.” She looked over to her lover, back

to Dr. Langweilig. “Yeah…uh, confessor.” Shaking her

head she said, “Where are my clothes?”

46

From under the pillow, Asche finally poked her head out

and emerged. She looked around the room and saw Moe

talking to Mike. Jumping from the bed, she scurried to Moe

and wrapped her body around his legs. Moe picked her up,

cuddled her in his arms giving her kiss-pecks on her head,

and began stoking her.

In the corner, the TV‟s brassy sound continued.

Two newscasters go over the morning news: “That‟s right

Steve,” he paused, smiled, turned back to the on-camera and

continued, “…there seems to have been a great disturbance

in the Westlake area around MacArther Park last night.” He

paused. “The funny thing about it, there weren‟t any police

in the district.” He looked to the on-camera, smiled and

continued. “That‟s right Steve…no cops on the scene.” The

TV switched to a fifteen-minute live, on-the-spot car

commercial.

“Yes, MONEY,” Mike said, “What happened to it? What

did you do with it?”

Moe scratched his head. “While you went to take a pee, I

put it somewhere. I think.” He continued scratching his head

and looked around the room as if searching for it.

“W-w-where?” blurted Mike. “Where did you put it?”

Frustrated not getting an answer right away, he screamed,

“WHAT DID YOU DO WITH IT?”

Looking around the room, Moe scratched his chin.

“Uh…let‟s see…uh…right now I can‟t remember…Mike.”

He belched and hung his head as if in shame.

Mike screamed, “WHAT…you can‟t remember?”

“Really, I can‟t remember Mike.” He looked at him, “I

can‟t remember, I really can‟t. I know it‟s somewhere in the

house. I know I put it somewhere.” He looked around. “I

think I, uh, I put it…” He shook his head. “I can‟t

remember.” Then turned his attention to Asche, stroked her,

kissing her head to avoid Mike‟s condemnation.

“YOU THINK huh,” said Mike. “You‟d better think fast

or we‟ll have no place to go but you know where.”

Moe lowered his head further; his eyes slowly looked up

to Mike. He quietly muttered, “The poky!”

“SCHITZUCREEK, you numbskull shithead pea brain.”

The never-ending brassy sound of the newscasters continued

to repeat the events of the day.

“Steve, it‟s still a mystery why there wasn‟t any police in

the MacArther Park district last night. The LAPD doesn‟t

know why either.”

“You think they were at their old stamping grounds?”

“You mean the local coffee shop.”

“Or…Tommy‟s Burgers.”

“Or getting a little.”

“I‟m sure we‟ll get the rest of the story by tomorrow.”

The scene switched back to the live, on-the-spot car

commercial: “Folks,” said the car dealer, “just look at this

spotless clean machine. It‟s got the works, it‟s got racing

appointments, it‟s got tinted glass all around, it‟s got a

spotless shine…and it can be all yours for only…no

down…and five years to pay.” Coming closer to the camera

he said: “If you don‟t have credit…don‟t worry…we‟ll take

care of that.”

47

Bibbie cracked the door, peered out, and Russ looked over

her head. “I think it‟s safe,” said Bibbie. I don‟t see anyone

movin‟ out there, except some guy who‟s always on the

phone talking.”

“I don‟t hear any talking either,” said Russ, “Let‟s get the

hell outa here, fast.” He whispered, “Come on.”

“What about that guy on the phone?”

“If we go quietly, softly, he might not notice us.”

The two cautiously stepped over bodies. Bibbie glanced

at the man with only the cop hat on. She smiled.

In the telephone niche, the mime was yelling and going

through his pantomime gestures. “I just don‟t understand

Oliver, this place is a mess. I can‟t believe my eyes. It looks

like the whole place…the whole world has ended. I don‟t

understand it. It just doesn‟t make any sense to me.”

Bibbie and Russ exited through the front door, took a

right toward Olympic Boulevard heading to the next block

where Russ parked his car.

Bibbie said, “That guy on the phone always says the

same old bullshit that he doesn‟t understand. What doesn‟t

he understand?”

Russ said, “Beats the hellouta me. The whole place I

guess. That house is one hellofa crazy place. I‟m glad we‟re

gettin‟ the hell outa there.”

They looked back at the Shalimar, laughed, slap-five and

headed for Vegas.

48

After an hour of trying to find where Moe had stashed the

cash, they decided to go to MacArther Park. Asche sat

between the two men as they looked out across the park lake

and drank from their bag covered whiskey.

Mike shook his head looking over to Moe, “I‟ve been

thinking,” he said. Timid, afraid of what Mike might say,

Moe pets Asche for security and comfort, then uttered,

“What‟s that Mike?”

“It really don‟t make no diff.”

Surprised at Mike‟s comment, Moe perked up and said,

“How‟s that Mike?”

“Well, if you look at it this way, it was dirty money in

the first place…bad money. Let‟s face it, bad money is

wrong money. If you get somethin‟ that‟s bad, everything‟ll

turn out bad. That‟s how life really works. How you get it,

is what you get in the end. If you do good, good things

happen to you. It‟s like all the pieces fall into place. You

don‟t have to worry, it just happens…BINGO.”

“You‟re not sore about the money then?”

“Oh, I‟m sore for sure, real sore…but I have to look at it

realistically. And, bad is wrong, and we didn‟t get it in a

good way…we just took it…bam…slam…allakazam. Just

like that. No question about it Moe, it was bad all the way

around. I figure, that‟s why we don‟t have it now, and

because we had problems from the beginnin‟ on. You

complainin‟ was just the tip of the iceberg. We should‟ve

stashed it before we went to that stupid party last night…the

whole ball of wax was a mess. It was one problem after

another.” He looked over to Moe. “You know what I mean.”

He shook his head. “You know?”

Moe rubbed his chin, stroked Asche and looked across

the park lake; pondering what Mike said returning a soft,

uncertain, “I guess so. If you say so. If that‟s what it is.”

“That‟s how I see it Moe…if you do bad…bad happens.

That‟s all there is to it, wham, bam, slam, allakazam…shit‟s

goinna hit the fam…every time.”

Moe took a double take on the word fam. “Don‟t you

mean „fan‟ not „fam‟ Mike?”

“It don‟t rhyme with wham, bam, slam, allakazam.”

“Oh yeah…right.”

49

By three o‟clock the party was cleaned up, people were

shuffling out and on their way. Dawg and Kitzi prepared for

the next evening‟s bash. All they talked about was the party.

There was six trash bags full of paper, garbage, and puke,

plus three bags full of aluminum cans and five boxes of

bottles lining the back porch. The aluminum cans were for

Mr. Talbot. He said he had a special use for them.

Kitzi looked at the discarded trash. “How much do you

think we‟ll get from the bottles?”

“I don‟t know. Probably not much. I surely couldn‟t live

on this take for very long.”

“How do you think the bag-people do it?”

“They collect it just to buy a bottle of booze. They don‟t

need much to live on.”

“Wouldn‟t it be great if we could just live on a few bucks

a day?” She looked over the Dawg, her eyes taking a

wishful sparkle.

“Kitzi, my love, you‟re dreaming. This is the Twenty-

First Century and prices are going outa sight. How‟d we get

to CalArts on a few bucks a day?”

“What else is there? Do you ever think we‟ll amount

anything someday?” she said.

“I hope so. I can‟t have these parties every month or so.

They‟ll burn me out…burn us out.”

“Or end up in jail.”

“That‟s for sure.”

Kitzi swept up a small pile of dirt. “One good thing I‟ve

discovered about this party…”

“What‟s that?” said Dawg.

“The place gets cleaned.”

She dumped the dirt into a bag. “Did you see those cops

last night?”

“Yeah…what about them?” said Dawg.

“That one guy was smoking a joint. And the other ended

up on the floor humping some gal. It looked like Bibbie next

door. He was naked as hell this morning.”

“The one out in the hall.” Dawg chuckled shaking his

head. “He sure was surprised when I woke him up.”

“I hope they come back tonight.”

“I doubt it; if they do, I‟m sure they‟ll have a whopping

hangover that‟ll last „til Monday.”

“They were so nice.”

Snickering, Dawg said, “They sure were enjoying

themselves. What a bunch they were.”

“So was everybody else.”

Mrs. Rankin‟s door opened. She sneaked a peek. Noticed

Dawg and Kitzi cleaning up the mess, and whispered, “Has

everybody left yet?”

The two art students looked her way.

In unison they said, “Yes Mrs. Rankin, they‟ve all left.

We got them on their way. There‟s nobody here but the two

of us. I don‟t know about upstairs.”

“That was quite a party last night.” She looked around

the foyer, noticing the elusive mime dressed in baggy pants

and small coat talking on the phone, but didn‟t pay any real

attention to him. The strange mime continued to beat the air

and yell into the phone as if he was mad at someone.

Kitzi said, “Yes the party was Mrs. Rankin. Have you

ever been to a party that was wild like that before?”

“Years ago, they used to have parties like that here.”

“You don‟t say?” said Dawg. “You were here back in the

fifties when this house was the places of places to live.”

“Yes, I lived next door, and it was one hellofa…”

Embarrassed at what she said, she covered her mouth,

“…time to live.” She paused. “But they weren‟t as wild as

the one last night.”

Dawg said, “Then you saw it all, experienced it all…the

legend of Chouinard Art Institute, the unofficial party of

parties by the infamous four.”

“Did you like it?” said Kitzi.

“It was wild and exciting. Everybody looked like they

were having,” she whispered, “hellofa good time, if I don‟t

say so myself.”

“They sure were,” said Dawg. “We‟re continuing it

tonight if you don‟t mind.”

“I like parties,” she said.

Kitzi said, “Did you have anyone end up in your room

last night? We sure did.”

Mrs. Rankin opened the door and pointed. “These two

men ended up in my bed last night. I couldn‟t even get in to

sleep.” She snickered, “And, they were having sex too. Can

you believe that? Imagine two men?” She giggled, “Can you

imagine…my word, two men.” She giggled, snorted, and

coughed, “two men.”

The two men were locked together; one had his legs

around the other‟s head, the other was looking at the ceiling

as if watching something interesting. His eyes kept blinking

between long stares.

Mrs. Rankin said, “I don‟t know what to do with these

two fellows. They just look so nice together.”

“Just wake the lovers, and tell them to go on their way.”

"But, what if they come to the party tonight? I don‟t want

them to come into my bed again. I want to sleep in it.”

Dawg said, “Just lock your door tonight.”

She grimaced. “I can‟t do that.”

“Why not Mrs. Rankin?”

“Then I can‟t have my pick.” She closed the door.

Dawg and Kitzi looked at each other. Kitzi said, “I guess

it‟s different strokes for different folks.”

Dawg chuckled, “At here age too.”

50

I had been hammering away at my computer for five hours.

It was quite late in the afternoon, and I finally came to a

stopping point. My eyes needed rest from the monitor‟s

brightness. The sun was in the west and glaring through the

window on me. It was hot and I opened two of the windows,

and then fetched a brew from the fridge. I looked at

Ellsworth. His eyes were still wide open staring at the

ceiling. He had rolled out of the covers and looked as if he

was in a trance or dead. His stare was fixed, no blinking. I

placed the cold can of beer on the bottom of his one foot.

Startled, he jerked back to life.

“What say Ellsworth, you coming back to join the real

world again? Or are you going to lie there like dead.”

Coughing, “Uh…uh, uh,” slurring, “uh, huh. Yeah, yeah,

sure. Is it time to go to work?”

I wish, I thought. “Yeah, you better get up and get some

clothes on. You look uncouth lying there. I wouldn‟t say

that you‟re a Michelangelo David.”

Sitting up, he took a good look at himself. “Uh, yeah,

right.” He felt around and noticed that he was completely

naked except for his sox. “You got my clothes somewhere

around here?” He looked around the room.

“No. I don‟t know where they are. I guess somewhere

downstairs. By now, I‟m sure they‟ve been tossed out.”

“How am I going to get the hell outa here without

something on? I can‟t leave like this.”

I said, “I‟ve got something for you to wear, but I don‟t

know if it‟ll fit.”

“Whatcha got…some shorts?”

“That‟s all I have for you right now. Then you can go

downstairs and see if you can find your clothes, if they

haven‟t been tossed.”

“How in the hell did I get up here in the first place? The

last thing I remember, I was having a beer down stairs.”

“I found you out in the bushes by the driveway. How you

got there was beyond me. Somehow, with all the bodies

lying around the place, I managed to get you up here.”

“Why didn‟t you just leave me there?”

“Naked!”

“I was naked?” He looked down at himself. “Oh, yeah. I

thought you might‟ve done this to me.”

“Not me. Some gal stripped you clean. The last time I

saw you, you were getting laid by some gal in the middle of

the room. It was quite a show she and you gave.”

His face lighted up. “Really now! It must have been

something. I don‟t remember damn thing.”

“Like they say, „if you‟re having a real good time…”

Ellsworth interjected, “It‟s a blur.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

I reached into the dresser drawer, pulled out a pair of

shorts, and tossed them over to him. He caught them,

stretched them out, pulled them open, and said, “They look

like my size. You got anything else I can wear…like some

slacks…maybe?”

“If you don‟t mind wearing jeans, I‟ll let you have an old

pair I don‟t wear anymore. Their full of holes and I use them

for a rag.”

“Anything…at this point I can‟t be too choosy.”

I tossed the jeans to him. He scrutinizes them.

“Yeah,” he said, “you‟re right they‟re quite holey.”

“I haven‟t washed them in a month.” I gave him a stern

glance. His face made a grotesque frown. “That‟s all I have.

I know you don‟t wear jeans, but that‟s it. Take it or leave it.

All my other jeans are in the wash.”

“No problem. They‟ll do. They have to.”

“You want me to take you home?”

“Can I stay the night? I mean, I don‟t know if I can get

up tomorrow. I‟ve been through a lot.”

“Sure…I don‟t care as long as you behave yourself.”

He got up; put the shorts and jeans on.

“Would you like a t-shirt to go along with what you‟re

wearing Ellsworth?”

“If you have one you can spare, that‟ll be fine.”

“Sure.” I threw him an old printed t-shirts I had laying

around for the last twenty years or so. It had a faded MWR

monogram on the front. The monogram was hardly visible,

but you could make out the words “MWR for all your life.”

Catching it, Ellsworth held it up and said, “Looks like a

rag too. Is that all you have…rags to wear?”

“I just wear them around the house. Nothing to go out in.

Nothing for work. I‟m not a dress-horse, especially when

I‟m at home.”

He stared at the faded logo. “What in hell does M-W-R

stand for? What was it anyway?”

“More Women Required.”

He nodded and smirked. He pursed his lips. “I like that.”

He beamed. “For all your life. One hundred percent for all

of my life.”

He put the t-shirt on. “You know, I don‟t have any jeans.

I‟ve never worn any in my whole life. These are the first

jeans I‟ve ever put on. Can you imagine that?”

“To tell you the truth…not really.”

“It‟s true Ean …believe me.”

“Now you can say you‟ve joined the club.”

“What club?”

“Misled, Worthless and Revitalized.”

“Is that what I‟ve become…for all my life?”

I just looked at him and smiled. If only he knew.

“I like that.” He puffed up his chest proudly. Looked

down at the letters and said, “M…W…R…for all your life.”

* * *

51

After Dr. Langweilig cleaned his room, he stood in front of

the window, gazed out across the cityscape, and then looked

down to the neighbor‟s backyard. It must have been ten,

fifteen minutes before he glanced away from the houses he

was looking at. He was watching the sun cast its shadow

across the rooftops. Again, he started to sweep the floor but

stopped; he realized he had just finished his chore.

Putnam lies back on the bed and looked at him.

Dr. Langweilig looked at the empty glass on the table,

turned, went to the refrigerator, opened it and shut the door.

“I‟ve got to get more hooch,” he whined in a long airy pitch.

“That‟s a prime idea Doc. You got money, the dough?”

“I‟ve always got money. If I haven‟t got anything else,

I‟ve at least got money.” He hit himself on the head. “How

long is this going to take?”

Putnam said, “What say Doc? I didn‟t quite understand

ya. How long what?”

“Oh nothing Putnam, just talking to myself.”

“Let‟s say we take a hop-skip-jump down to the Tap

d‟Hat and get some more hooch.”

“I don‟t think Tap d‟Hat is open just yet if you remember

what happened to old Josh. I don‟t think anyone has taken

over the shop just yet.”

“Oh yeah that‟s right, Josh was killed. Sad. I hope he

rests in peace. I heard he had a miserable life…comin‟ from

Poland and all.” He glanced at Dr. Langweilig. “I guess we

hoof it up to Alvarado and Seventh.”

“Alvarado and Seventh it is. Let‟s go.”

Minutes later, the two round the corner on Seventh

across from MacArther Park.

Dr. Langweilig said, “You know ever since I‟ve lived at

the Shalimar, I‟ve never set foot in that park.”

“It‟s nice there, real peaceful like. After we get the

hooch, why don‟t we take a bench?”

“And feed the pigeons.”

“What else.”

After they got their favorite whiskey, bread for the

pigeons, they took a bench by the water‟s edge. Dr.

Langweilig gave Putnam half the loaf. Hundreds of birds

gathered for the freeloading feast. Sparrows darted in and

out between the pigeons to grabbing morsels of bread.

Seagulls waited patiently outside the hoard of birds hoping

they would get their fill and fly off.

Dr. Langweilig tossed a large piece of bread out to the

gulls. The bread landed in the water and the gulls scurried to

get it. The soaked bread fell apart into little bits, and a big

dark carp grabbed what it could. The water splashed into a

fury. The two men laughed and continued tossing bread into

the mayhem. Some pigeons took off to get away from the

confusion and madness.

The bread gone, Putnam and Dr. Langweilig sipped their

bottles and gazed aimlessly across the lake to the other side.

Dr. Langweilig slurred, “You know what Putnam…”

Putnam nodded, took another sip and said, “Wha‟ Doc?”

“Getting to be an alky is hard…hic…work.”

“You‟re telling me…hic…I‟ve been at it for the last sixty

years.”

“Sixty…I haven‟t got sixty. I‟m lucky if I‟ve got twenty

left to my old bones.”

“Why you want to be an alky anyway Doc?”

“As you know I‟m a professor…of sorts, that is…and

I‟m on my sabbatical doing research into alcoholism. I‟ve

got this theory…it‟s…only a theory mind you.” Dr.

Langweilig hesitated for a moment, looked across the lake,

raised his bag-covered whiskey bottle and held it out as if to

toast the distant cityscape.

“What‟s that Doc…hic…this theory of yours?”

“I‟ve been gathering bits and pieces of info on what

happens to me physically, mentally…hic…and writing it all

down. I mean, getting drunk…hic…and all, all the time,

staying drunk…not being sober the whole time I‟ve been

here. You know it‟s been nearly seven months now…hic.”

He took another swig. “And, I‟ve got only a year to

complete my data. I don‟t think I‟m going to finish it.”

“Oh, you‟ll finish it. Don‟t worry. A year‟s a long time to

do a hellofa lotta drinkin‟.”

“You said you‟ve been at it over sixty years. I‟ve only

been at it for seven months.”

“You‟ll get there Doc…hic…just keep buying the

hooch…hic…and together we‟ll drink it. Hic…You‟ll get

there.” Putnam released a long-winded belch.

“You can say that again,” said Dr. Langweilig.

Putnam interjected another long-winded belch and took

another swig from his bag-covered bottle. “You know what

Doc. If I had never met you…hic…I think I‟d be climbing

the walls and havin‟ them Ds…what you call them?”

“DTs.”

“Oh yeah. DTs.”

Dr. Langweilig burped, “Delirium Tremors, an alky‟s

dream, or is it a nightmare.” Then he hiccupped, looked

over to Putnam and released several belches.

52

Gazing across MacArther Park Lake, by the boathouse, sat

Mike and Moe. The boathouse was shutting down for the

night. Moe and Mike pay no attention to the windows and

doors being closed. They both drink from bag-covered

whiskey bottles. The two hadn‟t stirred from their position

for the last hour. Asche was sleeping besides Moe. Moe

gave Asche an occasional stroke and she returned a thankful

purr. The only motion the two made was to raise their

bottles for another swig. Inebriated, feeling good from their

drinking hobby; their eyes only watched the gulls in flight,

the pigeons around their feet, sparrows darting about and

landing near them. The sunset glowed in the western sky.

The park lights flickered on, one by one down the path

around the lake.

Mike blinked at every flicker as each light turned on. He

said, “Look over there across the lake.” He pointed. “Those

lights goin‟ on.”

“And…what?” said Moe.

“You think they‟re automatic, or some dude throws a

switch when it gets dark?”

“I think they‟re automatic,” said Moe.

“Why‟s that? Don‟t you think some guy up there at city

hall throws a big switch turnin‟ them on?”

“Hell no. They‟d have to pay the dude overtime. You

know what time it is?”

Mike strained to look at his watch, squinted blinking

several times. “Can‟t see the numbers. Can‟t see the hands.

But, I‟ll tellya Moe, it‟s dark outside.”

“Why else would the lights go on?”

“Because it‟s dark outside.”

Moe faced Mike. “Here‟s cheers to ya.” He took a swig

and caressed Asche.

“And you.” Mike tapped his bag-covered bottle against

Moe‟s bag-covered bottle―clunk.

They took another swig and continued their motionless

gazing across the lake for the next hour.

Finally, Mike looked around, looked at his bag-covered

bottle, and turned it upside down. Nothing came out of it,

not even a drop. He said, “I‟m out…totally out.”

Moe had his eyes closed and said, “I‟m too.”

“You know what Moe?” said Mike. “I was thinkin‟.”

“You‟re always thinkin‟. What‟s it this time?” said Moe.

“The money.”

“What money?”

“The bundle we took.”

“Yeah…what about it?”

“If we find it…what are you goinna do with your half?”

“Drink myself into a continuous perpetual stupor.”

“I thought you were always in a stupor.”

“Maybe I‟ll get there faster this time, but it don‟t seem to

work out like I want it to,” said Moe.

“You know what I‟m going to do with that cash Moe?”

“Drink yourself into an unconscious oblivious coma.”

“You‟re hittin‟ one-thousand Moe. How come you‟re so

smart today?”

“I bought Beam instead of that hooch I usually get.”

“Why did you buy such an expensive bottle?”

“I figure…if we get that money back…what the hell, I‟d

better get used to the good stuff now so I don‟ t have to

adjust to it later.”

“I see,” said Mike. “That‟s damn good thinkin‟ Moe.”

Mike muses, looks up to the dark sky. “Do you think

there‟s a living, flesh and blood God up there in that sky?”

Moe waved his bag-covered bottle toward the heavens

and said, “I don‟t want to think about those things.” He

turned to Mike. “I know you do. But, to me it‟s all nonsense

and leads to things I can‟t do. It shackles me.”

“As you know Moe, I don‟t believe in such trivia either. I

don‟t believe there‟s a man up there that holds judgment on

us and passes punishment or hands out lucky charms to

those who are good.” He took another swig from his bottle,

released a series of hiccups and belches.

“One of these days Mike, if there‟s a real God up there,

He‟s goinna strike you dead for talkin‟ like that.”

“I doubt it. And if He do, the sooner the better, cause I‟m

goinna live like I was on my last bottle…if I ever find that

bag you hid.”

Raising his bottle to the dark sky, Moe said, “Amen,

here‟s to ya.” He took another swig. “Damn…I‟m out…no

hooch…not one iota.”

“You‟ve got money, go buy you sommore,” said Mike.

“Damn right I will.” Moe reached into his pocket and

pulled out a fifty. “My last one. How many did you take

before I hid that sack?”

“Three fifties…no less…no more…just the three.”

“I‟m going over to the liquor store…you comin‟ with me

or stayin‟ plastered to the bench?”

53

Monday comes fast, especially if you had a full weekend of

hooch, drugs and whatever extravaganza the party had

downstairs. The Shalimar was once again back to norm. Mr.

Talbot was surprised that Ms. Starris Kinnite didn‟t throw

her piss on his car during the night. It hadn‟t been touched

since he came home at three in the morning; I assume to

avoid the porno show that happened over the last two-

nights―mad people cavorting in the nude.

He looked up to her Tiffany stained glass windows that

hung over the driveway and said, “Keep it that way…bitch.”

As he got into his car, he waved the finger at her window

and repeated, “Keep it that way bitch!”

After he adjusted his position, he started the motor and

no sooner then he put it into reverse, a splash hits his

windshield. “Shit!” he said, “I spoke sooner than I should

have…damn woman.” Cursing, he got out of his car, picked

up the hose and turned on the water to wash off the urine.

Satisfied, he drove down the driveway toward his

destination. As he headed up Hoover, he passed Mike and

Moe heading back to the Shalimar. He waived. Moe looked

over to Mike, and noticed Mr. Talbot waving by. He

returned his wave. Behind Moe and Mike was Asche

following at their heels. Mr. Talbot continued to MacArther

Park to gossip with his cronies over another game of

checkers.

Moe said, “Cause I just don‟t believe in that stuff.”

Mike raised an eyebrow. “You don‟t think finding that

money was an omen from God?”

“If that was an omen from God, how come I get it now?

Why didn‟t He give it to me when I was young, when I was

viral, viable, and rip roarin‟ to go? As I look at it,

Mike…it‟s too much too late. If it was just a couple hundred

or so, that would‟ve been fine. I can live with that…but…”

He paused. “…what did you say it was…?”

“A couple million.”

“A hellofa lot anyway. It‟s just too much too late. That‟s

what it is…just too much too late.”

“I think it‟s just in the nick of time,” said Mike. “You

might say…just one more hit before my final exodus.”

Startled Moe said, “I‟ve never had success, never hit the

jackpot, the lotto, or win any prize. Maybe if I did, I‟d

believe in God. But I don‟t.”

“Yeah. I was there once. I had it made. The world was in

the palm of my hands, you might say. I was a partner in a

business…made bunch of bucks. Then, all of a sudden,

nothin‟…absolutely nothin‟, ziltch, nada, point zero.

Moe repeated, “Nothin‟.” He frowned.

“Yeah, nothin‟. One day I got up to go to work, and low

and behold, I had nothin‟…no partner, no business, no

money…nothin‟…no nix. And to this day, I can‟t believe it.

It was just like God giveth and taketh in one stroke of his

wand…poof…nothing.”

Moe chuckled, “Your partner, what happened to him?

You never told me anything about him.”

“That‟s were it all started. I got up as usual and went to

work. Nothin‟ was out of place. The office looked the same;

my partner‟s things were there. Nothin‟ had moved. At

noon, two guys come in the office, and ask if he‟s in. I told

them he hadn‟t come in yet, but expected him any minute.

He never showed up. At two o‟clock, I phoned his house. I

get this recordin‟, „The line is no longer in use. Please try

information for the new number.‟ I got suspicious and called

the bank. Do you know it was completely cleaned out?

There wasn‟t one dime left…not one red cent.”

“How much did he take?”

“Eighty thousand. And, back then…that was big bucks.

You don‟t see that kinda money no more.”

“And I suppose it was because of God, huh.”

“No…God didn‟t have nothin‟ to do with it. It was

because I trusted people too much. I trusted my partner, my

wife, the fortunate life I had. I believed in the goodness of

man. The life I was havin‟ became too comfortable. It had

nothin‟ to do with God. I‟ve gone over it a million times.

No, it wasn‟t because of God. It was because of me. Just

don‟t get too comfortable. Trust only your wits and God to

give you wisdom.”

“I see. You don‟t think God was punishin‟ you?”

“No. I don‟t think God punishes. We punish. Man

punishes. We took everything away from God, so now we

are left up to our consequences. Man punishes…not God.”

“If you ask me Mike, we‟re doin‟ hellofa job.”

“One-hundred percent Moe. You‟re right, one-hundred

percent, and it hasn‟t stopped yet. Life‟s a pile of shit no

matter how you look it.”

“Then what happened?”

“I lost everything. Little by little, my luck changed. No

job. No money. Later my bank foreclosed on my house.

Then my wife took the kids and I was slapped with a

divorce and child support.”

“Where you able to support the kids?”

“Some, as much as I could. It was hard, no job, no

money. After unemployment compensation ran out, I was

on skid row.”

“Like the rest of us deadbeats,” said Moe.

“I wouldn‟t say that I was a deadbeat. I tried hard. I did

odd jobs, washed dishes, box groceries, and clean windows.

But, I didn‟t go the distance, thank God, I wasn‟t one of

those bag-people collecting trash on pickup day and livin‟

out of a cardboard box. For thirty some odd years I went

from job to job doing anything. My lucky day came when I

turned sixty-two.”

“You got your first Social Security check in the mail.”

“Every month, like clockwork, on or before the third.”

“I was always futzin‟ around at jobs here and there,”

uttered Moe. “Life‟s a bitch. I ain‟t seen nothin‟ come out of

it „til the other day.”

“And what are you goinna to do with your half?”

“Have a hellofa party…if we get away with it.”

“We will Moe. Who knows that we took it? No one…and

that means we‟re in the clear. The law doesn‟t know, and

why should they…it was laundry. We just happen to pick it

up instead of the mob.”

“I hope you‟re right Mike. I still think someone, one of

these days is goinna be knockin‟ at my, your door, our door

with a big surprise in hand. And, we‟ll be lookin‟ right at a

big wallopin‟ pistol.” He hits his hand with his fist.

“Bam…bam…bam…strike one, strike two, strike three. I‟m

out, you‟re out…we‟re all out. We didn‟t even get to first

base, let alone second.”

The two stopped in front of the Shalimar. Asche came

prancing up to Moe, wrapped her body around his legs and

purred. Moe picked her up and gave her a kiss-peck.

Moe said, “It‟s been a long interesting night Mike. I‟ll

see you after when I get some shuteye.” He shook his head,

whipped his eyes, and then gave Mike a last look. “I‟m tired

Mike. I‟m hittin‟ the sack.”

Mike said, “Me too.”

The two walked up the stares, entered the foyer. Mrs.

Rankin heard footsteps enter and the door closing. She

peeked out her door and watched Mike and Moe go to their

rooms. Running behind Moe, Asche took the lead. He

reached down, picked her up, and continued to his room

giving her a kiss-peck on the forehead.

Mrs. Rankin smiled, whispered, “How nice he is. He has

a passionate heart.”

54

It was another day, another buck, another chance to cogitate.

I glanced out my WC door, down the corridor to the large

hall where everybody worked in cubby-nooks, little six by

six alcoves secluding you from life, liberty, and the pursuit

of socializing with your adjoining neighbor. Fraternizing

was reserved for the water-cooler in the break room. The

only thing one was able to see from their nook was their

cubicle walls and the dark ceiling above. This gave you a

view of piping, AC ducts, and light fixtures hanging down

from a black ceiling. I, on the other hand, have four walls

too, but I‟m luckier, I have a sink and a john-hole.

Occasionally, when I don‟t want to walk down to the men‟s

room, I close the door and relieve myself. When the big one

calls, I‟d do it in Italian or French style―squat and make a

fast dump.

I see a lot of people head for the break room during

work, mostly women. By nature, they are socializers, men

aren‟t. So, whenever women can take a quickie, they head

for the break room or the restroom. Unfortunately, men have

been trained to be obedient to their superiors. Women have

yet to get on with the game. They can‟t seem to do anything

that requires complete concentration. They have to do things

in a social setting. That‟s why they are so good at selling,

pot-lucking, and bar hoping, anything that takes a mouth.

All morning I‟ve been looking down the hall to see if

Ellsworth will show up. I didn‟t see him in the elevator this

morning. No one commented on his absence. Who would

anyway, he was one of the untouchables, the so-called élite,

a special honcho amongst the cadre. Not like the rest of us

pigeons, rank and file plebes that work in cramped quarters.

Like most of us, I‟m just waiting for the time to collect my

SSA dole so I can get on with my writing. I‟m sure he will

retire to some far away exotic tropical island fulfilling a

long desired dream―doing more of the same―nothing.

Every morning, coming up the elevator, I hear the moans

and groans of anticipated work. If they don‟t like what they

are doing, why do they do it? I like my work, on the other

hand; I get to have a special room, away from the multitude,

and dump all my worries down the john-hole. I do what I

want most of the time, as long as I get Ellsworth‟s work

done. What a life that man has. He once told me, life was all

about sitting on the beach with a glass of whiskey on the

rocks, watching the boats sail across the horizon, and

looking at all the tits bounce by. If he weren‟t so lucky, he‟d

be down on Main Street with all the other bag-people, toting

a grocery cart collecting cardboard boxes to live in. I‟m sure

he has a charmed life, born with a handcrafted silver spoon

in his mouth, while the rest of us got the usual stamped

manufactured greasy one. He got the best of the best, and

we got all the Wal-Mart rejects.

I didn‟t see him all morning. In the afternoon, his boss

came to my room. He told me Bunk was sick.

I could have told him that. He had a hell of a weekend

getting laid, drunk, high on drugs, and ending up naked on

the driveway. But, I didn‟t tell him.

He went on to say Bunk said he must have eaten

something bad the other night, and spent most of the

weekend vomiting. He also said he had a temperature of

one-hundred and ten degrees if not fifteen.

Lot of bunk that is, one-hundred and ten degrees, my

foot, he‟d be dead, and his boss would welcome me to his

position or at least until they got a replacement. I do my

work, or the best I can. Ellsworth thinks I‟m a genus, a

master writer. I would say I‟m more like a scribbler or

hacker. I do the best I can, pound away at the computer keys

and get the work out. I‟m surprised he has a college degree

Bunk. I wonder. I‟ve known several people with dubious

degrees, but not from Harvard.

By the end of the day, I finished another job for

Ellsworth. It‟s amazing, I haven‟t had any guff from anyone

on the work I do, presentations, briefs, promo literature, etc.

So far, everything was straight down the alley, all

strikes―three-hundred. I know my luck has to turn to

something better than this BS propaganda. I‟ve got another

ten chapters to my story before I submit it. Let‟s hope it

grabs somebody‟s attention. Pounding away at the keyboard

every day at LALA Inc, doing the same thing becomes

redundant, a real comedown.

55

Mike shook his head, looked at the floor, picked up a fluff

of Asche‟s hair, rolled it up into a ball and flicked it toward

the open window. It landed short of the sill. Moe was sitting

with his face in his hands and moaning. The sun inched its

way to the west casting a beam of dust laden light into the

room. Asche watched the particles of dust flutter in the air.

Her head moved to the falling particles.

In the corner, the TV‟s scratchy brassy tone crack led out the

daily rap-up: “Nice job Alice.” Gus smiled and faced the

off-camera. The two newscasters faded to a commercial. In

the middle of the third commercial, the screen filled with

NEWSFLASH, NEWSFLASH. Alice came back on the

screen. She was handed a flash report.

“Uh, uh…” She looked up, looked over to Gus; he was

picking his nose and the on-camera switched over to him.

He pulled his finger out and returned an ugly frown, and

mouthed, “You sonofabitch…don‟t you ever do that again.”

Another camera focused on Alice.

“I have a flash report that just came in.” She smiled. “It

looks like we‟re the first to report it. It just came over the

wires…directly to us.” Gus smiled, turned blowing his nose

into a hanky. He glanced over to Alice and smiled. “It was a

shoot-up on the Harbor Freeway. Yes…a shoot‟em up took

place just now on the Harbor.” She smiled. Gus smiled.

“From the report…some irate guy didn‟t like the way the

car next to him cut across and took his lane…leaving him in

the dust.” She smiled and shook her head. Gus shook his

head and returned a big grin. “I just don‟t know what this

world was coming to Gus. It seems every time the weather

gets a little bit above eighty…some jerkoff has to pull a

good one.”

Gus took a double take, smiled and said, “That‟s right

Alice…you can never tell about these freaky Angelinos.”

Flustered, Gus gave Alice a scowl. He turned toward

Myopia. Continuing, Gus‟ voice was irritated from his cold,

“Now we turn to the weather and get a weather update from

our award winning weatherwoman…our one and only

Myopia Tushi.” The scene faded into a commercial. Gus

faced Alice and mouthed, “Jerkoff!”

Mike said, “Like I said Moe…it don‟t make no diff.”

“Are we getting into this again?” said Moe.

“What‟s that Moe?”

“Far out space.”

“Far out space…hell no. I‟m talkin‟ about the money.

Don‟t worry about the money. If we find it…we‟ll go

away… far away from this dump.”

“Where to Mike?” Moe was uncertain what Mike‟s

intensions were. He caressed Asche. She purred. Blotches of

fur fly off his hand and floated through the dust laden light

beam. Occasionally, he took a grab at the fur.

Grabbing the discarded fur and crumpling it into a ball,

Mike flicks it out the open window.

Mike continued his random thoughts. “I don‟t know yet.

Maybe, we‟ll head up north, maybe Frisco…maybe further

up…like Washington. You like Frisco Moe?”

“Too many weirdoes up there. Besides, they‟re all ultra

liberal in that town.”

“I agree. Maybe we could go up north to Seattle. Have

you ever been to Seattle?”

“No. I‟ve never been out of LA.”

“Not even when you were in the army?”

“I wasn‟t in the army.”

“Navy then…hic,” said Mike

“I wasn‟t in any navy, marines, or air force either.”

“You were never drafted?”

“That I was, and I hated it…hic.”

“What did you do in the draft?”

“Nuttin‟, I was classified four-eff.”

Mike lifted his bottle and said, “I‟ll toast to that. How

come? You got somethin‟ wrong with you?”

“I faked it, and got out of the draft the same day I got in.

I didn‟t serve no time in Uncle Sam‟s military…army, navy,

marines, air force…whatever.”

“How did you do that?” Mike‟s brow wrinkled and he

returned a long-winded belch.

“The night before I went down to the induction center I

got drunk…smashed, smoked two packs of cigarettes, slept

on the damp lawn all night, and by the time I went down to

the induction center, I had one hellofa fever and an asthma

attack that put me in the hospital for a week. That next

month I got another notice from the prez…stamped four-eff,

and that was the end of my military service.”

“I tried to get out too. They sent me to this weirdo shrink.

After I sat down in this dark office, he closed the door

behind me. All I could see was him. He had this funny little

smile on his face. Now get this, he had one limp hand

pointing at me like some homo does, and says lispin‟, „You

gay?‟ I jumped to his question, „Yes sir…aye…aye sir‟ like

some fuckin‟ swabby just off the boat. And would you

believe it…they still took me. I did my tour over in

Germany. I was there for three years.”

“Did you get anything out of it?”

“Nothin‟ but bullshit.” Shaking his head, Mike took

another swig. “That‟s life, and no matter what you do, it‟s

just life. Nothin‟ more, nothin‟ less, what you do was what

you get. I made no rank. By the time I got outa the army, I

was still a Private…not one stripe on my sleeve.

“Not even Private-First Class.”

“No.”

“So, what did you get out of the army?”

“Bullshit…it was nothing but bullshit, and tryin‟ to keep

from steppin‟ in it.”

“You can say that again…hic. That‟s how I find

life…waddlin‟ in piss an‟ shit.”

Mike looked over to Moe. “That cat sure loves you, don‟t

she? She‟s always had an attraction for you even when she

was livin‟ with Josh. Poor Josh. I hope he rests in peace.

Life is bad enough.”

“Yeah. Sometimes I think she‟s better than hooch.”

“I‟ll take the hooch any day. You can have the pussy.”

“Yeah, sometimes I wonder.” Moe leaned over and gave

Asche a little kiss on the head.

Mike said “But, my man…things are a changin‟. We‟ve

got a million hidden somewhere in this godforsaken house.”

Bobbing his head, Moe slurred, “It‟s gotta be here

somewhere in this place…hic.”

56

“Now I‟ll tell you Putnam, if these ten bottles of hooch

don‟t make me an alky I‟m giving up the whole thing, the

whole study. This whole project on myself.”

“You can‟t do that Doc. You‟ve gotta think of me.”

Dr. Langweilig looks over to Putnam. “Don‟t worry my

buddy; I‟ve got plenty of money for my research.”

“You not goinna drink no more?” Putnam‟s brows lifted,

his eyes enlarged, his expression indicated worry.

“I‟ll just use you as if you were me. Like I said, it‟s just

research, and anyone who reads my paper will believe

me…even if it‟s full of bullshit. I‟ve got the credentials. I‟ve

got the expertise. You name it I‟ve got it. I‟m the man

behind the sheepskin. I‟m one hellofa Pee…ach…Dee.”

Putnam squinted. “You a Pee-ach-Dee. I thought you

was a doctor.”

“I am Putnam.”

“I mean a real doctor…medical type…an Em…Dee.”

“I‟m a real Pee-ach-Dee Putnam, a doctor of philosophy

in psycho-ology…a capital P, a lowercase h, and a capital

D…better known as a Pee-ach-Dee.”

“That explains why you doin‟ all them research stuff.

And you want to see if you can be an alky…like me.”

“Right my man. But, I don‟t think so. I‟ve come to the

conclusion I don‟t have what it takes to be an alky in the

time it takes to become one.”

“How‟s that Doc? Anybody that drinks like you,

me…has to become an alky.”

“Not necessarily so my good friend and chum, I‟ve

learned that some people do and some don‟t. It depends on

their endorphins.”

“So, that‟s what it is, huh…that‟s why I‟m an alky. It‟s

„cause I don‟t have them dolphins.”

“That‟s for sure my good man.” Dr. Langweilig raised

his bottle, took a swig and toasted Putnam. “Never spoken a

truer word in your life my good man…hic. You don‟t have

any and never will…hic.”

“How come you got so many dolphins and I don‟t?”

Correcting him. “En-dor-phins my man, endorphins.”

“That‟s what I said Doc…dolphins…hic.”

Dr. Langweilig chuckled. “This is my theory… if you got

lots of endorphins in you…you can drink a hellofa lot of

booze and never become an alky. On the other hand, like

you, since you don‟t have any…you became one.”

“How does one get dolphins Doc?”

“You have to be born with them. It‟s what your mom and

pop gave you when you were being made in the womb. It‟s

as simple as a shot in the dark…one, two, three,

splooey…half from your mommy and half from your

daddy…and that started the whole ball rolling.”

Putnam said, “I thought dolphins came from the sea.”

Dr. Langweilig smirked. “Well, if you look at it like that

Putnam…everything had its beginning in the wet.”

They both took a swig from their bottles and another

round of hiccups as the toasting echoed off the walls.

Dr. Langweilig said, “Another day…another bottle down

the hatch it goes.”

Putnam giggled, “One…two…three…splooey,” snorted,

and then passed wind.

57

Every month like clockwork, everyone on Social Security at

the Shalimar got his or her allotted dole. The mailbox was

never full on that day. Everyone, who was eligible for one

of Uncle Sam‟s handouts sat on the front stoop outside the

Shalimar, or stood next to the mailbox by the side entrance

and waited for the postal carrier. The splendor of those little

checks never ceases to detract from everyone‟s dependency

on that multi-colored red, white and blue check, denoting

their allotted amount. Some waited nervously, others stood

quietly, while others talked about the simpler days gone by.

The mime was the only one in the building not present

among the retired. Relentless, he continued to pound the air

and bellow on the phone, unheard or seen by anyone except

a few. He continued his monotonous verbiage. “I tell you…I

just don‟t understand,” said the mime. “It doesn‟t make any

sense. This whole thing that‟s happening right now, it‟s

nonsense…pure nonsense. You hear.” The mime paused to

listen to what the other person had to say. “I‟ll tell you

Oliver, it isn‟t the same. In my day, things were different.

But today, it all looks like a pile of shit coming out of DC.

You hear…a pile of shit. It just doesn‟t make any sense. If

you ask me, this world is coming to an end.” He paused to

listen to what Oliver was saying. “I tell you Oliver, if this

thing that‟s going on in DC ever catches up with me…I‟m

out of here. I think I‟ll pack everything up and head for

Switzerland.” Pausing. “Why, you say that? I‟ll tell

you…it‟s safe. My money is safe there. God only knows

what‟s going to happen here. I‟ll tell you…the market is

bad. The money isn‟t worth anything anymore. I‟ll tell

you…it looks to me, like the market is going to go any day

now. Mark my words…just like nineteen-twenty-nine.”

Pausing. “What did you say about Switzerland?”

Outside the house, Mrs. Rankin gabbed about her son in

Germany with Mrs. Dolmeier, and telling her about all the

places he had seen.

Mr. Talbot whispered to himself, “Little minds speak

little things to little minds…on a little day in LA. It never

ends, this constant dribble women do.”

Dr. Langweilig was in a klatch with Putnam, Mike and

Moe talking about his theory on alcoholism. He said, “I‟ve

come to the conclusion that alcoholism is a physical

condition due to the lack of endorphins.”

Putnam interjected, “That‟s right. Alkies lack dolphins,

that‟s why we get drunk…hic.” Raised his bottle and took a

swig, released a belch and a series of hiccups.

Mike turned to Moe, mumbled, “Mmmm, I‟ll toast to

that…hic…anything for dolphins…anything…hic.”

Moe said, “I‟ll be damned. I thought it was too much

booze to soon and too much too late.”

Dr. Langweilig reassured the threesome, “It isn‟t just

that, it‟s also what you got from your mommy and daddy.”

“Yeah,” said Putnam, “Like one, two, three, splooey in

the dark…hic.” He swayed back and forth tried to keep his

balance. Dr. Langweilig grabbed him holding him steady.

Mike changed the subject. “You know I don‟t see Starry

Night lately. Does anyone know if she‟s okay? I haven‟t

seen her in several days.”

Mr. Talbot turned to them. “I think she had a visitation

last night. I heard something on the mezzanine last night.

And this morning she threw piss all over my car again. That

bitch…will she ever get it through her head?”

“My man,” said Dr. Langweilig, “will you ever learn?”

“I have,” said Mr. Talbot, “as much right as she…,”

Moe interjected, “To pee on your car.” He gave out a hic-

chuckle, a burp, and an unexpected fart.

“NO,” he shouted, “to park there. She has no right to pee

on my car.”

“You tell her old man,” said Dr. Langweilig.

Up the street, the group on the stoop spotted the mail

carrier sauntering casually up the walk. They pointed. Mrs.

Dolmeier nervously pointed her finger and said, “Here he

comes, here he comes round the corner…see.”

The mailman stopped at each building and deposited

letters, bills, and junk-mail. After each delivery, he reached

into his carrying bag and pulled out another bundle of letters

for the next building he came to.

Mr. Talbot said, “Can‟t that guy hurry up? He‟s as slow

as a snail.”

Putnam said, “Yeah snail…a slug in a shell…can‟t he see

we‟re waitin‟ for‟em…hic.”

Mr. Talbot grumbled, “I don‟t think the man gives a

damn gentleman…he works for Uncle Sam.”

“Yeah,” said Mike, “a do nothin‟…for a do nothin‟ job.”

“I differ with you Mike,” said Dr. Langweilig, “We‟re

the do-nothings…all of us. He‟s getting a pay check worthy

of his talents, and by the time he retires, he will get more

benefits than you or I.”

“That‟s what I hate about post office people. They do

nothin‟, and get paid for doin‟ nothin‟…and get a pension,

and benefits for nothin‟. Boy do I hate postal people.”

Putnam muttered, “I guess that‟s why they‟re always

shootin‟ up people. They get so goddamn mad doin‟

nothin‟.” He injected a long loud hiccup.

“Amen…” answered Dr. Langweilig, then chuckled.

They all returned a round of burps and hiccups.

The postal carrier inched his way up the sidewalk

knowing quite well, what he will receive from the Shalimar

tenants. He finally stopped in front of the driveway, looked

up to each person he has seen so often eager for their mail.

“Well,” he said smiling, “it looks like mail call…pay day.

Am I right…or am I wrong?”

Mr. Talbot grumbled, “Cut the bullshit…and give me my

check. You‟re over due by five seconds.”

“Mr. Talbot,” the postal carrier said, “let‟s see now.” He

thumbed slowly through the bunch of letters in his hand.

“A…one…Mr. Talbot…I don‟t see…it here. Ah, I‟ll be

damned…,” pausing, “it‟s here…a one Mr. T.T. Talbot…a

letter from the Social Security Administration.” He looked

at Mr. Talbot in the eye. “Is that you…Sir?”

Mr. Talbot angrily waved his arms and shouted, “You

know damn well it‟s me. Give it here.” He reached out,

grabbing the air.

The postman pulled back and chuckled, looking at Mr.

Talbot going through his grabbing gyrations. Calm and cool

he said. “You have any identification sir?”

Mr. Talbot shouted, “You‟ve seen me thousands of times

before. Why, all of a sudden do I need an ID? Who do you

think I look like anyway…Mrs. Dolmeier?”

Mrs. Dolmeier abruptly looked toward Mr. Talbot. “I

don‟t look like him either. He looks like an old prune.”

The mail carrier said, “Now Mrs. Dolmeier, I‟ve never

seen you like this before.” He handed her, her SSA letter.

“At your age Ma‟am…what have you come to?”

“That Mr. Talbot just gets to me sometimes. I just can‟t

help it…I‟m sorry…but he just does.”

Mr. Talbot finally opened his letter and extracted the

SSA check from the envelope. “Ah, finally I can live for one

more month.”

Moe asked, “Don‟t you get a pension too?”

Mr. Talbot pulled away from the group and stuffed his

check into his pocket. “It‟s none of your goddamnfucking

business…you hear.” Without waiting for an answer, he

walked into the Shalimar and slammed the door behind him.

“Well, I‟ll be,” said Mrs. Rankin.

“He‟s always that way,” said Mrs. Dolmeier.

The postman gave each their Social Security check with

a glad hand and smile. Mrs. Dolmeier coveted her letter in

her hands and took it upstairs to open it in private.

Putnam opened his letter and held it arms length to see it

better. “It‟s the same amount…nothing more…nothing less.

It never changes. What‟s wrong with this government of

ours today? Don‟t they know prices go up?”

Mike dangled his in front of Putnam‟s nose and said,

“Look…one more months worth.”

Moe said, “They cheated me.”

“What did they give you this time?” said the three men in

unison.

“The same damn amount.”

Mike sympathetically responded to Moe, “It don‟t make

no diff Moe…no diff at all.” He put his arm around him.

“You understand…it don‟t make no diff. Let‟s go in the

house. We‟ll talk about it there, okay…just between the two

of us…okay.”

Everyone parted and went into the Shalimar and into

their rooms. Mrs. Rankin peered out her window holding

back the curtain and watched the mail carrier continue down

the street, turning on Olympic Boulevard and out of sight.

“Moe,” said Mike, “We‟ve got to find that stash.”

“Where‟re we going to look? I can‟t remember where I

hid it that night.”

“Don‟t worry about it. We‟ll start in the cellar.”

“The cellar…hmmm, you know I could‟ve put it there.”

58

Dark, dusty, and inhospitable, the Shalimar cellar contains

one large hot water boiler for the entire house. Around the

boiler were dozens of black-widow webs, since the spider

likes it warm and dry. The water boiler wasn‟t the common

type of boiler you see today, but one dating back to the

thirties, nineteen thirty-two to be exact, an antique; an

efficient and durable machine, but very noisy.

The small cellar, about eight feet by ten feet hole was

dug in a hurry. Brick or cement siding was never put against

the dirt walls—it is literally a pit in which the hot water

boiler sits. It boils constantly, chugging on and off all day

long. The only time it gets rest is during the wee hours of

the morning when everyone finally goes to bed. During the

grand party, the boiler never quit. A tremendous strain was

placed on the old contraption, which caused its walls to

finally leak, not burst, as they should have, considering the

age of the old beast, but a constant leak dribbling from

several corroded holes. On the dirt floor laid a pool of water

three inches deep. Unaware to anyone, the water was

undermining the house‟s flimsy dirt foundation. Since the

backyard slopes at a steep decline, the cellar wall had

reached it saturation point on that side. The boiler slowly

sank in the mud causing tension on the water lines.

That evening, the cellar was experiencing an additional

disturbance, two bedeviled inebriated down-and-outers who

had decided their laundry bag was placed somewhere in that

area. They inched their way down the wooden stairs,

creaking the rickety boards with every step they made.

Mike whispered, “Quiet Moe. You‟re makin‟ too much

noise. You hear me…quieter.”

“Me,” whispered Moe, “What the hell you think you‟re

doin‟, walkin‟ on air?”

“If you make all that noise, they‟ll hear us down

here…up top. You understand…comprendo.”

They step softer on each runner, but the old wooden

boards continue to bellow out groans and moans regardless

of how they step on them, soft or hard. Mike constantly

shushed Moe with every step he made.

Moe said, “I‟m not makin‟ any noise…you‟re the one

with the heavy feet.”

“No Moe,” said Mike, “you‟re the one. Just look at the

clodhoppers you‟re wearin‟.”

Looking down at his shoes, Moe saw nothing but

darkness and a faint highlight on the tips of his shoes.

“They‟re not clodhoppers, they‟re brogans. Can‟t you tell

the difference between your shoes and mine? Just look at

yours…they‟re made for trudgin‟ through bullshit.”

“Shush…you‟re talkin‟ too loud. This isn‟t a place for

debatin‟ right now. Can‟t you keep your voice down?”

Moe shouted, “Me!”

Angry, Mike cringed, bit down on his teeth. “Yes you.

Keep your damn voice down! They‟ll hear you up top. You

hear me?”

Finally, the two reached the bottom. It was dark except a

bit of light coming in around the foundation. The two slush

slowly through the mud flooded floor. Moe hung onto Mike

as if tethered by his belt. The two sorry souls break through

spider webs making crackles and pops.

Mike swung at the webs to clear the way. Crack, snap,

pop fills the room.

Moe tethered to Mike uttered softly, “What‟s that

sound…that cracklin‟ sound?”

“I don‟t know Moe. You snappin‟ your fingers?”

“No Mike.”

The two shuffled around the small room, reaching for

something familiar, a wall, a railing, hopefully a bag.

“I hear something splashin‟ like water,” said Moe “What

do you think's causin‟ that?”

“Beats the hellouta me. Water, I guess. You think the

swishin‟ around our feet has somethin‟ to do with it?”

“We‟re ankle deep in water Mike,” said Moe. “We‟re

goinna drown if we don‟t get outa here fast. I feel it raisin‟.”

“We haven‟t found the sack yet. We‟ve gotta get that

sack. It‟s a matter of our life or our death.”

“I don‟t think I hid it down here Mike. I would‟ve

remembered the water. Let‟s go back up.”

“Under the circumstances you were in that night…I

doubt one iota you could remember anything. You don‟t

even remember where you put that sack.”

“I was as normal as possible Mike, considerin‟ the

circumstances. I had as much as you and you were normal.”

“I‟m always normal. You on the other hand are never

normal.” Mike paused looking around the dark room. “You

know what Moe?”

“What Mike?”

“I can‟t see a damn thing. It‟s dark down here.”

“That‟s because you forgot to turn on the damn light.”

“What light?” said Mike.

“The one on the wall before we came down here.”

“I didn‟t see any light switch.”

“The one by the door…idiot…numskull.”

“Well, smarty…why didn‟t you turn it on if you knew

there was a light switch there.”

“Because, nobody was supposed to know we‟re down

here and if they see the light on down here, we‟re

goners…the cash, and we‟d be headin‟ for the poky.”

“Shit man,” said Mike, “I‟m soaked up to my knees.”

“Me too…and my feet are stuck too.”

“Mine too. What in hell are we standin‟ in?”

“I think we‟re standin‟ in wet cement,” said Moe. “The

mob has caught us red handed and they‟ve filled the cellar

with cement to capture us.”

Mike rubbed his head, reached down into the mucky

water. “Shit you idiot…it‟s water.” He reached further down

into the slush and pulled up a handful of mud, gobs of it.

“It‟s mud you dip wit.” He swished it around in his fingers,

and threw it backwards hitting Moe—splat in the face.

“Ugh,” yelled Moe. “What the hell you doin‟?”

“You idiot we‟re goinna drown in mud.”

“That‟s what I said schmuck.”

Mike stopped, he had to think about that one. “Schmuck,

you say. What in the hell do you call yourself…,” he

slurred, “pea-brain?”

Moe sobbed, “I want outa here.

“You said it. I‟m sinkin‟ up to my knees, and before you

know it…it might be up to my chin. I can hardly move.”

Mike trudged through the muck. He finally reached the

steps. “See‟ya later ingrate.”

“What about the cash?”

Half way up the stairs, Mike stopped. “Oh, yeah, the

sack, it must be over where that sound was comin‟ from.”

“Where‟s that?”

“Over by that bubblin‟ gurglin‟ hissin‟ sound.”

Moe waved his arms, snap, crackle, pop breaking webs.

“Shit, what in hell are these stringy things in my way?”

“Could they be spider webs?”

“What kinda spider webs?”

“The only kinda spider webs I can think of right now

Moe are black weeders.”

“Black weeders,” shouted Moe, “thems poison.”

“No they‟re not, unless you get bit.”

“I‟m bit…I‟m bit Mike. One got me on the nose. I can

feel it stickin‟ me.” Moe swiped at his nose. “I‟m goinna die

Mike. I‟m goinna die.”

“Don‟t worry about your bit schnozz, get the sack.”

Silence. More, snaps, crackles and pops are heard. Moe

bumped into the hot water boiler and yelled, “It‟s hot…my

hand was burned…I‟m bit again…you ig- ig-…”

“You‟re an ignoramus, nincompoop, degenerate, inbred,

Dummkopf…you know,” said Mike.

“No I‟m not; you‟re a tyrant…a first class ass.”

Mike calmly said, “Watch your language there dude.

Remember there are people upstairs that have ears.”

“Fuckyou…and I don‟t find no sack nowhere.” He

trudged through the murky water, up the stairs whining,

“I‟m bit. You hear…I‟m bit…and I‟m goin‟ to die…you

schmuck. You got me into this shit, and I‟m goinna die

because of it. I shouldn‟t‟ve listened to you.”

“Who should you have listened to?”

Moe whined, “My mommy.”

The building began to quake, rattle and shimmy. Mike

reached for the banister.

Moe looked back at Mike. “What the hell was goin‟ on?”

Mike looked down at Moe. “I don‟t have the foggiest.”

“The place is shaking‟ like hell.”

“And rollin‟.” Mike paused, looked down at the cellar. “I

think we‟re havin‟ an earthquake.”

59

Traffic was at a standstill. I think it took forty-five minutes

for the bus to get to Burlington Avenue from where I got on.

The street was filled with gobs of people too. It looked like

the traffic wouldn‟t let up. So, I got off the bus rather than

wait for the traffic to pickup, and decided hoofing- it would

make better time. In a way, I was right and wrong. For some

reason the crowd didn‟t move either. So, I waded through

the quagmire and found myself in the midst of a crowd

outside Bank of America. The „B of A‟ had been cordoned

off by yellow ribbon. The SWAT police blocked off the

sidewalk on both sides of the street. They had their assault

weapons in place ready for combat and all pointing at the

bank‟s entrance. The SWAT captain was blowing through

his bullhorn, “I‟ll give you ten minutes to come out with

your hands high…or we‟ll charge with open fire.”

“Beautiful, well said captain,” I said, and turned to the

person next to me. “Little boys in combat gear…with big

guns…must play games.”

The man said, “Yo,” and blurted out a series of rat-a-

tattat chuckles.

As everybody else caught up in the spectacle, I watched

the show lead to nothing. A volley of verbal demands

ensued, one demand leading to another and ending up going

nowhere. The police decided the only thing to do was open

fire and rush. Everybody on the street dispersed as if they

were hit by raging bulls. My army training days came into

action. I hit the sidewalk just below a store window. The

next moment I was showered by glass—sizzling-pop-ping-

ting. A volley of gunfire didn‟t cause the shatter. An

opportunistic brick hoping to make a big kill in the mayhem

did the job. I was showered by beads of tempered glass.

Looking up, several guys stepped over me and entered the

big hole. The shopkeeper frantically yelled, “Stop, stop,

stop.” But, to no avail. The opportunists came in anyway.

People shouting, screaming, yelling in the confusion

caused another problem to ensue for the LAPD, a riot.

Wasn‟t Rodney King and OJ enough? Alvarado and Sixth

Street became bedlam. The SWAT team turned to see

people pour out of the store carrying packages and run from

the chaos.

“Call the police,” yelled a rooky policeman.

A shopkeeper shouted, “Police.”

The crowd shouted, “Police.”

The mayhem became one big shout, “POLICE.”

The crowd kept pouring into the store and the store next

to it until the whole block was rampaged in chaotic

pillaging. The riot spread onto the next block. People

screamed. Shopkeepers yelled. Sirens blared. Cop cars

became engulfed in the turmoil. The SWAT team engulfed

in the disarray stood doing nothing; they were dumbfounded

over the situation. They came to do a job and found they

were eyeball high in another. The bank robbers got away in

the chaotic confusion. The police didn‟t know what to do,

go after the robbers or stop the pillaging madness.

All I could do was say, “Shit, now what?”

Half an hour later, I finally got to my loft. Happy to be

out of the swarm of buzzing madness, I withdrew a bottle

from the fridge and headed up to the tower to see the

madness from Alvarado and Sixth Street. Outside the

window, I could see puffs of smoke bellow in the distance. I

counted three. Fire engines and ambulances rushed along

Hoover and Olympic Boulevard.

From across the street I watched people run out of their

apartments. I took a swig from my can. Then all of a

sudden, the Shalimar began to creak and tip. I looked out the

window to see if we were having an earthquake. No. The

house began to sag. Shouts came from downstairs. I ran

down my apartment stairs, opened my door, and saw Mrs.

Dolmeier scurrying down to the foyer.

She shouted, “Earthquake…earthquake.”

Ms. Starry Kinnite ran out of her room and shouted,

“What say…we‟re having an earthquake…we‟re having an

earthquake…where? Where is the earthquake? I hope it isn‟t

here in the house.”

Mr. Talbot stepped out of his room, rubbed his head. “I

don‟t think so. It‟s something else. Not an earthquake.”

Looking his way I said, “What then is it?”

His eyes squinted. His brow furrowed. His mouth

twisted. “I don‟t know. It‟s weird. It‟s definitely not an

earthquake. It‟s something else.”

The whole house was in pandemonium. Those who ran

outside couldn‟t get there fast enough.

Moe emerged from the cellar and looked around. Tenants

scampered here and there out the side door.

“What‟s goin‟ on?” said Moe.

Dr. Langweilig emerged from his room, shouted at the

top of his voice, “We‟re having an earthquake…hic.”

Putnam right behind Dr. Langweilig said, “We‟re all

goinna die if we don‟t get the hell outa this fuckin‟damn

place…fast…hic…ug…ug.” Bang. He fell to the floor, face

down, and rolled to his side and let out a series of snorts and

gaseous discharges.

Mike emerges from the cellar. “The whole cellar just

went down the hill into the next yard. The water boiler

broke, and the mud and slush filled the house below.”

“What?” said Dr. Langweilig, said Putnam.

“Yeah, the cellar was filled with water and it weakened

the dirt wall and it all went down the hill…slush mush into

the yard in back. You can‟t imagine the mess it made.”

Everyone in the house ran to look.

60

In a swank Las Vegas motel, Russ happened to notice the

newspaper in the dispenser as he passed through the lobby.

He read the headlines on the LA Times “ROBBERY, RIOT,

MURDER IN LA.” Inserting coins into the slot of the

dispenser, he opened the door, reached in, and extracted two

newspapers. Holding one up to get a better view of the

blasting words, he smirked. Stopping by the breakfast nook,

he took a box, filled it with donuts, three cups of coffee, and

returned to his room. Bibbie was just finishing up her

shower as Russ walked in.

“You get my coffee Russ?” said Bibbie.

Russ said, “Yeah…but listen to this Bibb.”

“What‟s that Hon.” She took a cup of coffee, blew on it

and sipped. She made a strange frown.

“There‟s a big riot in LA.” He stuffed a donut into his

mouth, and turned on the television. He clicked to CNN

hoping to catch the newsflash from LA.

“Another one?” She took another sip, frowned, and

looked at the coffee. “What did you put in this?”

“Nothin‟, just coffee and cream Hon. Just the way you

like it.”

“It tastes like dishwater.”

Not really paying attention to what she just said, he

slurred, “Yeah I know what you mean. But that‟s not

all…listen. Not only that, the police think the rash of bank

robberies, liquor stores and shops in the last couple of

months caused the murder of one owner of the Tap d‟Hat

liquor store.”

She said, “Isn‟t that the liquor store around the corner

where we used to live?”

“Yeah, just around the corner on Olympic.” He looked

up to Bibbie, smiled, and continued reading. Bibbie didn‟t

know he killed the owner of the Tap d‟Hat liquor store in

desperation to get the money out of the till. I‟m scot-free,

goes through his mind. They blame the murder on those

idiots that robbed the bank and started the riot. I‟m scot-

free, and continued with glee, “What do you think about that

Bibb? Isn‟t that somethin‟.”

“What‟s new in LA? LA always has riots and murders

and robberies.”

“But this one was special.”

“How‟s that Russ?”

“They blamed the murder on those bank robbers in that

riot. That‟s what‟s so special. Those stupid idiots.”

Not thinking much about what he just said, she

responded, “I‟m sure he‟s killed a lot of people besides that

guy at the Tap d‟Hat. What‟s new in LA anyway?” She took

another sip, frowned, and then stuck her tongue out as if to

air-dry it off. “Man, are you sure you didn‟t put somethin‟ in

this cup besides coffee and cream?”

“Just coffee and a little cream the way you like it.”

The two watched the newsflash. Russ gave out an

occasional chuckle and snicker. If only they knew. If only

Bibb knew. Wouldn‟t she be surprised? Wouldn‟t they be

surprised? Thoughts go through his mind; he sniggered and

shook his head not believing what he was hearing on the

newscast.

Bibbie looked over to Russ, not understanding why he

shook his head, smiled and passed it off as just another

quirky thing Russ does. She entered the bathroom sipping

her cup of coffee. “Ug, bla…and we paid good money to

stay here. It tastes like shit. Aaach…blaaa. Are you sure you

just put cream in this shit?”

“What say Hon?” said Russ.

61

Moe turned toward the TV. He listened to the nightmare

occurring across from MacArther Park, and ignored what

Mike was saying about: it don‟t make no diff just as long as

we gets it.

The newscaster Gus became nervous over the newsflash

coming in; he was beside himself. “I can‟t believe it people,

this town has turned to bedlam, that‟s right, bedlam.” He

turned to his co-partner Alice. “I turn you over to my

associate. She has more pressing reports.” She gave him an

amours glance as the next newsflash was handed to her.

Gus, off-camera, sends a kiss-peck to her. She smiled.

Bubbly, excited, Alice turned to the off-camera, then to

the script. She had a hard time seeing what the paper said.

Off camera, Gus can be heard saying, “Hon, don‟t tell me

you forgot your contacts.” Alice jerked up from the sheet of

paper, looked over to Gus and smiled. She blinked, nodded.

Gus whispered, “Are they still at the hotel?”

“Oh…uh…yeah.” She whispered cupping her mouth,

“Not so loud…people might hear you.” Suddenly, Gus

covered his mouth.

The director, frantic, motions for Alice to read the

prompter, waved his hands and pointed to the on-camera.

She turned to the off-camera, saw nothing, then turned to

the on-camera and started to read. Her eyes skimmed the

lines. “A Riot folks…pandemonium has broken out in

MacArther Park. People are falling, jumping into the lake,

and…” All of a sudden, the scene faded into a commercial

of a raging bull going through a crystal store. Alice

continued reading the prompter. The director grabbed his

cap, threw it to the floor, and screamed, “Shit.” Gus covered

his eyes and moaned. Alice continued reading.

Moe looked at the raging bull. “I just don‟t believe it!”

“That‟s right, it don‟t make no diff Moe,” shouted Mike.

“Life is life, and one can‟t do nuttin‟ about it. If I could, I

wouldn‟t be where I am today…in this fuckin‟ dump.”

Moe turned to him. “I don‟t know. The Almighty didn‟t

give me anything special…hic.” He took another swig.

“That deck of cards he gave to my old lady was thrown out

the window when I popped outa her. It‟s just like that bull.”

He motioned to the TV.

Mike looked at the TV, perplex at what Moe just said.

“Huh…what you mean…just like that bull?” He didn‟t see

any bull and returned his attention back to what he was

talking about. The news returned to the chaos going on

down at MacArther Park. Moe continued to watch the

newscast.

“Well, I can‟t say the same for me,” said Mike. “I had it

all at one time…back when. But, that flew out the window

when my luck turned.”

“It looks like old lady luck gave up on MacArther

Park…hic. It sure looks like a sack full of maggots.”

Mike buried his face into his hands. “I don‟t think

so…hic…that stupid sack hasta be around here somewhere.

It just couldn‟t‟ve disappeared into thin air.”

“Or…is it a can of worms?” Hic.

“But where.”

“MacArther Park…you know, down at the park.”

“What in hell are you talking about? Don‟t tell me you

hid it in the park somewhere.”

“What the hell are you talkin‟ about? I‟m talkin‟ about

the riot on TV.”

“What riot?” shouted Mike, then turned his attention to

the TV. “Oh shit…why do I live and breath. I‟m not talkin‟

about the park…the riot you idiot.”

“What are you talkin‟ about then?”

Moe glanced at Mike, returning to the riot on the TV.

The scene faded into another medley of commercials.

“The fuckin‟ money. Who gives a damn about the riot?”

62

The house was on a tilt, about five percent. People walking

by referred to it as the House that came from Pisa. Some

would tilt their heads trying to right the building. Inside the

house, the tilt wasn‟t that noticeable to the naked eye, but

the slant did have a significant effect on round objects. You

became aware of it when you put a ball on the floor or table.

It kind of just didn‟t want to stay in one position.

The back yard was one hell of a muddy mess after the

deluge, not to mention the just brewed beer by the potter

stored in the garage, all went down to the next backyard in a

frothy tsunami into the house below. The muddy brew and

water continued right on to the next street. The people in the

house below took several days to clean up the cardboard

boxes, the beer bottles, and their belongings. People stopped

by, talked to the owner of the house, helped pick up the beer

bottles, and pointed at the Shalimar. Occasionally, they

would cock their heads to see the building upright. A day or

two later, the insurance company, I‟m sure, would come to

their door, provided they had foresight to see any unnatural

occurrence that might happen…especially a tsunami of beer.

I turned to my computer to put in some words when there

was a knock on the door. I didn‟t mind the interruption; I

didn‟t have anything in my head anyway, since I was goggle

eying the people down below. It was Dr. Langweilig.

“Yes,” I said.

“You got a minute Ean?” he said.

“Sure, come in.” I opened the door wide to let his robust

figure through the door. He took the whole width of the

stairwell, and every step he made, the steps cried out as if

they would collapse from his weight.

He trudged up the stairs and I waited until he reached the

top then I followed.

I motioned for him to have a seat. The seat‟s legs spread

about an inch from his weight.

“Would you like a beer or something?” I said.

“It depends,” he said.

“Cold or room temperature?”

“Cold. This isn‟t England. You like it warm?”

“Cold. I don‟t know how the Brits drink warm beer.”

“It‟s all what you get used to I guess.”

“The only thing I could drink warm was whiskey or red

wine.”

“Would you prefer a wine? I‟ve got some German wine,

a Dornfelder.”

“I‟ve never tried the stuff. Thanks anyway, I‟ll just take

the beer. The Dornfelder…I‟ll take a rain check.”

I drew two beers from the fridge, took my seat at my

computer and faced him. He took the can, pulled the tab and

guzzled the whole contents.

“So how can I help you Doctor?” I said.

He went into this long shtick about how he was on a

sabbatical, and it was running out. He only had a couple of

months before he had to return to his teaching post. He was

doing this paper on alcoholism, and since I was a writer and

he didn‟t have the time, he wanted me to do the finishing

touches on his work. He would give me his data as time

went along, so I wouldn‟t be stressed out if he gave it to me

just before the end of his sabbatical. Plus, he would give me

a good return for my work. I just hope it wasn‟t going to be

booze. But, a good Beam wouldn‟t be bad or a Blue Label

Johnnie Walker.

His theory was there were two types of alcoholics: one

physical and the other being psychological. The physica l

characteristic person had an inherited lack of endorphins. A

hormone the brain secretes during injury to shut off pain. It

was man‟s natural morphine like substance. I had

remembered when I was young I had built a house. While

cutting wood, I had run my thumb through the blade of the

table saw. There was no pain but this gapping slice across

my thumb, about a quarter of an inch. I could see the

exposed bone clearly. After ten minutes looking at my

wound, pain ensued, and I couldn‟t contain myself. From

the horrendous agony, I began to throw up all over the

garage. What amazed me, there was no pain at first, no

blood, which really surprised me; it was as if all senses were

shut off. Then bam, I buckled over, vomited, and blood

spewed from my thumb like a spigot turn on full force.

As Dr. Langweilig went on to say, when a person was

lacking these endorphins, it was easy to replace a substitute

like alcohol or drugs to lessen physical or mental sorrow.

The alcoholic therefore becomes physically dependent on

substitutes as a means of replacing endorphins. After heavy

drinking for some fifteen years, the body has a tendency to

lessen its natural output of this natural morphine, and

therefore he becomes more dependent on artificial

substances. These people are more likely to quit drinking

once they are made aware of their dependency.

The psychological or mental dependent alcoholic needs

an inebriated effect to get through the day. I knew one such

person. He said he couldn‟t get though the day without a

shot to start it off and one every hour thereafter―he even

got up in the middle of the night to down a swig. He

couldn‟t face his boss. He couldn‟t face his wife. He was

afraid of going out of the house. Everything scared him,

even a dog on a leash. These types of people find it difficult

to stop drinking even with help.

Most physical dependent alcoholics can stop for days,

months, and even years without a drink. They can

successfully quit and live a normal life as long as they have

a constant reinforcement in their curriculum, such as

Alcoholics Anonymous. I‟ve known several alcoholics; all

were physically dependent except one or two. Most

physically dependent alcoholics in their early stages appear

as social drinkers―gay, witty, life of the party, etc. This

type of drinker increases his need more and more over the

years until he is totally dependent on alcohol.

I had an associate who was a physical dependent

alcoholic; he called himself a part-time once a year alky. He

stayed dry for an entire year. When he took his vacation, he

bought a case of whiskey, went out to the desert away from

civilization, wife and family, doused himself with booze and

drank himself into oblivion. That‟s what he called a Class-A

prime vacation of ultimate utter bliss. These types of people

appear to be responsible family members and are dedicated

to their job and employer. Little do we know about their

extracurricular activity―booze binging. This type of

alcoholic is generally docile and not aggressive.

Dr. Langweilig didn‟t say much on the abusive

alcoholics―spouse bashing, etc. That he said would be

another paper. Except that, it was a characteristic rather than

a gender. Most people think abusive spouses are male. On

the contrary, he said it was a personality trait, not gender.

After Dr. Langweilig left my abode, I took what papers

he gave me, held them in my hand, and waved them and

thanked God. Finally, I got something that will pay besides

proposals, tech writing and manuals for LALA Inc and

Ellsworth Bunk.

63

Mike looked out the back window at the mudslide that

happened the other day, and looked at it without any

thought. Drew the drapes closed except for just enough to

let some light in to see. He continued to look out the little

space in silence. All that was on his mind were the millions

in fifties and hundreds and possibly some twenties. He

didn‟t know if there were any twenties in the bunch. The

only thing going through his mind was mug shots of

Franklin and Grant, which for some odd reason, became his

favorite presidents from that day onward.

Finally, after fifteen minutes of silence Moe broke the

calm. “Mike am I goinna sit here in this dark room with

your back facin‟ me?”

“Dunno yet. I‟m thinkin‟.”

“Thinkin‟, about what?”

“The sack, the money, what else should I think about?”

“I thought you said it don‟t make no diff.”

“The fact that we took a sack of laundry don‟t make no

diff Moe. It‟s a finder‟s keeper‟s situation…you know.”

Looking up to the dark ceiling, Moe mulled over the

statement. “Mmmmm,” he said, “Finder‟s keeper‟s, huh.

Well I don‟t know about that. I‟m sure someone, if not the

mob is lookin‟ for it.”

“Do they know about it?”

“Could be.”

“Do you think they keep tabs on such matters?”

“Could be,” said Moe.

“In what way?”

“If they had dropped it off, they know‟d about it.”

“If they dropped it off Moe, they still wouldn‟t know

who had it. They‟d think the cops had it.”

“And, if they was to pick it up, they‟d be lookin‟ for it.”

Mike turned and faced Moe. “Let me ask you this…why

do you think they know that we have it…huh?”

“I don‟t. But, I‟ll tell you…the mob has eyes behind its

head. They see, they hear, and they know all. Kinda like

God…as you would say.”

One of Mike‟s eyebrows lifted. “Kinda like God huh.

Now you‟re getting religious.”

“No, I‟m not. I‟m using one of your favorite words.”

“The mob, my friend…isn‟t like God…sees all, hears all,

knows all. They‟re just like ordinary people like us…only

they‟re crooks.”

“Except they drink Pisano or rye or Morgen David.”

“It‟s not just that they drink. Don‟t forget tequila or Saki

and vodka too.”

“You forgot to say good old whiskey.”

“God‟s gift to the masses.”

“God‟s gift to the masses was wine.”

“No…that‟s from Jesus. Remember what He said, „from

water to wine‟.”

“Amen,” said Moe.

64

In the corner of the attic are stacks of old newspapers dating

back to 1908, and three shoeboxes of letters that date back

to the time of Charlie Chaplin, the late 1910s and early

1920s. Unknown to anyone, to one side of the newspapers

and shoeboxes is one large bag, a laundry bag. Some would

call it a duffle bag; they look similar―off white with

scuffmarks where it has been dragged along the floor or

ground. It has been there for several days tucked away out

of sight. In the darkness, it is hard to see the bag.

In the far corner of the attic is a room. It has a screen

door in front of the entrance door. The screen door is

locked, but the main door is not; it is partially opened. The

room is brightly lit from the east and south windows

allowing sunlight to fill the room. The room is upbeat and

cheerful. For some odd reason the room is totally furnished,

with sofa, table in one corner, and a bed in the other. There

is a two-light sconce on the wall with Edison light bulbs.

The light bulbs have a peak at the top, not rounded off as

they are today. The walls are covered in embossed

wallpaper. The wallpaper has not faded. The colors are

cheerful, but a light patina of beige gives the paper a mellow

warm aged look. The wallpaper is the same in the main

apartment. The only difference between the two rooms, the

wallpaper in the main apartment has faded to a brownish

drab tone; it looks as if it didn‟t have any color at all, just an

embossed floral relief.

Oddly enough, when people enter the attic room, they are

amazed the room still holds its fresh morning aroma as if

furnished the day before—clean and fresh with a sent of

orange blossoms. Strangely enough, you get the sensation

this was a private domain, a sanctuary where only private

matters occurred leaving you with sadness, and at the same

time, a felling of joy. It is one strange room.

The attic is completely unfurnished like any attic with

exposed beams and view of the underside of the shingles.

Cracks and holes in the shingles can be seen, they are

reminiscent of stars twinkling here and there. When the sun

hits the roof just right, light beams stream in catching dust

particles, similar to tinny searchlights skimming the floor as

the sun moves from east to west.

When I first took over the apartment, the second time

around, I did some re-exploring. The tower room still held

that impressive view—three-hundred sixty degree panorama

of Los Angeles. Next, I wanted to see if the attic was the

same ominous room I remembered. It hadn‟t changed. It still

was the same dark room, no light, just a small porthole at

the east end of the attic overlooking Hoover Street. Still I

didn‟t notice the papers and boxes at the other end of the

attic, since they are tucked way back in the dark part under

the eaves. Unfortunately, there aren‟t any electrical lights in

the attic proper.

Surprisingly, there isn‟t any dust covering anything

either—strange. My first impression I got from the clean,

almost antiseptic attic was that someone somehow was

taking care of the room—cleaning it, dusting it, maintaining

it. What went through my mind at the time, who was doing

this and why did they keep it so kept up?

Over time, as I lived in the house and my attic apartment,

I heard many stories. Mr. Talbot said I might have

experienced the ghost that lurks there. As I‟ve said before,

there are strange noises after 10 p.m., chains rattling,

shuffling noises, bang, creaks, whatever.

Once I thought I could get inspired by going into the attic

and sit in that strange room. Unfortunately, nothing came to

mind. I was hoping the so-called ghost would give me a

story, by way of osmosis. I still have hopes it will one of

these days, since I have the strong belief that everyone,

everything has something to say—even ghosts.

One night I was sitting at the table in that strange little

room and it hit me. A strange pressure came over me. I

looked at my watch and it read 10 p.m. I sensed I should get

out fast. And since then, I never stayed after that bewitching

hour. Ever since then, I leave well enough alone and listen

to the ruckus it gives me each night until I fall asleep.

When I had moved in, Mr. Talbot told me there was a

young gal who had taken the room after the last tenant died,

a Mr. Slocum. After living there for a week, she left without

a word and didn‟t say anything or give any reason. He said

Mr. Slocum was haunting the attic. I don‟t think it was Mr.

Slocum. I‟m sure it was about the strange room tucked away

at the other end of the attic, and the strange noises coming

out of it during the night. My feeling, since I lived there

years before, knew about the strange noises and d idn‟t

contribute it to Mr. Slocum. It was a ghost that had always

lived there.

Also, there‟s a rumor that Mr. Chaplin had many love

affairs, and wrote to them constantly, and they in turn wrote

back leaving a legacy of lust, desire, and sadness.

I don‟t know if it was true or not, but here‟s the story that

was told to me by the present owner of the Shalimar, Mr.

Baktlfahrt. He was of course bragging about the house when

the famous actor owned it. I never did believe the story

Charlie Chaplin owned the house. He may have lived here

for a time until he finished his house up on the hill.

As the tale goes, Charlie left all his love letters behind,

probably by mistake or forgetfulness, but the rumor

persisted regardless if it was true or not. Many attempted to

find them because of their value, but never did. No one, for

some strange reason, suspected they might have been tucked

away up in the attic or under floorboards in the house. It

never came to my attention they were up there, since it was

quite dark and ominous. After my initial meeting with the

ghost, I haven‟t cared to venture rummaging through the

place. Leave well alone I say. Don‟t disturb the things that

don‟t belong to you. I once had a strange encounter by the

ghost, and that wasn‟t what I would ca ll pleasant or joyful.

It was more like a depression hit me all of a sudden. To this

day, I‟ll never forget that situation.

65

A strange feeling suddenly came over me. I stopped

working on a story that was going nowhere. My mind

caught the attention of the closet door. The thought came to

me, there must be a story in there somewhere. The one I was

working on had no substance. It hit me, BINGO―the

letters―the notorious letters of Charlie Chaplin. The lost

letters of the comic actor waits for someone to pick them up

and publish them. This would be my story I thought.

Finding them, reading through them, what a story they

would tell. What an insight into a man‟s mind that many

don‟t know or will never know. I got up and entered that

gloomy room, and stood there looking at darkness.

In the middle of the attic is a ten-foot-by-ten-foot square

room that houses the dome skylight for the foyer. It emits a

warm light to all the floors below during daylight. The

dome housing protrudes above the roof. It is not as high as

the tower. The housing allows light to reach the dome

without being exposed to the outside. I had been in there

many years before and knew what to expect. Inside the

housing, the dome is surrounded by antiquated light bulbs.

Unfortunately, no one has ever turned them on, so the dome

remains dark at night.

I looked around the housing to locate the entrance. It was

almost concealed to anyone who isn‟t aware of it. I opened

it. As I looked around the dome, I noticed the lights have

never been changed in all those years. They still were the

Edison type with little peaks at the top. Thinking they were

so old and wouldn‟t work was the reason they weren‟t

turned on in the first place. The strange thing about the

dome, it was completely spotless inside as if it were cleaned

on a regular bases. No dust was evident; everything sparkled

as if it were brand new. On one side is a light switch. I

turned it on and voila, the lights came on. At first they

flickered on and off, died, and flickered back on. A steady

flow of brightness filled the bulbs. It also filled the attic

with light, and I could see without straining to every nook

and cranny in the place.

For the first time I could see all the corners of the

immense room; it was the entire floor plan of the old house

minus my apartment. I could see the strange room in the

corner. The beams were clearly defined. The floor boards,

worn and scuffed. I could even see the nails protruding from

the rickety boards. And amazingly, the scuffmarks made by

something dragged across the floorboards.

Walking around the dome‟s housing, I could clearly see

stacks of newspapers. As I picked one up to see its date and

what the headlines said, it fell apart in my hands like

woodchips falling through my fingers. I didn‟t have a

chance to read what it said. As I looked through the other

newspapers, some crumbled in my hands and others stayed

in one piece. The newspapers still intact dated back to the

early 1900s. The latest date was 1937, the “Hindenburg”

Zeppelin disaster at Lakehurst, NJ.

Reading across the ages of time, the events that took

place, seeing the styles of past issues, and how they wrote in

those days fascinated me. A style no longer used.

Next to the newspapers were three shoeboxes. I knew

what they were. They had to be the legend lost. I picked

them up, and without opening the box, I turned to enter my

pad. My mind was now on what ventures lurked inside this

wonderful find.

I sat down at my computer table and opened the shoebox

slow and cautious; I was afraid they too would crumble in

my hands. I peered in, and my gaze locked on the group of

envelops neatly filed in neat little batches with ribbons tied

around them. I withdrew the first envelop, noticed the

cancellation date, September 12, 1925. Carefully, I lifted the

flap and withdrew the letter. As I unfolded the letter, it sent

chills up my back. Excited, I couldn‟t imagine what was

written down on this paper.

I began to read the feminine handwriting. It was an

endless paragraph saying repeatedly, Why, why? Do you

know what you have done to me? Why are you doing this to

me? Why? Signed, Millie. Thoughts of who Millie was went

through my mind. Was this one of Charlie‟s women? Or

was it Mr. Ghost‟s wife, or his secret affair?

* * *

66

Moe threw his hands in the air. “Why?” he blurted out. “I

just don‟t believe it Mike. Why are you constantly harpin‟

on the fact it don‟t matter, and then turn around and say

we‟ve got to find that damn bag?”

Mike was stretch out on the bed. Moe paced back and

forth, screaming at the top of his voice between swigs of

hooch, and an occasional hiccup. “Why?”

“Because it don‟t,” said Mike, “and it do at the same

time.” Mike wagged his finger up and down and sideways

as if to say no, yes.

“No. Why?” screamed Moe.

“It don‟t matter if we find it. But, on the other hand…it

do. And, we have to find it because of the principle of the

matter…just because we‟ve made our commitment to do it.”

Mike looked over to Moe. “That‟s all…that‟s all.” He

waved his hands radically which way and about expressing

a storm brewing inside his brain. Then he gave out a long

expressive growl then hummed.

Moe said, “Out of principle, you say. What kinda attitude

is that? We‟ve stolen that dough. It‟s as plane as one,

two…three. And we‟re going to jail for it. Or…” He paused

looking down at Mike straight into his eyes. “We‟re going

to be handed a set of concrete swim fins by the…you know

who…and told to go swimmin‟. We‟re going to be shark-

bate…you hear…shark-bate…if not eaten up by little

minnows on the way down to the bottom.”

“Ha, ha,” Mike busted out laughing. “You really think

they‟re goinna get us and use us for shark-bate?”

“Yeah, one-hundred percent, point blank, ditto, right.”

“Don‟t worry about it Moe. They‟re not going to find us or

the money, unless you blab it to the world,” shouting,

“which you are doin‟ right now.” “Well blab it to the world.

I‟m sure this house can hear every word you make.

Ya‟hear…I‟ve said enough.”

67

The lights remained on in the dome. I had forgotten all

about them and forgot to switch them off. The foyer had a

warm glow to the area because of the light the Tiffany

stained glass dome emitted. The two art students, Dawg and

Kitzi came home, past the mime talking on the phone,

entered their room, noticed something unusual, but couldn‟t

say what it was.

Dawg said, “It must be coming from the sunset.” He

continued to look around. “How strange the light is. It‟s like

something weird is happening all over.”

The foyer and the second floor were wrapped in a warm

romantic mood. Later that night, heavy breathing could be

heard emitting from Dawg and Kitzi‟s room. Mrs. Rankin

had arranged with Mr. Talbot for the evening and was

singing nineteen seventies country western love songs by

Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton. Starris Kinnite was getting

ready for her outing to far reaching places. She was singing:

Twinkle, twinkle little star.

My little Venus…

you‟re really not that far.

She opened her window for the last time and threw the

contents of her can out and beyond the sill, and watched it

slowly shower down upon Mr. Talbot‟s car.

I felt in an amorous mood too after I had just stepped out

of the little room in the attic and read some of the letters in

the shoebox. At my age, I thought it strange; I had that long

lost urge all of a sudden. Since I was being plagued by my

mood swing, and couldn‟t keep my mind on the letters, I

went down to call my occasional companion. As usual, the

mime was nestled comfortably in the niche talking. I

motioned to him if I could use the phone, and for some

strange reason he hung up and left. I took it he wasn‟t

getting any response from his Oliver friend.

“Hello Reni,” I said, “you doing anything special

tonight?” She retuned a no, and my lost urge guided me

down its path.

The mime returned and began his incessant oratory in its

drone lifeless rhythm. “Look…I just don‟t understand,” he

said. “It just doesn‟t make any sense. This whole thing

that‟s happening right now, it‟s nonsense…pure nonsense.”

He paused. “You hear me.” He paused again. “Shit. I think

he hung up.” Again pausing, looked at the receiver. “Shit.”

After a moment of stillness, he gawked at the phone, the

mime made a snarl, and put it back to his ear. “Sure enough,

the bastard hung up.” He reached into his pocket, withdrew

several quarters, and inserted them into the phone slot. He

listened to the phone ring. “Is that you Oliver? Why did you

hang up?” Again, he jerked the phone away from his ear. A

loud dial tone emited from the receiver. “Damn it. I don‟t

believe it. That idiot hung up on me again. What is this

world coming too? You‟d think that comic bastard would

have enough sense to listen to me.”

I exited the house and headed toward Reni‟s place. The

night was warm and reassuring.

68

“This is the way it is Putnam…I‟m going to do it.” Dr.

Langweilig bobbed his head and faced Putnam as he

teetered back and forth out of balance. He and Putnam had

nearly a bottle of hooch together. “Yes,” he said, “I‟m going

to take that daring leap into forbidden territory.”

“But Doc,” said Putnam, “They‟re all going to laugh at

you. You‟re not a young whipper-snapper like these young

singles studs are today.”

“We‟ll just wait and see. It could mean a new paper for

me. A new venture into something nobody has ever gone

before, especially people of my age.”

“And you say it‟s, it‟s…what?”

“The need for companionship. It‟s a need that is over all

other needs man possesses.” He flipped his fingers denoting

numbers. “Money, possessions, sex, travel, drink…you

name it. The list goes on. It‟s the basic urge that dominates

us all. It‟s something we all must have and require to be

happy and content. Otherwise, we have no desire to live.”

“How so?” said Putnam. “If we didn‟t have the urge for

companionship…we‟d be like the cat in the wild, humping

only in spring. And if that were the case, man would be

extinct today. Why do you think we are together?”

“What about Mr. Talbot, Mrs. Rankin, Mrs. Dolmeier,

and that strange writer dude upstairs…what‟s his name?”

“Ean…Ean Homes.”

“Ean…that‟s it…they live alone?”

“I live alone too. You live alone. But, we get together

and socialize. That‟s our companionship Putnam. We‟re

companions, chums of a different calling that come together

to express ourselves. Name it whatever you want, we all

beckon to the call of companionship…camaraderie.”

“But we have something that brought us together, that‟s

why we‟re here…together Doc.”

“Yes of course. The common denominator, which we

have…DRINK. Dawg and Kitzi have art. And I‟m sure the

others have companions that we don‟t know about. But

when it comes down to it, we all have some relationship

with someone…even Starry Night. If we didn‟t we‟d go

crazy. We‟d skyrocket to the higher heavens.” He paused,

released a hiccup, a belch. “Hmmm…maybe that‟s why

she‟s so loony.”

“So, how you goinna do it…put an ad in the paper…hire

a matchmaker…what?”

Surprised at Putnam‟s answer, Dr. Langweilig jerked

back and said, “Your right. You‟re absolutely correct an ad.

How‟d you guess my dear friend and chum?”

Proud, inflated chest and a big smile across his face,

Putnam said in one breath, “T‟was easy Doc, just like one,

two, three…splooey.”

* * *

69

Standing in the foyer of the Los Angeles Times, Dr.

Langweilig looks at the directory. He skims his finger down

the list, stops at Want Ads. “Ah,” he said, “Room 37 for

personals, Room 38 for cars, Room 40 for jobs. I guess it‟s

Room 37 Putnam.”

They entered the room and looked around to see if there

was a person that could help them. Reading over the signs

on the wall, Dr. Langweilig picked up a form, took a pencil

from the box and with a flourish wrote DIVORCED,

PROFESSOR LOOKING FOR A COMPANION OF

EQUAL STANDING, and finished with phone number.

Putnam looked over his shoulder.

“Why don‟t you put down the Shalimar for your address

Doc? Isn‟t that better?”

“Because I don‟t want them to see what kind of dump I

live in. That‟s why.”

“But, like you said, that don‟t make any difference…the

urge for companionship was a strong need over all other

things…isn‟t that right.”

“That‟s right my good man Putnam, but I don‟t want to

turn them off before they set their eyes on me.” He looked at

Putnam in the eyes, nodded. “Now do I?” Paused and

continued to clarify. “If they see me and I turn them off,

that‟s one thing, but if they see where I live that may

determine our relationship…our companionship. You‟ve got

to remember my dear friend it‟s all in the presentation…the

packaging. How do you think lovers meet?”

Putnam mused and then uttered, “Smell.”

Dr. Langweilig submitted his ad, paid and the two walk

out. As they entered the street Dr. Langweilig hesitated,

looked down at two pigeons doing their dance on the

sidewalk. “Hmmmm,” he said, “You may have something

there Putnam…smell. But, getting back to what I was

saying. I am one thing, and the Shalimar is another. You

understand Putnam? It‟s all about presentation, packaging.

That‟s how we select each other.”

They passed two people talking. They have dogs tethered

by their sides. The two dogs were engaged in butt smelling.

Putnam scratched his head, looked at the two dogs nose

to butt. “Kinda Doc,” he said. But I still kinda think it‟s

smell that attracts us together. As one might say, it‟s all in

the basics. You know what I mean?”

70

A week after the first, Mr. Baktlfahrt goes from one

room to the next collecting the month‟s rent. A ritual

everybody was familiar with and happy to see him

regardless of the day it fell on. Lucky for Mr. Baktlfahrt, his

chore was easy at the Shalimar. All his tenants were happy

to accommodate his wish: fork over their month‟s rent. Mr.

Baktlfahrt didn‟t ask much for the rooms they occupied; this

was why the pensioned, art students and boozers lived at the

Shalimar. Otherwise, they would seek a more affordable

place to lay their heads down―as to say more money in the

pocket, more money to spend.

One tenant was a constant problem, and Mr. Baktlfahrt

dreaded calling on her. It was Ms. Starris Kinnite, as he

often called her, „Die Vunder Bitch von Venutzia.‟

Today happened to be Saturday, a day everyone Mr.

Baktlfahrt could count on being at home. Even Dawg and

Kitzi rarely go out on Saturdays. The weekend, to them was

homework catch up day.

Mr. Baktlfahrt passed the mime in the phone niche,

looked at him, said nothing and proceeded to the next door.

He paused, gazing at the mime, and shrugged his shoulders.

Mr. Baktlfahrt knocked on Dawg and Kitzi‟s room. He

waited. He heard footsteps approaching the door. The door

opened. Kitzi was naked. Shocked, Mr. Baktlfahrt took a

backward step. In his broken Yiddish accent he said,

“Vhee…vhee, vhee…oh mine Gott; oh mine Gott yous in

Adamskostüm…alle nackt.”

In a deep raspy voice, “Buff…in the buff, my dear Mr.

Baktlfahrt. Don‟t be so alarmed. It‟s just me…Kitzi…in the

raw…in the flesh…just natural me.”

Mr. Baktlfahrt covered his eyes and turned forty-five

degrees from Kitzi. Stuttering, “Eh, uh…Ich bin, Ent,

Entschuldigung…so s-s-sorry. I, I, I come back später.”

“No. That‟s okay. I‟ve got your rent Mr. Baktlfahrt.

Come in and I‟ll get it for you.”

At the other end of the room, Dawg shouted, “Kitzi is it

Mr. Baktlfahrt coming for the monthly?” Dawg was

standing in front of a canvas bear-ass too. “Don‟t mind us

Mr. Baktlfahrt. We‟re just doing our schoolwork. We have

this project we have to turn in first thing Monday morning

for painting class. It‟s the end of the summer secession.”

Kitzi giggled, “It‟s nothing Mr. Baktlfahrt. We do this all

the time. You just hit us at the most opportune moment.

Don‟t be ashamed.”

Holding his head to one side and not trying to look at

Kitzi, Mr. Balktlfahrt‟s eyes kept glancing at Dawg‟s mid

section. He finally popped a sentence in, “Sie sind nicht

jüdisch!” He glanced at Dawg‟s penis. His eyes grew large

and he began to blush.

“No Mr. Baktlfahrt,” Dawg happily said with a strong

accent, “I‟m Irish.”

“Shouldn‟t you be wearing a four leaf clover?”

Dawg looked down at his penis; it‟s sticking straight out.

“Why? I‟m as natural as Ireland can be.”

“Because you expose yourself.”

“I‟m what you call a natural guy. Totally Irish.”

Kitzi walks up to Mr. Baktlfahrt and hands him the

month‟s rent.

“Don‟t be embarrassed Mr. Baktlfahrt, Dawg and I are

just natural people. We do this at school too.”

Still looking down at the floor, Mr. Baktlfahrt reached

out for the money. “Ich weiß, I know…you art students jus

hab your own vays. I‟m so sorry.” He takes the money and

slowly backs off towards the door. “Gut bye…gut bye…you

two. Hab a vunderful natural Saturday…veekend. I hopes

you gets gut grades.”

Mr. Baktlfahrt turned around, goes to the next room. He

hit the palm of his hand on his forehead and uttered, “Gott

in Himmel, vhat‟s dis velt comingk to.”

The two art students shook their heads. Dawg said, “Why

is it that Americans just don‟t understand nudity?”

“They‟re just priggish, I guess.”

71

Mrs. Dolmeier closed the door. She just paid Mr. Baktlfahrt

the rent for her room. She took this moment to finish up her

cleaning which Mr. Baktlfahrt had interrupted. She took the

feather duster and swished here and there. Standing to

admire her thoroughness, she said as if she were talking to

someone. “My dear,” as she looked in the mirror hanging on

the wall, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, do you think I will

have a ball on this very night?” She paused and listened as if

the mirror would talk to her. She said, “What you see is

what is in your stall. This night will be the best of all…do

have your ball.”

She picked out a nice dress, laid it on her bed. Stretched

it out to look at it, smoothed it with her hand, and admired

its fine silk pattern. The dress had small pink flowers with

green leaves all over it and a dark blue background. The

dress was accented with white embroidered cuffs, hem, and

collar. Pearl opalescent buttons ran the full length of the

dress from the collar to the hem. It was Mrs. Dolmeier‟s

favorite and most expensive dress. She had the dress for

forty years. It was a gift from her husband on their fifth

wedding anniversary. He was killed in a car accident the

next day. At the time of his death, the two turned thirty.

Every year on her wedding anniversary, Mrs. Dolmeier

took her dress out of the mothballs and prepared it for her

special evening to commemorate this special occasion. This

event was so special to her; she went through the ritual

meticulously. The dress must be ironed, aired, and

perfumed. The perfume had to be the same perfume as the

one she wore on her last anniversary. Later that night, to

complete the anniversary ritual, she would as they had, will

re-consummate their wedding night. The two vowed they

would never let this annual moment be cut from their lives.

It was years back; she was thinking and talking to

herself. “How I have loved that night…that man. The

splendor of it all, the grand meal we had that last night. The

love he gave me on that last night. How I remembered. How

I will never forget.” Looking over to his photograph on the

dresser, she whispered, “I will not forget you my precious

husband, my life, my love, my treasure.”

Every year she had kept her promise never to interrupt

that precious moment in her life. Today she prepared for this

once a year ritual.

The hour was eight. She was dressed. The reservation at

the restaurant had been made for nine. She waited for that

magic moment to start.

72

Night came fast. Dr. Langweilig was reading his mail. On

his lap, ten envelopes were opened and read. He was on his

last letter. With his feet resting on the porch banister, he

looked up from what he just read. Looked across the

cityscape and stared at the flickering amber colored lights

turn from bright amber to a dark orange in the smog-filled

distance. He looked up to the highest point in the sky and

thought what it would have been like to see a sky in LA

without lights and smog. A shooting star streaked across the

murky darkness. He uttered, “It must be our gal Ms. Starry

Night going places she doesn‟t even know about.”

Putnam entered Dr. Langweilig‟s room and reacted to his

comment. “Doc…what ya‟say about a starry night?”

“I was just commenting on the shooting star that just

streaked across the sky and thought of Ms. Kinnite.”

Putnam said, “What about her?”

“She probably was going to places where she doesn‟t

even know about.”

“Like Venus.”

“Mars,” quipped Dr. Langweilig.

“Never-never land,” mocked Putnam.

“You can never tell. It‟s hot outside. Crickets are

jumping and humping. I would imagine our neighbors next

door, the duo artists, are in a double-act too.”

“Ain‟t love wonderful Doc?”

“A once upon a time…thing.”

“Talking about a once upon a time thing…guess who I

saw going out tonight?” said Putnam.

“Mr. Talbot…who else? He always goes out at night.”

“Yeah him too. No, it was Mrs. Dolmeier, the old bitty

sourpuss upstairs.”

“So. We all go out once in a while.”

“No, that ain‟t it. She was all dressed up like you

couldn‟t believe and this guy…uh, he must‟ve been about

thirty years old or so. The two were arm in arm goin‟ down

the stairs…lookin‟ like lovers.”

“Isn‟t love wonderful?” remarked Dr. Langweilig.

“I‟ll bet she paid for that guy.”

“You really think so. I‟ll bet he‟s some relative, and

they‟re going out to celebrate.”

“Not the way she was holdin‟ onto that guy. I‟ll bet she

paid for‟em.”

“Regardless how you look at it Putnam, we all need it,”

Dr. Langweilig quipped, “It‟s the greatest drive outside,

booze, sex, ambition and money.”

“I‟m not arguin‟ witcha Doc. You know all about those

psycho things. I don‟t.”

Putnam sat down and offered Dr. Langweilig a beer. Dr.

Langweilig automatically took it without looking at it. He

was surprised it was cold. After giving it a long stare, he

said, “How come it‟s now beer? I thought you drank only

hooch…hooch that‟s seventy proof or more.”

“It‟s so hot tonight; I thought I‟d cool off a bit if you

don‟t mind.”

Dr. Langweilig took a gulp. “It‟s kind of refreshing.”

Gazing over the cityscape, Dr. Langweilig mulled over the

heat of the day. He said, “It‟s what I call a night for

love…pure naked unabashed sex.”

Taking a long drink from his can, Putnam nearly finished

it off. He held it up and shook it. “I‟m almost out. You‟d

like a nudder?”

“Sure. After you‟re back, I‟ll give you an update on my

little ad in the LA Times. I think you‟ll be surprised.”

73

If it weren‟t for Dr. Langweilig, I wouldn‟t have extra cash

coming in. Putting this alcohol thing together was a piece of

cake. Thank God, he did most of the work, unlike my boss

Ellsworth, who just tells me what he wants, and then I act

like an android and perform. If it isn‟t what Ellsworth

wants, he blows steam, and I rewrite it and rewrite until he‟s

satisfied. I sometimes would like to quit but I‟ve only got

two more years to go. Will he be surprised when I submit

my retirement papers? He has the attitude that I‟m going to

be with him forever.

I‟m almost finished with Dr. Langweilig‟s paper. If he

doesn‟t have anything more to add, I should be finished by

tomorrow. Next, there will be the revisions if not additions.

I just hope he isn‟t another Ellsworth. I hope he doesn‟t

come back like Ellsworth does with: let‟s see, I don‟t know,

maybe, let‟s try it this way, it would sound better this way,

uh, well maybe this way―a never ending trial of changes as

he looks over my shoulder and pushes my hand to do what

he says. I think the only time Ellsworth ever continued on a

straight course was the party at the beginning of summer.

He went straight for girls, booze, meth, and disrobed

without stopping until he hit the driveway. Unfortunately,

he is the reason I have a permanent job.

I got as far as I could, and glanced out the open windows

as a gust of fresh ozone blasted me across the face. The

wind had shifted coming through the windows with a fresh

welcome even though it smelled like burned exhaust. It had

been miserably hot today, in the high 90s. The gust of

ozone, no matter how bad it was, was better than stale,

stagnate heated air.

My windows have never been cleaned, at least since I

moved in a few years back. They looked like they had years

of grime clinging to them, dried raindrops, smog, dust,

whatever, since LA decided that smog was a better

alternative then public electric transportation. The city once

had a grid of electric streetcars jetting up and down streets

and over to the valleys. One day the oil companies

convinced the City Fathers they could make more money on

petroleum fuel than turbine energy. The oil companies were

so convincing, every one of those dudes lived as if he were

the last mogul on earth. Thank God, they‟re all dead, but

their legacy persists.

LA was used to oil, it goes way back to the early days

when its aromatic discharge came from Hancock Park,

flanked by Wilshire Boulevard, Sixth Street, and Fairfax.

Angelinos grew up with Mr. Hancock‟s backyard. That‟s

the one with all the dinosaurs in it: saber tooth tigers, sloths,

and other creatures caught in his tar pit.

There were other oil companies too. The big O-3: PDQ,

Richfield and Signal Oil, they did their part to give us a

good breath of O3―ozone that is. But they‟re now extinct

like everything else that came from Hancock‟s pit. They laid

the groundwork for Shell Oil, Standard Oil, ExxonMobil.

When the blast of O3 hit me, I took the well intentional

breath of rejection, and hoped that I would be able to live

another day.

Back in the 40s and early 50s, people were dying from

smog. Today, medicine has advanced so far that everyone

that has adequate insurance can boast of carrying his own

portable O2 tank behind them. That‟s what oil has done for

the Angelinos.

The walls of my apartment are so coated with O3 along

with years of dust and grime. I don‟t think anybody replaced

the wallpaper on the walls since day one. The same

wallpaper since I lived here back when. It has turned brown

over the years, and the floral pattern has faded out. If you

look at the wall from an acute angle, you can see little

strands of dust reaching out for help. Or maybe it‟s inert

fungus, which became suspended in time―forever―dead.

It‟s too hot to close the windows even though the ozone

breeze swashes me. The hot night and the warm gentle wind

are somewhat refreshing which justifies the O3 condition.

All of a sudden, there was a disturbance. I looked in the

direction where it came from, and realized it was Mr. Ghost

doing his thing in the attic. It was now 10 p.m. The noise,

for some reason was loader than usual. The clanging and

swishing of something being dragged across the floorboards

rose to a high din. Then all of a sudden, it stopped. It was

dead quiet. The air didn‟t even move. What was going on, I

thought. Nothing of course, this was LA the city of Angeles,

where one can live a life in a bowl of exhaust, and thank

God for medical achievements, insurance and Medicare.

I wasn‟t going to go in there, knowing Mr. Ghost. We

had come to an agreement that I wouldn‟t bother him

between the hours of ten and six. That‟s his domain until the

first light of day takes its first glance over the LA smog

bowl. I would have to wait until morning to see what was

going on in there. I returned to my computer and pounded

out Dr. Langweilig‟s study. The ozone wind returned giving

me its continued O3 breeze, until I came to a stopping point.

I then turned to solitaire for about fifteen minutes to change

the dryness of his paper.

Having enough of computer card games, I decided to

take a walk. Hoping there would be something out on the

streets that would enlighten me, give me inspiration to peck

away at my computer keyboard. I wanted some input to

finish my long awaited story.

As I descended my stairwell, I heard voices in the hall. It

sounded like Mrs. Dolmeier and another person. A young

man‟s voice was audible. I waited until her key turned in the

door, and she opened it, then I opened my door. As they

were entering her room, I caught a glimpse of a young man

being pulled in. He was tall, striking, and about thirty years

of age. He didn‟t look my way. I waited until her door

closed and then I walked slowly past her room. Then, I

heard her say, “My darling…tonight we will consummate

our anniversary again.”

To each his own, I thought. Good night, Mrs. Dolmeier

and companion, have a good one. Put one in for me too.

74

When I returned home, it was early the next morning.

Noticing the mime on the phone didn‟t even faze me. He

was always a constant presence in the niche. As I climbed

the stairs, I wasn‟t sure if it was Sunday morning or

Monday. I wasn‟t going to work anyway. I just wasn‟t in the

mood to have another tiff with Ellsworth. Over the years,

we became used to each other. We knew each other‟s ins

and outs, moods swings and reactions. Besides, he was

playing his game again, and I didn‟t like that. I was on the

fifth draft of his proposal he thought needed more pizzazz. I

put in as much zing anyone could, but it still didn‟t fly with

him. What does he want anyway? The paper sounded like

something coming out of an old spinster‟s hope chest, sweet

and ersatzy. So I wasn‟t anxious to step foot into my WC to

wade through his culvert of words. What was he thinking of

anyway? He has been acting a little weird lately too. Did

that party at the beginning of summer rearrange his

crumpled gray matter? Maybe it had something to do with

the buzz going around the office. Everyone was talking

about, the big change over and reorganization. I shirked it

aside as just another rumor going around―water cooler talk.

I stepped into my apartment at six-forty-five that

morning. The sun had shown its head bright and cheerful as

usual upon LA―eager to sauté us in its O3 marinate. The

smog still lingered across the basin giving a hint it was

going to be another brown hot day.

My fingers went through their usual warm up, digitizing

the air. I flexed them, placed them on the keyboard ready for

action. Nothing. Still nothing came from them. I fluttered

them again and again. “Oh God,” I said. “Can‟t I have at

least a hint of something?” No response came from heaven,

outside, or my cranial Kopf‟s gray mishmash. The angels in

heaven surely weren‟t on my side this morning.

Suddenly, my attention was diverted coming from my

closet. Something strange stood before the door, but I

couldn‟t really see it, just sensed it. Strange, I thought. The

closet was a mess. My clothes were all strewn everywhere. I

know I didn‟t make that mess. Could have somebody

entered while I was out trying to find something to add to

my story? Good luck, to whoever came in? If I had any

inheritance to give away, it surely wasn‟t coming from me

or I‟d be living someplace else. Besides, my wealth was

taken up by „B of A‟ in my savings account drawing a

measly under valued interest rate―zero point zero-zero-one.

I‟m sure the box of letters I found in the attic the other

day had very little value too. They may have come from

Charlie Chaplin, but there was no mention of his name on

any of them, not even on the envelopes. If they were

Charlie‟s, who could prove it?

I looked at the closet door. Should I or shouldn‟t I go in

the attic to see what all the noise was about last night. I

considered. It was past six, so everything would be okay. I

entered the inner sanctum of Mr. Ghost. The attic was a

mess. “What the hey?” I bellowed. “Who in the hell could

have done this?” The secrete room‟s screen door was torn

off its hinges, newspapers were scattered all over, and dust

filled the air. That‟s strange, I thought. I know I locked my

door when I left, but then I was preoccupied by Mrs.

Dolmeier and her companion. Could I have thought I locked

my door? I looked around to see if anything was missing.

Like I should know what‟s up here. I found nothing strange

out of place except the screen door was cockeyed off its

hinges and newspapers strewn all over the room.

After picking up the mess and putting the door back on

its hinges, I cleaned up my closet. What a mess. My clo thes

must have been torn off their hooks and hangers and

dumped on the floor. By whom? It couldn‟t have been Mr.

Ghost, and if it were Mr. Ghost, why? Why would he want

to do this now? Was he trying to tell me something?

My eyes glanced at the clock; it‟s now 10:30 a.m. How

time flies when you least expect it. It was too late to go to

work, so I went down stairs to phone Ellsworth I wasn‟t

coming in. Surprised, the strange character let me have the

phone this time. He walked away shaking his head and

repeating, “I just don‟t understand.”

Ellsworth answered the phone and sounded like he had a

horrendous hangover.

Ellsworth drawls out each word as if it were pulled from

his gut, “Yyyyes…thiiis was Mr.…uh…Bunk speaking.

What can I do for you?”

“Ellsworth, you sound horrid…terrible.”

“I-I-I a-a-am. It was so smoggy and hot last night; I spent

the whole night drinking beer after beer cooler to keep

cool…and now I have a hellofa sore throat and headache.”

Laughing I said, “What did you drink with the beer?”

“Vodka.”

“The worst kind.”

“Yeah, it feels like my head is going to explode.”

“Why didn‟t you stay home?”

“I have that proposal to get out.” He raised his angry

voice, “The one you were supposed to have finished

Friday…at the close of business…you remember…C-O-B!”

“Calm down Ellsworth. I put it on your seat before I left.

You left early, so I put it right on your seat so you wouldn‟t

miss it when you came in today. By chance would you be

sitting on it?”

Silence. “Shit you idiot…I didn‟t see the fucking paper.

Yes, I‟m sitting on it. I‟ll read it and get it to my boss

ASAP. This has to be it or nothing else. You realize this is

life or death.”

“You‟ll love it Ellsworth. It has all the touches of a

brilliant mastermind.” I had to think of a good one, so I

interjected, “All in an Ellsworth Bunk style.”

“Uh…uh…uh, yes of course. I‟ll let you know how

things go…okay…bye.” Click.

I didn‟t even get to tell him I wasn‟t coming in. Oh well,

good luck old man. I hope the proposal will win them over.

No sooner than one could blink, the mime was standing

before me motioning me to get out of the way. I did. I

returned a thank you for letting me use the phone. A little

smile came to his lips and he gestured a nod. He dropped

quarters into the phone and returned to the pantomime

gesturing he was so well know for—arms waving, hands

flipping and fist banging the wall all in silence.

75

The only light entering the room was a stream of dust- laden

sunbeam coming from a crack between two partially opened

drapes. The two inebriated souls look at the cash on the

floor. Twenties, fifties and one-hundred dollar bills, face up

and neatly piled in numerical order as Mike and Moe stared

at them in awe. Mike was admiring the Presidential mugs

staring back. He rocked his head back and forth. His eyes

were wide open. A large toothy grin filled his face as if he

were a child that just received a basket of his favorite candy.

Moe whined, “If they find out we‟ve broken into Mr.

Homes apartment, we‟re going to jail.”

“Bullshit and shut up,” snapped Mike. “We‟re not going

to jail. I don‟t think he knows we have the money anyway.

Nobody knows we have this…you hear. Get that through

your bird-brain right now.”

“They‟ll find out,” said Moe.

“No they won‟t. And besides, how are they go ing to find

out? Are you goinna tell‟em?”

A quirky crackle came from Moe, “Nnnno-o-o.”

“I‟ll tell you Moe,” emphasized Mike, “We didn‟t break

into Mr. Homes‟ pad. His door was open, unlocked…and

that ain‟t breakin‟ in.”

“We went up there uninvited.”

“Look here Moe…you go to your room when it‟s open

and uninvited, don‟t you?”

Moe answered, “Y-y-yes.”

“Well, don‟t worry about it. We have other worries.”

“What‟s that Mike. I hope it ain‟t the mob.”

“No.”

“Then what?” stressed Moe.

“What to do with the money.”

“What are we going to do with the money Mike?”

Scratching his head, he whispered, “Hell I don‟t know.

We just can‟t keep it here…take it to the bank. They‟d

suspect somethin‟s wrong. There‟s just too much money

here for us to do that.”

“We could take it bit by bit to the bank.”

Mike looked Moe straight in the eyes. “At our age and on

Social Security…who do you think we are? Bill Gates,

Warren Buffett. We‟ve never taken money to the bank

before except our Social Security checks. They‟d suspect

somethin‟ big. People like us just don‟t have money except

what Uncle Sam sends us each month. You understand. The

only things we carry to the „B of A‟ are our monthly check,

and then cash it.”

“Well, I don‟t know Mike. We could get a new place to

live. Some place where people don‟t know us. Start a new

life…and then open up a bank account and deposit it.”

Mike started to say something, but realized what Moe

had just said. “You know my good friend. You got

something there. We could leave this dump, this c ity, and

find a nice small place out in the country somewhere and

live our lives out in peace…away from smog, away from

deadbeats, away from everything…and this dump.”

“And we could buy a liquor store…”

Mike jumped up and screamed, “YOU GOT IT MOE…”

then whispered, “you got it.” Startled by his excitement, he

returned to his seat and whispered, “You got it Moe…a

liquor store would be the greatest idea yet.” The two men

slap-five and grasped hands in confirmation. “And, that‟s

how we can launder our stash without anyone suspectin‟

otherwise.”

Finally, Moe exhales, “Yeah.”

“You‟re a genius Moe.”

“Yeah.”

76

It was another day for Mr. Talbot. Sitting in front of the

open window, as always, reading the LA Times. In his right

hand, he had a red marking pencil, and with an occasional

adjustment to his plus-five spectacles, he continued

searching for typos, grammatical errors, anything to place a

red notation on the page. Occasionally, he licked the red

pencil to prepare it for mark-up. His tongue and lower lip

were bright red. Frustrated, he found nothing. He shook the

newspaper as if it were something it did wrong.

“What‟s wrong with these people today?” he said. “Can‟t

they misspell words like they used to.”

Ruffling the paper once, twice, as if to shake out the

errors, he settled back down to reading. After fifteen

minutes, he threw the paper across the room. Mrs. Rankin

looked up from the kitchenette.

“What‟s wrong dear? Something bothering you?”

Frustrated, “I can‟t find any errors.”

“Well, isn‟t that good?”

“Not for me it isn‟t. Can you believe I‟ve been doing this

for…” He stopped, looked up to the ceiling and pondered

his age. “…hmmm, I think sixty years.”

“But, you‟re retired. You don‟t have to do this now.”

“But, I‟ve been doing this all my life. This is the only

thing I know how to do. What will they think of me down at

the press?”

She took his hand. “I don‟t think you have to worry

about that anymore. You‟ve got me now.”

He looked up to her, smiled, and patted her hand. “Yes,

my dear. What am I thinking of?”

Mrs. Rankin walked over to the tossed paper, picked it

up and folded it neatly. “What do you want to do with it

dear?” She looked at the stacks of newspapers lining the

walls from one end to the next.

“Oh.” He gestured with his hand to the stack halfway up

the wall to his left. “Just put it there with the others. I‟ll

straighten it out later.”

Amazed at the stacks and how many newspapers there

were, she said, “How many papers do you have here?”

“I can‟t remember.” A large toothy smile formed on his

lips. “Maybe in the area of twenty to twenty- five.”

“It looks more than that to me.”

“Thousand.” He shined with pride. “A thousand my

dear…twenty thousand,” he stressed.

Mrs. Rankin‟s eyes glanced over the stacks as if to count

them. “What are you going to do with them dear? There are

so many of them.”

“Collecting them; it‟s my hobby. It‟s every newspaper

I‟ve ever read on the job and since I‟ve retired.”

“Why?”

He shook his head. “It‟s just me…that‟s all.”

“You know you don‟t have to keep them anymore.

They‟ve got libraries and archives that keep such things.

Everything is on microfilm these days, if not on memory

discs. If you want to know about anything, all you have to

do is go down there and look it up.”

Mr. Talbot‟s expression went sour. “But, my dear, this is

my…uh…life. I‟ve worked for sixty years to have all this.

This is me…my life. You hear…my life…me.”

“But…dear…uh…”

He suddenly interjected with a stern snap, “It‟s my

life…it‟s me…and that‟s that.”

“I see.” She paused. “Would you like some coffee and

toast now…it‟s ready my…” She had to stop and think

about the next word. “…uh…my dear?”

“Sure. Why not. What else is there in life?”

* * *

77

A rumor went around the Shalimar that Ms. Starris Kinnite

had vacated the room without telling Mr. Baktlfahrt. She

hadn‟t been seen for several days, neither was her daily

deposit left on Mr. Talbot‟s car. Mr. Baktlfahrt had stopped

by server days in a row trying to collect her month‟s rent

without luck. He went to everyone‟s door and asked if they

had seen any sign of her. The typical response was no

except Mr. Talbot‟s: “I‟m sure the vixen went to Mars if not

back to her home planet…Venus.”

For a couple of days after that, everybody thought she

had gone on one of her nightly adventures, only this time it

was extended.

Mr. Baktlfahrt said to everyone, “If youz seez her, please

call me.” He handed each one a business card, and placed

several on the foyer table. “Oh, by zha vay, zhe apartment

next to zhe artzies is vacant…Ms. Bibbie‟s room. If you

knowz anyvones zhat vould likes it, lets me knowz.”

A couple of days went by, and another rumor started up.

Ms. Kinnite had died in her room, or someone had killed

her, since there had been reports that someone had broken

into my apartment and made a mess in the attic.

Everyone had come down to the foyer and was

discussing the Ms. Starris Kinnite affair.

Mr. Talbot said, “I hope she isn‟t in her room rotting to

high heaven. I‟ve smelt the dead before, and it isn‟t too

pleasant. But then, the bitch didn‟t smell that good either. I

don‟t think she ever washed.”

Dr. Langweilig said, “I don‟t think she is dead in her

room. If she did die, she‟d begin to smell pretty awful by

now, considering it‟s been quite a while since the first. After

three days we‟d begin to smell something terrible coming

from her place.”

“Her room smells all the time. It‟s because of all the

urinating and defecating she does up there,” said Mr. Talbot.

Inebriated, Moe slurred, “What‟s that Mista Talbow?”

“Shit and piss! My man, pee and turds…piss and

poop…urine and dung… fluid discharge and defecation my

man…just plane old excrement and urinous waste.”

Moe said, “Uh…what is ex-cement?”

“Not ex-cement my man…excrement. What you dump

on a daily bases my man…plain old shit.”

Moe nodded trying to make sense of what Mr. Talbot

threw at him.

Mr. Baktlfahrt said, “If somevone seez her, you can tells

her to pay up, or I‟ll looks for anudder tenant. Tells zhats

right to her face. And don‟t forgets the room next to zha

artzies…Dawg's and Kitzi's is now up for zha rent.”

78

Days passed. Everyone who lived up stairs had to stop at

Ms. Starris Kinnite‟s room, knock on her door and sniff the

air. Nothing offensive emitted from her room, plus no

response. Someone said if she had her windows open, they

wouldn‟t be able to smell anything anyway. All the odors

would be caught by the passing breeze and the stench would

drift out the window and diffuse into the air. Nothing would

come into the house.

The only one pleased by her absence was Mr. Talbot; his

car was no longer swathed in urine.

Everyone who was interested in Ms. Starris Kinnite had

to see if she left any window or windows open. So in single

file, everyone traipsed outside and stood as far as they could

below the Tiffany stained glass windows to see if any were

opened. Fortunately, all her windows were wide open. So,

the conversation amongst the tenants concluded that she

died in her sleep one night and was rotting up there in her

bed along with her can of piss.

Moe said in his typical slurred voice, “I‟m not goin‟ in. I

knew a policeman from Palm Springs once. He was tellin‟

me his first „venture with a dead man.” All eyes grew wide.

“He of course was a novice and didn‟t know what to…”

Mike interjected, “What happened man?”

“Let me tell it Mike,” Moe waved his hands and arms at

Mike. “This guy went out to fetch a dead body that had been

rottin‟ in the desert for a week or two. When he got there, he

didn‟t realize the body had been cookin‟ in that closed car

all the time it was out there in that hot desert sun. You know

how hot it gets out there in that desert?” Everyone nodded.

“You can cook by it. I‟ve known people who‟ve made a

complete breakfast on a stone out there.” Everybody

returned a nod. “The carcass, the dead dude was so blotted

up, bigger than life.” He motions with his outstretched

hands as far as he could.

Mrs. Rankin said, “What then?” Her eyes grew even

larger and her mouth gaped even larger.

“When he opened the door…” Moe paused, looked at

everyone in the face. In one big, breathe, like a shotgun, he

slapped his hands and blurted, “BAM!” Everyone was

shocked and jumped back. Moe began to giggle. “The guy

blew up all over him. He was drippin‟ and reekin‟ from

green grunge, muck, puke and God only knows what.”

Mr. Talbot said, “Maggots.” Everyone turned to him.

“Oh shit…holy guacamole,” said Mike. “You never told

me that.”

“You never asked Mike…hic.”

79

That next morning, I entered my floor like every morning

with a cup of coffee in one hand and a maple-bar in the

other ready to enter my WC. Ellsworth was standing outside

my door fuming. I could see the black cloud froth over his

bear spot he covers with a flip. Some of his hair was

sticking up making him look as if he just got one of those

freaky coifs people wear today. Apparently, from

frustration, he had been pulling it. His eyes were squinting

at me as I approached—dark and foreboding. Along with

stamping his foot to a beat that played over the office‟s

intercom. With every downbeat, you could even hear the

thump on the carpet, he was so mad. I almost didn‟t want to

approach him, but turn around and run. As I got closer to

him, you could hear him grind his teeth and exhaust coming

from his nostrils like some ragging dragon.

With a big smile, I uttered, “Good morning Ellsworth.” I

wasn‟t too anxious to here what he had to say. All he gave

me in return was a sharp, “Humph,” as he bit down on his

teeth. I, in turn, grinned and felt his anguish. I knew what

was to come. His flowery, superlatives just didn‟t make it,

they went Kaplooey down the toilet.

“What is it?” I said, “I hope it isn‟t about the proposal.”

“I want to talk to you.” Pressing his lips and showing his

teeth, he blurted with a sharp and sudden burst, “NOW.” His

eyes were red and beady and looking like blood would pour

out from them any minute, if not fire.

After opening the WC and sitting at my computer, he

slammed the door behind him and began blaring at me.

“What have you done here?” He shook the proposal in my

face. “I told you this was going to be life or death.” He

caught his breath, breathing deep. “My LIFE…and it‟s

going to be YOUR DEATH.”

I started to interject, but he continued his oratory blast.

“Listen here, I gave you all the information that was to go

into this paper.” He paused to get his breath. “The right

verbiage,” another breath, “the right tone of the proposal,

and…,” he stopped, paused, looked around my room, took a

large slow inhale, and exhaled, “you FUCKEDUP the whole

thing…my proposal…you ASS.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I called later that afternoon to

find out how it went, and you said it was a work of genius.”

“What…A WORK OF GENIUS…it sounds like some

inbred imbecile wrote this fucking SHIT.”

He shook the papers heatedly. One of the sheets ripped

out of his hand and then another until the room was covered

by the proposal. Next, he swiped my desk clean. My coffee

cup ricocheted against the wall, breaking into pieces. The

rolodex followed suit, and my desk caddy shattered onto the

floor. He finally calmed down to a raspy whisper, “Why?

Why did you do this to me? You know you murdered ME?”

I felt like I had looked at him for a thousand years. All I

could see was horror of the ages run through my mind. Did I

hear what I was hearing?

Finally and calmly I said, “It looks like death doesn‟t it.”

His eyes turned red and beady. “Death isn‟t the word for

what you‟ve done dude.”

“What then Boss?”

“Castrated.”

As the day unfolded, I got the scoop on what really

happened. Ellsworth was summoned to the conference room

with all the bigwigs, finance, admin, automation, supply,

marketing, art department and whatever a big company has

to make it run like a Timex―you know, to take a lickin‟

and still keep it tickin‟.

Ellsworth got his walking papers like all the other big

wigs. The company was going through a downsizing. I

hadn‟t heard what would happen to me. Maybe, it was

because I really didn‟t exist. Nobody knew who I was, or

even knew there was a person in the WC. I was something

Ellsworth had shoved in there to do his work. Everything

would be known on the next payday, one week away, if I

really were a real person working at LALA Inc or just a

figment of my imagination.

80

The day the police, the paramedics, and the fire

department came out to extract the body of Ms. Starris

Kinnite from her mezzanine room was the letdown of the

year. The neighbors down below had their tsunami event, so

everybody expected they would get at least a Venusian

outburst, or a gnome‟s wrath. But what they got wasn‟t

anything they expected, it wasn‟t a body, it was gloomier.

Everyone in the house stood downstairs in the foyer and

talked about, “what if.” A rookie cop was questioning the

tenants and taking notes. Two paramedics were talking

about what they had for breakfast that morning. They

related it to a suicide the day before, which they scooped up

from the street.

Outside, there was one fire engine with full crew and

paramedic ambulance with back door open and gurney

waiting. For some odd reason, the fire engine had its ladder

extended to the rooftop, and one fireman was trying to see

through the attic porthole that was clouded with decades of

grim, smut and smog. He tried to wipe it clean but gave up

because the caked soot made it worse to see through.

After a bit, news crews showed up on the scene, one

from KFOX, the big three-networks, and CNN. They, of

course had a full crew of cameras waiting at hand. It looked

like they were getting ready for the start of the apocalypse.

The LA Times car showed up with two reporters and a

photographer. For some odd reason, the LA Times was

pushing subscriptions and passing out sample newspapers

from the day before.

The whole block was choked up with trucks, cars, and

emergency vehicles. Traffic was mired in the havoc for

miles up Hoover. The whole morning was shot. I didn‟t go

to work because the rookie cop wanted everyone to stay put

until everything was cleared, and our statements were taken

down. Today, of course, was payday, and my mind was

more on “what if” at work, than what would come out of the

mezzanine room. I could hear about that BS later.

Moe kept nudging Mike, and whispered, “What if?”

Mike, clinched his teeth, whispered back, “My good

friend…they don‟t know a damn thing…nix, nada, nothin‟.

Now keep quiet…you hear.”

“But, there‟s cops here.”

“Keep your damn mouth zipped and everything will be

okay.” He glared at Moe. “I‟ll do the talkin‟.”

“What if they ask me a question?”

“I‟ll answer the questions. Just play dumb…mute…like a

dime store dummy.”

The rookie cop turned and approached Mike and Moe.

Moe whispered as he bit down on his teeth, “Oh sheeee- it.

He‟s comin‟ over here.”

“Just keep it zipped…ya‟hear,” said Mike.

The cop said, “Can you tell me a little about this Ms.

Starris Kinnite.” He sniggered at repeating her name.

Mike spoke up first. “Officer…we don‟t know much

about this Starris Kinnite woman.”

Mrs. Rankin stood close by and turned to the three,

nodded and repeated, “That‟s right…that‟s right. We don‟t

know much about her. She was a vague person…and I

might say mysterious too.”

The cop interrupted Mrs. Rankin, “Ma‟am, I‟ll get to you

next. I‟m questioning this gentleman here.” He nodded to

Mike to continued, then gave Mrs. Rankin a rude smile.

“Like I said, we don‟t know much about her. She‟s a

weirdo…kinda weird she was, if you know what I mean.”

“I don‟t know sir…please expound on your statement.”

“She was one weird creature. She talked about going to

Venus, Mars and the Moon. Some of us think it would‟ve

been better for her to go to Pluto, if not beyond.”

“You don‟t say,” said the cop. He made a puzzled frown

and continued writing Mike‟s statement. “Why do you say

Plu-toe, if not beyond?”

“It would take her longer to get there and back.”

“You don‟t say,” said the cop. He made a puzzled frown

and continued writing Mike‟s statement. “Why do you say

Plu-toe, if not beyond?”

“It would take her longer to get there and back.”

The rookie turned to Moe, but Mr. Talbot interjected.

“What he means sir… she was constantly peeing on my

parked car out on the driveway. That‟s why she‟s a weirdo.”

The cop grimaced. “You say she…uh…peed on your car,

constantly? Do you mean ur- in-ate…sir.”

“Yes sir, every night. When I‟d go out to my car every

morning, I‟d have this scum all over my car…her piss.”

“How do you know it was p…urine?”

“You couldn‟t miss it. It was yellow crystalline like

scum. And I might add…it was laced with feces.”

“Feces…huh.”

“Yes…shit.”

The cop‟s expression drew a dead blank. “Anything

else…uh…” He paused. “Your name sir?”

“Mr. Talbot, copy proof reader for the Los Angeles

Times…retired…that is.”

The cop looked into his eyes questioning, “So, you didn‟t

like Ms. Starris Kinnite, huh.”

“No…she was a bitch…a vixen vampire from Venus.”

The big moment came. The second police came over to

Mr. Baktlfahrt and asked him to come upstairs with him and

the coroner. Mr. Baktlfahrt escorted the three men up the

staircase to the mezzanine room. The two cops looked up at

the Tiffany stained glass dome and the overpowering

Tiffany stain glass facade of the mezzanine room. The

coroner was not impressed. The cop in charge kept looking

at the stained glass in awe. His eyes kept skimming up and

down the spectacular chromatic display.

The policeman to Mr. Baktlfahrt‟s left said, “Man can

you imagine how much this is worth?”

Mr. Baktlfahrt said, “Zhat‟s vhy zhey von‟t let me tears

za place down. Zhey say it‟s vort ztoo much moneys. It vas

zhat comic actor‟s Charlie Chaplin‟s furst house in LA.”

The cop standing to Mr. Baktlfahrt‟s right responded,

“You don‟t say…Charlie Chaplin…huh.”

The cop to Mr. Baktlfahrt‟s left said, “Is that for real?”

Mr. Baktlfahrt proudly smiled, nodded, and uttered,

“Punkt, ende punkt…vone-hundred percent.”

The coroner said, “I don‟t have time to gawk and praise

stain glass. Stain glass is stain glass…it‟s all the same to

me. I‟m here to see that dead woman…nothing else. So,

let‟s get with it and open that damn door.”

Mr. Baktlfahrt unlocked the door. The door swung open.

The cop left of Mr. Baktlfahrt entered first, then the one on

his right, then the coroner, and Mr. Baktlfahrt stepped

through the doorway last. The news media eagerly rushed

upstairs like a swarm of locus teeming to see the outcome.

The door swung shut, clink-rattle, the door shook from the

loose stained glass panes. Everyone abruptly stopped in

front of the Tiffany stained glass door as if they were a

single solid body, crunch, running into each other. Audible

curses were heard all the way down the stairs. The female

reporter from KFOX shouted the loudest as they all meshed

upon each other. “Fuck…man, don‟t squish me. I just got a

new set of implants. You‟ll reshape the silicone.”

The newsman next to her pushed away and said, “You

sound like you just came off the front.”

“I did. This is my first stateside assignment.”

Chuckling, he looked at her chest. “What a package.”

“Yeah,” she said, “Overseas, it doesn‟t matter how you

look, as long as you do you reporting. But, here in the

States, you got to look one hundred percent…bona fide.”

“How about a date after work Honey?”

“You married?”

“We don‟t talk about those matters.”

“I‟ll meet you at the Holiday Inn, on South Figueroa

Street, at twenty-one-thirty.”

“Huh, at what?”

Inside the mezzanine room, a cop talked to the sergeant

in command. “All we could find is this coffee can with

something in it…it maybe urine.” He smelled the can. “I‟m

sure that‟s what it is.” He held the can out for everyone to

see. Everyone craned their necks to see inside the can.

The senior cop took the can and looked in, then he stuck

his nose in and smelled. “It smells like shit to me.” He

looked up to his partner and handed it to him. “What do you

think it is…shit too? Or is it just piss?”

The second cop said, “It looks like dried shit clinging to

the sides to me.” He stuck his nose in to smell and said into

the can, “It even smells like shit Sergeant.” His voice

echoed inside the can. “Yes, that‟s what I‟d call it…shit,

dried shit Sarge.” He passed it to Mr. Baktlfahrt.

Mr. Baktlfahrt took the can and looked in, smelled the

contents. “If dyou askga me…it smells like poop vidt

tinkle.” He looked up and returned a snarled expression.

Everyone in the room wasn‟t sure if it was feces, if not

urine, but couldn‟t be sure if it belonged to Ms. Starris

Kinnite. They kept a round robin of questions going until

the coroner shouted, “It‟s piss. Let‟s get on with it.”

After fifteen minutes of debating over the can‟s contents,

and who might have deposited it, the door opened and the

three men emerged one by one to the mezzanine banister.

Mr. Baktlfahrt shook his head. The sergeant in command

stepped up to the banister and raised his hands above his

head to get everyone‟s attention. The news reporters

clustered around him pushing their microphones into his

face obstructing his view. He waved them away with a

gyrating windmill motion. Camera flashed filling the dim

lighted foyer.

“Let me speak,” he shouted, “get those damn things outa

my fuckin‟ face…or I‟ll have you all down at the station

getting your mug-shots and fingerprints taken.”

The news group backed off, but still aimed their mics

pointing toward his face.

Shaking his head he said, “There‟s no one here. No Ms.

Kinnite. No nothin‟. All we found was a can of dried shit.”

Paused. “Scratch that, I mean feces and urine.”

Throughout the mezzanine, staircase, and the foyer the

hoard of eager spectators uttered, “Feces huh…all was left

was her dump…a can full o‟shit he said.” The reporters held

their recorders closer to the Sergeant. He waved them away.

Moe whispered with relief, “It was only shit they

found…no dead Martians…Venusians…or Plutonians.”

Mike turned to Moe and whispering, “Thank God that‟s

all they found.”

Moe whispered, “Yeah…the money.”

Turning to Moe, Mike said, “Shhhh…man…shhhh.”

“Uh, right.” Moe put his hand over his mouth.

81

By mid afternoon, the disappointed group left the scene.

Some complaining it was a hoax, some were glad to break

up the day with something other than tragedy, while others

just shirked it off as just another day on the job.

One reporter was heard saying, “All that work for

nothing. What a waste of time. You‟d think the police

would look into it first before they‟d call the press.”

One of the paramedics said, “Glad we didn‟t have to

scoop the gal up like the guy the other day.”

The fire chief said, “We‟ll put it down as an exercise.” It

made his crew happy they didn‟t have to have one until the

following month.

The police sergeant in command said to his sidekick,

“Let‟s save this can just incase we need this shit for

evidence. She may end up being dead somewhere.”

The coroner said, “Don‟t ever call me on a bunko case

like this again. I don‟t have the time for idiotic bullshit.”

It was too late for me to go to work. I put it aside and

hoped all things would go well for me down at the office.

After I finally got through the throng of disappointed

civil servants and the media, I settled down at my computer

and entered the day‟s experience. By the time, I looked up

and outside, the sun was setting and hinting it was going to

be another hot day tomorrow. The sunset was glowing red.

82

The Shalimar house was made of wood frame construction

with real two-by-fours not milled as they are today. The

façade was lath and stucco. Its walls are not insulated. It was

built back in the old days when insulation wasn‟t known, or

if it was known, this old house didn‟t have installation. The

common use of insulation didn‟t come into existence until

after WW2. The problem with an un-insulated house is

sound, not to mention loss of heat, which isn‟t a big

problem in SoCal LA. Because of today‟s ever increasing

global weather change, one really doesn‟t need to heat. LA,

SoCal has become like every Sunbelt region throughout the

world, one hell of a hotspot during summer. Not to mention

the Santa Ana foehn, hot winds that gush up every spring

and autumn causing kooks to ignite their semi-annual

firestorms here and there throughout the southland.

Since the house wasn‟t insulated, everything can be

heard from one room to the next. Often times I‟d come or go

down the stairs and I‟d hear conversations in the rooms, not

distinctly, but you can hear voices. Late at night, soft

sensuous sounds emit from Dawg and Kitzi‟s room, Mrs.

Rankin reading Little Women, or the surly Mrs. Dolmeier

doing her thing, pounding on her walls. It‟s something she

does after the first of every month.

The foyer acts as if it were made for a chamber

ensemble. Any sound coming from any room resonates

from it like a boombox. Often I can hear someone talking

from the first floor to my pad.

My apartment was directly over Mrs. Dolmeier‟s room.

Her room became a symphony of bedsprings rocking-

nrolling to the tempo of crickets outside. Tonight I‟m

having an encore. I don‟t know who he is, probably the

same fellow she brought home that night.

Not only am I having an x-rated opus down stairs, I‟m

enjoying a beer and watching Sherry Jung strip to the music

she is hearing on her iPod. Luckily, I can‟t hear what she‟s

enjoying. It might spoil the whole quaffing sounds coming

from downstairs.

I really didn‟t want to do much tonight but get drunk.

Knowing that I might be canned the next day, I drank three

cans right off. My thoughts and ambitions rested between

my legs and its fantasies. Good night, farewell Mrs.

Dolmeier and Miss Sherry Jung. May your dreams be

fulfilled for another day? Peace be with you. I hope you

have many more to come. After my fifth beer, drunk as hell,

I went to bed and had a solo beef-jerky. What a

disappointment that was―as Mr. Baktlfahrt often said at the

end of every conversation, punkt, ende punkt. Good night!

* * *

83

The next morning I wasn‟t too anxious to get out of bed, but

I did, reluctantly, my bones hurt. I did the usual, shower,

shave, and splash a little musk on my bod. For the first time

I really dressed the part of an employee, and not like some

custodian ready to sweep floors. I never dressed up because

Ellsworth said my position didn‟t require such attire, in

other words, I was not a director of anything. I had noticed

though, people who dressed like me, blue jeans and

sweatshirt around the office were not of the select class.

They fit the janitorial mode, which happen to be one on

every floor in this building. But, for the first time since I

came to LALA Inc, I put on my best rags. They were rags,

because they were old, about ten years. They weren‟t so

much worn out, but out of style.

I shook them out. Got all the dusted off, and held it up to

see them more clearly in the morning light. It was the only

suit I had. Black. Why a black suit in SoCal? I bought it for

my parent‟s last going away party—they went to meet their

maker. No one here in LA buys a black suit unless they‟re

an actor. It‟s too hot for such garb.

I wear nothing but blue jeans and blue underwear. My

whole wardrobe is blue. I have a blue mind, a blue

mentality, and a blue force behind me. What I don‟t have is

a blue outlook.

Since my attire is blue, blue jeans, blue shirt, blue

everything and I spend my working hours in a WC, some

have a tendency to think I‟m the floor‟s custodian. Often,

I‟m asked to clean up the mess in the break room. Maybe,

that was my saving grace. I look like a janitor, and not some

ornamental wallflower like Ellsworth.

Walking onto my floor at the office, I noticed an envelope

stuck between the door and the jam. My name was on it; it

looked like a paycheck envelope, but it could also be my

walking papers. I withdrew it from the door, ripped off the

corner, blew into it, and took that unexpected glance. I was

surprised and relieved.

After I opened my door, took my seat behind my

computer, took a deep breath, I extracted the check slowly,

then leaned back on my chair, put my hands behind my

head, and silently whispered, “Thank you God.” Even

though I was able to collect Uncle Sam‟s dole, I was not

quite ready to be added to its mailing list.

Later that day, I found out what the whole story was

about, and why I didn‟t get the ax and Ellsworth did. It

wasn‟t that I had written a bad proposal, it was about the

reshuffle in the office. Unknown to me, Ellsworth and his

superior had a long time relationship, going back to

college—they were frat-bros so to speak—and as everyone

knows, fraternities have an obligation to their cohorts.

When all honchos retire or get the ax or shift from one

post to the next, anyone under them usually goes too. Years

ago, I underwent that same experience. I worked for a

hospital in Long Beach, one of the many little towns that

make up the great megalopolis LA; it went under a total

management change. The hospital hired a PhD in

management from NY to be their CEO/President. I was part

of a whole list of personnel that got their walking papers. I

continued to work for them on a freelance basis, since they

couldn‟t find anyone to replace me that fast. Two months

later, the new Prez brought in his old crew that worked for

him at his last position. I then was told good-bye. So,

downsizing isn‟t new with a new change of command. It‟s

just a fact of life.

Such was the way of business. It doesn‟t matter if you‟re

qualified for the position or not. It‟s all about who the boss

is and what he gets. One reason I was brought to Los

Angeles with Ellsworth Bunk.

Again, I continued to peck away proposals, prospect,

manuals and corporate propaganda at LALA Inc, only to get

another goldbrick to do his work.

84

“It don‟t make no diff Moe,” said Mike. “They‟re not going

to catch us. Trust me.”

“We‟ve got to find another place to live,” said Moe.

“Tomorrow, bright and early, we‟re goinna look.”

“Where Mike?”

“I dunno. Maybe, somewhere far from LA.”

“It would be nice if we could go up north somewhere.”

“Like Seattle…maybe.”

“Maybe.”

“We‟ll cogitate over a bottle of hooch. Okay.”

“We‟re goinna cogi…what?”

“Think about it man. Think. Think hard.”

The two took a swig from the bottle they shared and

stared at the money on the floor. They still hadn‟t put it

away. Moe‟s expression changed to apprehensive to

whimsical. He sat back in his chair and counted on his

fingers the bundles of Jacksons, Franklins, and Grants.

The day past uneventful, dreams of grandeur filled

Mike‟s mind. He counted and recounted the money as if to

make sure he had the right amount.

“I can‟t believe it,” he whispered. “Do you know how

much we actually have?”

Still daydreaming, Moe didn‟t pay any attention to Mike

statement.

Mike whispered, “A whole hellofa lot.” He took a last

swig from the bottle and dazed off.

Moments later a knock tapped came the door. Mike woke

up and hit Moe to wake him up, and said in an airy whisper,

“Wake up Moe. Somebody‟s at the door. We‟ve got to get

this shit off the floor.”

The two scurried to get the money back in the sack and

out of sight.

Moe whispered, “Oh…shit. They‟re goinna to get us.”

Money was flying all over the room. Mike was stuffing

the sack. Moe grabbed any bill he saw. Tapping repeated at

the door.

Mike continued, “Hurry up, someone‟s at the door.”

Looking around and hearing another series of taps, they

finally got all the money into the sack and under the bed. A

lonely one-hundred dollar bill lied under a chair by the back

door. Mike straightened up moaning and groaning until he

was erect. He opened the door. It was Mrs. Rankin. Mike

gave out a sigh of relief.

As Mrs. Rankin looked around the room, her eyes took a

glimpse at the single bill on the floor. “My Mike, my dear,”

she said. “Can you come with me to my room? I need you to

do something for me.”

Exhausted, Mike said, “Yes, yes, yes ma‟am. What is it

you need done?” He looked at Mrs. Rankin in the eye. “I

don‟t have all day you know. It‟s gotta be fast.”

Mrs. Rankin looked at the bill on the floor. “Is that a one-

hundred dollar bill I see?” She pointed.

Mike looked in the direction of her finger.

Moe fell back onto the bed, grasped his forehead and

moaned, “Oh no, they‟ve got us.”

Trying to rush Mrs. Rankin out the door, Mike said, “Yes

my dear. What can I do for you?”

“I didn‟t know you had so much money.”

“It‟s not mine…its Moe‟s. It‟s his monthly Social.”

“He cashes his check in such large amounts.”

“He likes large bills. It‟s part of his insecurity.” Pushing

her out the door, he turned to Moe. “Moe get the money you

were looking for off the floor. It‟s under the chair.”

On the way to Mrs. Rankin‟s room, he continued, “He‟s

constantly loosing money. If you didn‟t spot it, he‟d be out

another month. Thank God you noticed it.”

85

“This is the whole story Putnam,” said Dr. Langweilig. “As

you have witnessed, I put the ad in the LA Times requesting

any woman who was interested in a man of equal standing

for companionship. That was two weeks ago…right.”

“Yeah…and,” said Putnam, “they had to phone you too,

not write you because that would spoil the whole package.”

“You‟re somewhat right my friend, but not quite. It‟s like

this.”

Mimicking Dr. Langweilig, Putnam said, “So go on my

dear good Doc. Tell me more. I‟m all ears.”

“No sooner then I blink an eye, I get fifty responses. Can

you imagine that?”

Putnam reacts astonished. “And,” he said.

“They all want to meet me.”

Putnam‟s eyes grew large. “And.”

“I‟ve considered three already. They have the most to

offer me.”

“So, when you seein‟ them?”

“This coming Tuesday I‟m seeing this lady that lives in

the Valley.”

“And the others?”

“The following Friday I see one that lives in Malibu. She

said her house has one fantastic view overlooking the

Pacific Ocean.”

“Malibu, you say. That sound like a real good catch.”

“Don‟t get your hopes so high, seeing is believing…as

they say,” Dr. Langweilig chuckled. “She may be a real dog

if not a werewolf…if you know what I mean.”

Putnam‟s eyes sparkled. “The third wonder woman on

the list is what, where and how much?”

“Lives in Beverly Hills. I see her next Wednesday.”

Putnam raised his bottle to toast. His eyes twinkled. “The

winner of them all. I‟ll bet she‟s worth millions.”

“If not a billion. But you have to remember my good

man Putnam…knowing the person inside and out insures

bonding. As they say, it‟s all in the package.” Pausing, his

eyes looked skyward. “Maybe smell has something to do

with it too. But then, that‟s another issue.”

86

Bibbie Black and Russ Throne are packing clothes. Bibbie

neatly placed hers in her suitcases. Russ just stuffed his into

his duffle bag. Bibbie just smiled to herself. Will men ever

get it together? Russ whistled a tune off key. She turned to

him and asked, “What are you whistling?”

“I wanta go home. Why?”

“It sounds so terrible.”

“No it don‟t. I‟ve got perfect pitch.”

“You could‟ve fooled me.”

“Listen, I‟ll sing it for you.” His voice cracked, “I

wanna…wanna go ho…muh. I wanna go home-muh…”

“Russ,” she said, “give it up. If that‟s „I wanna go home‟.

Give me a break. I‟m gettin‟ the fuck outa your life.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere but listenin‟ to you sing that song.”

“I‟m not that bad. In kindergarten, I was always asked to

sing. Everyone loved my singing.”

“Bad isn‟t the word. And you‟re no longer in

kindergarten. The way you sound, it‟s more like murdering

pigs and tearing them to shreds.”

Russ caught himself. His expression changed from lively

to flat when he heard the word murder. He turned back to

throwing his clothes into the duffle bag.

Bibbie noticed his change. Thought it odd, but threw it

off. It‟s just him, she thought.

“By the way Russ,” said Bibbie, “how‟re we goinna get

this room paid for? I don‟t want any of my money going for

it. You got any?”

Russ looked up. “What say Bibb?” The word murder still

lingered in his mind.

She repeated herself.

Russ took his billfold out and pulled out a credit card.

“With this…what else?”

“That‟s yours?” He nodded. “I didn‟t know you had

plastic money.”

“I do now.”

“Where‟d you get it?”

“Some guy left it in the one-arm-bandit down stairs. Easy

come, easy go, finders keepers, I say.”

“Is it signed on the back?”

“Yeah…some guy by the name of Yrag Revilo. Must be

Iranian, Iraqi or somethin‟ like that. It could be Romanian; it

sounds kinda Eastern in a way. His sig looks like somethin‟

a Muslim would scribble. See.” He held it up to show her.

“Just swirls and circles. To me it don‟t look Muslim. It

looks East Indian or somethin‟. Can you duplicate it?”

“I think so. It‟s just a scribble. Real easy.” Russ took a

piece of paper and copied the round motion of the card‟s

signature. “Real easy…huh.” Bibbie just nodded her head as

she scrutinized it closer.

Checking out of the motel, Russ had some trouble with the

signature, but the attendant really didn‟t pay much attention

to it and processed the card anyway. Once in the car, they

headed up north toward Reno.

“I guess we‟re on our way home…huh Russ.”

He started to sing „I wanna go home,‟ but Bibbie

interrupted him, “Please…I wanna enjoy the ride to

Reno…okay. You can sing anytime when I‟m not around.”

“Okay Hon.”

Fifteen minutes passed. Bibbie dozed.

Russ said, “Bibb, how much do you think we made back

at that motel?”

Lethargic, Bibbie answered, “Wha…huh Russ?”

“How much did we make back there…in Vegas?”

“You mean I made back there. You didn‟t make a whole

pile a nothin‟…if you ask me.”

“Sorry Hon…how much?”

“Oh…I guess I turned fifty or more.”

“You mean we got fifteen thou?”

“No…I got fifty…five zero…thou.”

“I think we‟re goinna make hellofa lot more in Reno.

Don‟t you think Hon?”

“More like…I think I‟m goinna make hellofa lot more.”

“Uh…yeah…right.”

“Yeah, that‟s right…Russ…me, not you. You didn‟t turn

shit back there.”

87

Mike was thumbing one-hundred dollar bills, and looking at

a map of California. Moe was looking across from him, and

he slides his finger up and down on the map stopping at

interesting names, Soledad, Chualar, Bolsa Knolls. His eyes

glistened with joy.

Moe said, “I like the sound of Soledad. It sounds alone,

all by itself, secluded and peaceful, away from everything.”

“Like I said Moe…it don‟t make no diff where we live. I

think Stockton would be a nice place.”

“But Mike…I don‟t want to live in Stockton.”

“What‟s wrong with Stockton?”

“It‟s too hot up there.”

“What do you think LA is…and the places you were

fingering on the map…heavenly cool?”

“No. But I don‟t want to live up there. It‟s too hicky.”

Mike jerks back. “Hicky. Hick never bothered me. Why

should it bother you?”

“It‟s just they way they talk in the country, Mike. You

know…unsophisticated…hicky…country like.”

“And you think Soledad, Chualar, Bolsa Knolls is any

better?” Mike eyes squinted. “You think you talk better?”

“I don‟t talk country.”

“You talk SoCal L-A-ish.”

“That‟s better‟en country.”

Mike swirled his hands over his bald spot. “Moe…like I

said, it don‟t make no diff.”

Moe grabbed the map, scrutinizing it closer. “How about

Caramel? That‟s on the coast. It has sophisticated people.”

“You mean „Carmel by the Sea, near Monterey?”

“Yeah, that‟s the one.”

“Too many uppity people up there. You gotta have real

money. All them people up there are retired military, and all

they know is about killin‟, distoryin‟, and plunderin‟. You

know…typical military stuff.”

“Why don‟t we go upta Or-gan?”

“Oregon, Moe, Or-e-gon. Not Or-gon.” Mike emphasizes

the „gon.‟ “Ya hear…Or-e-GON!”

“Yeah, whatever…Organ.”

Mike distorted his face, his mouth twisting back and

forth. “Yeah, we could select a really quiet little town where

nobody knows us, and plant our seeds.”

“What seeds you talkin‟ about? I stopped doin‟ that years

ago.”

“Figure of speech Moe. I figure we could go up there in

some old forgotten town and really set up shop.”

“You mean a liquor store like we talked about.”

“Absolutely. Maybe, we could look and see if somebody

has one for sale. That would make things easier.”

“You think Mike?”

“Absolutely.” Pausing. “Why don‟t we take a little walk?

Nobody can hear us outside.”

The two exited, passing the mime on the phone. “Look,”

said the mime, “I just don‟t understand this whole mess. It

doesn‟t make sense, it‟s nonsense…pure nonsense. You

hear. It‟s as if the whole world was turned upside down and

everything was a jumbled mess…you hear…a mess. And

besides that…I think it‟s a catastrophe what‟s happening

now.”

Moe and Mike shook their heads as they left the

Shalimar. They looked at each other; whimsy expressions

filled their face.

“I just don‟t know about that dude,” said Mike.

Moe said, “Yeah, kinda like he‟s caught in a bubble

going nowhere fast.”

88

Good wasn‟t the word for it. It was more as if I hit the

jackpot. Nobody yelled at me. One thing, the new admin

made some real nice changes. One of them was how the

employees were treated. For example, this chick came by

and asked if I wanted coffee; a real service gal, not a

vending machine like in the break room. That was a new

improvement to everybody‟s morale. Not only that I learned

everyone was pleased with my work. And, the best part of

it, I got a brand new office. I would have never expected to

get Ellsworth‟s floor to ceiling, wall- to-wall window office

with the view of the Hollywood Hills and the big

Hollywood sign staring me right down the middle of the two

glass walls. But, that‟s what was given me. What a view.

The height on this seventh floor was going to take a little

getting used to. I‟ve never had a room that looks like you

could walk right into the panorama―just spectacular. I hope

I never accidently walk or trip into the glass.

The gal that asked me for coffee came by that afternoon

too. She popped her head into my office and interrupted me

viewing the Hollywood sign.

“Sir, any coffee, tea, or cold drinks?”

I answered, “Do you have ice tee?”

“Peach, lemon, or plane.”

“I‟ll take a peach.”

She had a friendly cheery personality, which was a

change from Ellsworth‟s sour cynicism.

“What‟s your name?” I asked.

“Sierra Nevada.”

“Your nickname is Sierra like Sierra Nevada.”

“No, my name is actually Sierra Nevada.” She paused,

smiled, continued, “I suppose you‟re wondering why my

parents named me that?”

“I‟m sure your parents conceived you up there in the

mountains one chilly night.”

She broke out laughing, “On a camping trip in the

Sierras. How‟d you guess?”

“Had a similar experience. My son was conceived in a

Volkswagen Bug.”

“And, you named him VW.”

“No. My wife didn‟t go along with the humor and we

named him Bernie, but we call him Bugs to commemorate

the climatic event.”

She laughed, gave me my peach tea. As she walked out,

her buttocks did the usual female side-to-side shift. I

smirked: Where would I be without the joys of a woman?

Maybe after all, this was going to work out okay. New

office, new wonderful faces, and a new start in attitude, plus

I can see the Hollywood sign off in the distance. How much

better can it get?

89

The day after Dr. Langweilig‟s date with his first contact, he

and Putnam were drinking and looking out the back door.

“And tell me,” said Putnam, “what did she say? Tell me

all about it. I‟m all ears. I‟m all yours.”

“First…let‟s start at the beginning.” Dr. Langweilig

made a toothy grin. “I go up to her house. Talk about a

house, it‟s three stories and a cellar, making it four levels. I

never saw the cellar, just the first and second floor. I walked

up to the door, and here was this huge Sagittarius

doorknocker staring me in the face. I knocked it, once,

twice, three times. And no sooner than I can shake a leg, the

door opened and a butler greeted me, „Mr. Langweilig

please come in. Please follow me,‟ he says. Just like that. I

walked into the immense vestibule with black and white

marble floor…just like the ones you see in the movies. Then

he took me to the library, and told me to take a seat…and he

says, „I‟ll tell the madam of the house that you are here.”

“They have a library?”

“Not only that…I could see the back yard. And guess

what I saw?”

“What Doc?”

“There‟s this swimming pool in the backyard looking

like a tropical pond, flanked by palms and rocks jetting from

the water, and a gazebo with thatched roof. Inside is a

complete table setting waiting for me…us. The butler came

back to the library, and escorted me to the gazebo. The

madam of the house was waiting. She was closing the

shutter doors to the gazebo as I entered.”

Excited, Putnam said, “Then what Doc?”

“I don‟t know if I should tell you the rest, it became very

risqué. I couldn‟t believe what was happening.”

“Well, just don‟t stand there…tell me…tell me.”

Dr. Langweilig laughed and sat down. “It was this way.”

Pausing, he looked up to the ceiling and out the door, and

started to stutter at first as he told his story. “I, I, I, sat down

and she offered me champagne. We toasted, and she filled

my glass again. By the way, she was one hellofa looker.”

“How old was this dame?”

“I would say she‟s in her late to early fifties…just the

right age. But her body looked like she was no older than

twenty-eight.”

“I‟ll bet she‟s one of those scientific wonders.”

“Yeah…could be…all silicone.”

“What happened then Doc?”

“We talked and drank the whole bottle before we ate. She

excused herself and went into the house. When she came

back, she was wearing a sheer transparent gown lowered off

her shoulders, exposing most of her breasts. You could

easily see beneath it. She was impressive, enough to make a

man instantly bone-hard. If you know what I mean.” He

gave Putnam a wink.

“He, He, h-yeah…yeah,” Putnam chuckled, “And.”

“What else…I got hard. And I think she knew it too.

Because, after we ate a beautiful lobster spread, she asks if I

wanted dessert now or after the swim. And of course, I said

„swim.‟ Then she said if you don‟t have a bathing suit, it

doesn‟t matter. She said she likes swimming in the buff

anyway. Then she stood up and walked out the gazebo, let

her gown fall to the ground and jumped into the pool. She

looked as enticing as Eve to Adam when he first laid eyes

on her. All I could think of was…it‟s party time.”

Laughing. “Then what Doc? What happened next?”

“She came up from her dive and says, „Don‟t just stand

there like you‟ve never seen a woman before, take off your

clothes and come in.‟ It‟ll be fun just the two of us.”

“And.”

“I did as she requested jumped in bare-ass. And after we

smooched and horse around in the water she said, „Now, do

you want to eat your dessert…or me?‟”

90

I looked at my watch and realized I‟ve been sitting here

looking out over the LA smogscape for the last two hours,

and nothing came from my gray matter. I‟m stalemated into

oblivion. I think my next life I‟m going to request a better

brain—at least one that will respond instantly to my needs. I

hate it when I‟m lost for ideas or words. The beer doesn‟t

seem to help either. I‟ve had three already, and still nothing

comes. Ellsworth was a pro at ideas, but then I did his work.

Maybe, I should hire an idea man, a silent partner.

It was that time of the evening. I turned to look out the

window, and sure enough, Sherry Jung opened her window,

which didn‟t make sense to me because I‟m sure she used

the window as a mirror. It had been another scorcher day.

I‟m sure she was hot, and started to do her nightly thing to

the open window—undress. Maybe, she was conditioned to

undressing in front of the window, and out of her nightly

routine, she did her thing without thinking about it.

Young and innocent, she went through the motions of

disrobing, but this time not facing the window. One piece of

clothing here and another flung to the far corners of the

room. Then giggles came from inside somewhere. After

turning around a few times, a young fellow reached around

her waist and cuddled her. She never took off her bra or her

panties, her chum did. We know what‟s next. The room

went dark, so I turned to my computer and watched the

blank screen flicker in my face.

I had another beer, turned out the lights and gave a last

peek to Sherry and her companion down below. They were

engaged in a coital clutch. I could barely see their feet

wrapped around each other in the dim lighted room.

Isn‟t youth wonderful?

It hadn‟t been but five minutes when I heard a sound

coming from the attic. I looked at the clock on my dresser; it

beamed ten. It was the bewitching hour. Mr. Ghost was

doing his nightly. I sat there listening to him drag his chain

from one side of the attic to the other. Finally tired of his

continued shuffle, I shouted, “Mr. Ghost.” And all of a

sudden, the chain stopped. I didn‟t move. I tried to hear if

anything, something coming from behind the closet. Again,

I shouted, “What are you trying to do?” Still there was no

sound. I shouted again, “If you‟re going to make noise every

night, why don‟t you tell me why…if not your story?”

Then all of a sudden, an eerie sound like a soft breeze

emitted from the attic. “Wwwhhhhhhy?”

I responded, “Because, it would be better than listening

to your nightly torment…chain dragging and rattling.”

“I am not tormented,” said the voice.

“Then why do you drag that chain constantly”

“I want your attention.”

I got up and opened the closet door. Standing before me

was something I‟ve never seen before in my life. It was an

eerie image. It had all the elements of a transparent form. I

stood there not knowing what to do.

Undulating, he began to waver back and forth. I don‟t

know, but I wasn‟t scared or nervous, just puzzled. Then he

started to dissolve into the attic‟s darkness.

“Mr. Ghost, Mr. Ghost,” I said, “Don‟t go.”

“I must,” he said. Then he disappeared. I walked into the

attic, looked around and went over to the little room in the

corner. I expected to see him, but he wasn‟t there. On the

table was a burning candle flickering from the open window

and a note beside it. The candle was almost to its end, just a

little stub about a quarter of an inch left. I picked up the note

and read:

My name is Mr. Tall. I have lived in this house

for some ninety years. My life has not been the best

or the happiest in all those years.

This was all I will say for right now. I will see you

tomorrow night at the hour of ten. Then there will be

more time to tell you my story and the reason I

have not crossed-over.

When I left the room, the candle on the table began to

sputter out. All that was left was a curly-cue of smoke

ascending to fill the room. I looked out the window and I

was surprised, I was gazing at the sun coming up over

Saddle Back Mountain, the range that makes up part of the

Los Angeles basin in the east.

I looked to the south and then the west; there wasn‟t any

smog present. The Los Angeles basin was emptied from all

its impurities and pollution. The smog, the bad smell was

gone. The air had become fresh, clean, and no longer had its

brownish tinge color to it, but a clear cyan sky sparkled

overhead. Every building to the ocean could be seen. We

were having a Santa Ana, a foehn coming over the

mountains from the desert―the twice a year windstorms

that causes firebugs to have their jollies all across the

southland from San Diego to Santa Barbara.

91

Standing in the main lobby of Union Station, Mike mulled

over the train schedule seeing possible places where the two

may want to go. Slowly Mike and Moe migrated to the

waiting room where its high cathedral beamed ceiling

dwarfs the two inebriated characters in a bath of soft dim

light. Mike looked around; his eyes hadn‟t quite adjusted to

the faint light. He blinked twice.

Moe looked lost and gazed at the multi-brown and beige

tile floor. It glistened from its many layers of wax. Not a

footprint or dirt marred the finish. He continued looking up

and down the long hall, and then looked up to the

multipaned chandeliers that emitted a dim glow. Their light

seemed only to be for itself and not for the room. It was

hard for him to see the ornamentation on the paneled

ceiling. He gazed in amazement. Any illumination filling

the massive room came from the tall windows on each side

of the long hall. He turned staring at the one side then the

other and back.

It was cool inside the immense room. He reached down

and touched the cool tile floor. “It‟s cool,” he uttered.

Looking perplexed at Moe, Mike interrupted Moe‟s

curiosity. “What the hell are you doing Moe?”

“I‟m feeling the floor. What else?”

“What in hell for? You crazy?” said Mike, “People will

think you‟re a weirdo…a degenerate…a bum.”

“I‟m a weirdo. I‟m a degenerate, a bum just like you,”

said Moe. “What do you call yourself, sane and sober?”

“I‟m not a weirdo that‟s for sure. I might be a boozer, a

drunky, but not a weirdo.”

Moe stood up and snickered, “That‟s a moot point.”

“Let‟s cut it,” said Mike. „I want to discuss where we‟re

goin‟. Or, are we just goinna stand here look or what?”

Moe looked around the room. “I wanna sit in one of

those posh seats. They look comfy.”

“That‟s fine with me buddy.” Mike‟s eyes searched for a

secluded area away from most of the people. “How about

over there Moe.” He pointed. “We can have our peace and

not be over heard by anyone.”

“That‟s fine Mike. I‟m behind‟ya.”

The two took a seat. Moe slumped into his chair as if he

was engulfed by the over stuffed cushions.

“Man,” said Moe, “why didn‟t you ever tell me about

this place. I‟ll bet you could really get lost here.”

“They check for tickets after every train. Anyone without

a ticket hasta leave. No bums allowed.”

Moe looked up to the ceiling, up and down the hall, the

chandeliers, the windows, and the Mexican tile flooring

where they were sitting. “Man, can you believe it…each

row has its own chuck-can at the end of the seats.”

Mike looked over to the containers. “In the old days, that

used to be called an ashtray.”

“That‟s when you could smoke in those days…way back

when. Boy do I remember those days.”

Looking all around, Mike said, “Yeah, those days are

long gone.” He looked up to the ceiling. “Quite a place huh?

They sure built things back then.”

“Yeah, It‟s like gone to heaven.”

Looking whimsical at Moe, Mike uttered from the side of

his mouth, “Not quite. We still have to get the hell outa LA

first…and to someplace we can call home.”

Contented and relaxed, Moe whispered, “We‟re still in

heaven…it‟s cool, it‟s comfy, it‟s beyond my belief. Like

when I was a little boy with my mommy.” He paused.

“Pinch me Mike. This isn‟t real.”

“I didn‟t know you had a mommy.”

“Of course I did. What do you think I came from?”

“You don‟t believe in God, so you musta come from

some lowly animal, like a chicken if not a pig.”

“I‟m sure you came from a weasel or a rat, if not a turd.”

Moe looked over to Mike with a stern glare. “Don‟t bother

me with your nonsense. We have better things to discuss

than what you are.”

“Humph,” replied Mike. “Are we goin‟, or aren‟t we?”

“Right now, this is as far as I want to go.”

“Then I‟ll go buy a ticket for myself, and when we get

back to the Shalimar, we‟ll split the cash and go our

separate ways.” He paused. “I don‟t think you want to leave

LA do you Moe.”

Moe slowly slurred, “You have any better ideas?”

“Let‟s go to Truckee.”

Without hesitation Moe said, “Truckee it is.” He closed

his eyes and dreamt of being in heaven.

92

Dr. Langweilig heaved a loud boisterous bellowing laugh.

Wide eyed and smashed, Putnam teeters back and forth

chuckling. Putnam could hardly restrain himself from his

intoxication and laughter. He fell hitting the floor hard. Dr.

Langweilig roared even louder and reached for a chair.

Pointing at Dr. Langweilig, Putnam shook his head

repeatedly trying to get a word out but couldn‟t. The

hilarious uproar gagged him.

Dr. Langweilig calmed down and began to chuckle.

“You want me to give you a Heimlich?”

“Ah,” giggling and rolling on the floor, “ah…what?”

“The Heimlich. You know the abdominal thrust.”

“Nah, nah, no, I‟m okay. It‟s just that you‟re so funny.”

“Well, it was that way Putnam. She kept feeding me

watermelon all evening. And it‟s true. She came over to me,

sat on my lap and fed me those little bite size morsels

almost as if they were some kind of potion or aphrodisiac.”

“You know what they say about watta-melons…thems

got Viagra in them.”

“Yeah, I heard that in the news the other day. Can you

believe it? She knew what she was doing. She‟s a

pharmaceutical researcher.”

“And did you do it…treat her like watta-melon?”

“No. Nothing happened. She was so demanding it turned

me off. I don‟t like forceful women…power bitches.”

“So, what did you do?”

“I faked passing out.”

“Oh Doc, that‟s a let down.”

“Can‟t help it. That second gal was just too much for my

blood. I like woman who are demurer and simple…but have

a little spice in them. Nothing more, nothing complicated as

what this gal was. I‟ll bet, once she‟s got you under her grip,

you‟d be mopping the floors.”

Putnam‟s eyes grew wide as he shook his head. “Can‟t

have any of that stuff.” Then he gave out a loud burst of

laughter. “No sirrie-bob can‟t have any of that. You‟d end

up being the houseman…and she‟d be crackin‟ the whip.”

Next, they laughed to a giggle, to a subtle chuckle, then

grasped for air.

Dr. Langweilig said, “You know Putnam. She was a

good looker. I mean she had all the appointments one would

die for, better than the other gal. But…man, she was just too

much for my blood. If you ask me she wasn‟t worth the

package she presented that night.”

“She probably was all silicone like the last one.”

“Yeah, she looked like science at work.”

“You said she was a pharmacist didn‟t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, there you go Doc. She was one-hundred percent

synthetic…an ersatz makeover.”

“Yeah, come to think of it, she did have such beautiful

teeth…straight, white, you name it. They could‟ve been

implants they were so white and perfect.”

Putnam giggled, “False teeth…she‟d probably take them

out to convince you of her services if you hadn‟t pass out.”

“That‟s what I mean my man…she thought of every

angle. No, she wasn‟t my type. No matter how enticing,

glamorous, or bewitching she was, she just wasn‟t my type.”

“So Doc, when you seeing the third gal?”

“Coming Friday.”

“Have you talked to her yet?”

“Yesterday over the phone. She sounded eager. I hope

she‟s not too eager like the second gal.”

“Friday will tell.”

“We‟ll see.”

“I‟m sure I will.”

“Just don‟t pass out this time…go the whole mile.”

93

Back at the Shalimar, Mike paced the floor looking at the

itinerary. He held up the two tickets and said, “You know

Moe, it don‟t make not diff where we go, these tickets are

our gateway to ever lasting life.”

“I just hope the mob don‟t know we‟re doin‟ this. If they

do…it will be our everlasting life.”

Mike stopped his pacing and turned to Moe. “I told you

they won‟t find out. It just ain‟t in the cards dude.”

“What cards Mike?”

“The tarot cards.”

“You mean it‟s all Toro…bullshit.”

“Not bullshit Moe. Tarot cards…the cards that tell you

your fortune. It‟s just ain‟t in the cards as they say.”

“How do you know Mike?”

“I looked it up in the Times this mornin‟.”

“What did it say Mike?”

“It said we got free sailin‟ for the next month.”

“For the next month, huh. What about the following

month, and the month after that, and after that?”

“We‟d be too far for them to find us and to find out.”

“I‟ve heard they‟d get you no matter where you‟re at and

how long it takes. They‟re goinna get us sooner or later. I‟m

tellin‟ ya.”

“Don‟t worry Moe. Like I said, they don‟t know who we

are unless you tell‟em.”

“Are we leavin‟ for sure Mike?”

“For sure Moe. We‟re goin‟ to Truckee. That‟s what it

says here on these ticks…you and me and nobody else.”

“One-hundred percent.”

“Yeah…only you and me.”

94

After I had returned from work, I waited for the bewitching

hour of ten. Then I entered his domain, and another sheet of

paper was on the table. I unfolded the paper and read:

I had a full life nevertheless, and I’m sure with

an occasional reward here and there. But there was

one thing I couldn’t have, and that was taken away

from me early in my adult life.

In 1882, I took my first breath in the German

town of Frankfurt on the Oder River. I came to the

United States in 1905 because of an alternative.

Not because of choice. I was not blessed with my

family’s inheritance.

My family had a very wealthy die works in

Frankfurt. Because of progenitor, my brother was

heir to the family business and fortune. Not wanting

me around, he gave me a one-way ticket to any

country, plus a good sizeable amount to start a new

life. I chose America. He did this to me because he

feared retaliation. Not because of the inheritance,

but because of a decision I had no control over.

heir to the family business and fortune. Not

wanting me around, he gave me a one-way ticket to

any country, plus a good sizeable amount to start a

new life. I chose America. He did this to me

because he feared retaliation. Not because of the

inheritance, but because of a decision I had no

control over.

After my father’s death, my brother made sure I

was on the next boat before the funeral. I was

unable to attend and hear my father’s Last Will and

Testament. My brother never told me what was

said, and my mother never wrote me. When I left

Germany, I was good as an orphan.

When I entered Ellis Island off the coast of New

York, I was just like so many traipsing through; an

odd named person coming from a distant land and

speaking with a funny accent. My name at that time

was Wilhelm Görlitz-Tölz. So, when I was accepted

into the US, my name was changed like so many

others that came through the Ellis line. My name

was changed from Wilhelm to Billy. One would

think it would be changed to William, but it wasn’t. I

didn’t want anything to do with that name, or be

reminded of Wilhelm—it was too German. I wanted

to be the furthest from German as I could possible

be. The immigration officer couldn’t pronounce

Görlitz-Tölz; it was a tongue twister for him, so I

became Billy Tall from that day onward.

I put the letter down, and like the one before, it faded

and evaporated out of sight. I looked out the window, and it

seemed everything that day went just like the letter—a puff

of smoke out with the wind.

95

“I can‟t believe it Putnam. This gal was too much. I mean

she was horny as some bitch in heat. To tell you the truth, I

no sooner got into the house and she tells me right off that

she likes sex and her specialty was anything I desire. There

are no boundaries. The sky‟s the limit. Anything I wanted

she‟d fulfill…one-hundred percent.”

“So, what‟s wrong with that Doc?”

“It scared the wits out of me.”

“Why Doc?”

“Because a woman that is too eager, has a dark side too.

Not all is sunny you know. Fifty percent is shade…and in

this case…deep shade. You know what I mean. If it‟s

bright on one side, the other side is going to be just a

gloomy.”

“I know what you mean. It‟s like you can‟t be a drunk

and make a livin‟. It don‟t work out. Somethin‟s gotta

give.”

“Yeah, it‟s either one or the other.”

“You hit it on the head Doc. That‟s why I gave up

workin‟. I liked my hooch too much.”

“Where you ever married Putnam?”

“Once. That presented a problem too. I gave that up,

cause she didn‟t like drinkin‟ or fuckin‟. And, drinkin‟ was

better than fuckin‟ her, so I chose the juice. We split and

went our separate ways.”

“Now you know what I mean Putnam. If I choose that

gal, I‟m afraid my pecker would be worn out before you

know it, and she‟d be off seeking another poker. I don‟t

mind a little now and then, but every hour…on the hour.

Man, that woman was doing it every which way, sucking it,

giving me the round robin, climbing all over me, she just

didn‟t stop. At one point she was plunging a vibrator up her

and sucking me as if it was her last day at the

job…whambam, sucking, fucking was all that woman had

in mind. She was a fucking maniac. I think she went

through the whole book of Kama Sutra that night.”

“The Kama…what?”

“The Hindu book on sex.”

“Oh yeah…I‟ve heard of it. Something to do with one-

hundred and one positions.”

“No, just the art of lovemaking, plus all the erotic points

on your body that‟ll keep you hard and going all night.”

“W-w-w-w-wow,” whined Putnam.

“Like I said, she was too much. Too much for my old

pecker. She just drained me dry. The next day I hurt so

much…I couldn‟t even stand. And she wanted to go

another round in the shower. Can you believe that?”

“In the shower. It sounds like she was trying to make

you one clean fuckin‟ machine.”

Laughing, “Well, I‟ll tell you,” said Dr. Langweilig,

“she sure did it to me Putnam. She gave me all I‟ll ever

want for the rest of my life.”

“So, tell me Doc…what‟s next on your grand scheme?”

“I‟ve been looking over my mail, and I have one that

really interests me. She also has a PhD in psychology. She

has a small practice in the Pacific Palisades. Her area of

expertise is sexual incompetence.” Dr. Langweilig began to

laugh. “Now get this, her name is D‟Monti.”

“Does it have somethin‟ to do with mountin‟?”

96

That next night was no different then any other night. I

waited for that enchanting hour. To tell you the truth, I

really wanted to sleep. Not to go into the attic room and

read Billy Tall‟s note; that‟s an all night affair. Mr. Tall has

some interesting things that could make a good story. So, I

began putting them down as clearly as I could remember.

My fingers were zipping through the keys when I heard this

noise down stairs. It was so loud; it woke me from my

writing trance. I often get so involved in what I‟m doing,

nothing can stop me, but this shook me and brought me

back to the real world. I don‟t know what was going on

down stairs, so I saved my work, closed the program, and

went down to see what the noise was all about.

The screaming was so intense; everyone in the house

was outside their room or had gone to the second floor to

see what the problem was. I met Dawg and Kitzi outside

Putnam‟s room. Dawg and Kitzi returned me an I-

don‟tknow look, and shrugged their shoulders.

One cop was outside Putnam‟s room and watched what

was going on inside. The door was open, and all I could see

was one policeman talking to Putnam and someone else

who I couldn‟t see. It sounded like a woman moping.

Dawg said, “It‟s Mrs. Rankin and Putnam going at it.

We just came out, and to tell you the truth…we don‟t know

what‟s going on. It looks serious.”

Surprised, I said, “I thought they hated each other.”

Kitzi said, “Evidently not. Maybe now.”

Mrs. Dolmeier stood by her open door. “I knew it,” she

said. “I knew that bastard wasn‟t any good.”

I turned to her. “How‟s that Mrs. Dolmeier?”

“That Putnam, he‟s no good I tell‟ya. And I want the

cops to kick his ass all the way down to the jailhouse. You

hear me…kick his ASS…and put him in chains.”

“Mrs. Dolmeier…you‟re going to have to tell them

yourself, I can‟t do that.”

She shook her head vigorously. “No, no, no…I will not

be in his sight. He is evil, bad…no good, you hear me.”

The one officer saw me and motioned for me to come to

him. I entered Putnam‟s room and saw him naked. He stood

over in one corner cupping his gonads and repeating over

and over, “I‟m sorry.”

In bed was Mrs. Rankin. She had a sheet over her head

and sobbing, “I can‟t…I can‟t.”

The policeman was trying to coax her to get out of bed

and leave Mr. Putnam‟s room. She wouldn‟t budge from

her position, but kept crying and repeating I can‟t.

The policeman said to me, “Are you Mr. Homes?” I

nodded. “She mentioned your name, and it seems you are

the only one she trusts.”

“Trust me…we hardly know each other. I think I‟ve said

hi to her five times since I‟ve moved in.”

“That‟s probably why. She knows little about you.”

“I don‟t know if that‟s good or bad.”

“Anyway,” the cop said, “tell her it‟s in her best interest

to leave Mr. Putnam‟s room. We can‟t tell what he‟ll do

next, he‟s so drunk.”

“Mrs. Rankin,” I said, “You heard what the policeman

said it would be in your best interest if you‟d leave.”

“I can‟t,” she said.

“Why Mrs. Rankin. As long as the police are here…Mr.

Putnam can‟t hurt you.”

“I know, I know.”

“Then why not Mrs. Rankin?”

“I don‟t have any clothes on. And he‟ll see me.” She

began to sob louder. “I won‟t go out there,” she shouted,

“I‟m naked, and I won‟t let Putnam see me.”

Out of curiosity from the ruckus, Dr. Langweilig finally

came to the door, and asked what the problem was. Kitzi

told him, and he went into Putnam‟s room and talked to the

police. After Dr. Langweilig calmed down Mrs. Rankin, he

escorted Putnam to his room.

“Now Mrs. Rankin,” said the officer, “you can get up

and leave. That man is no longer in the room. Take the

sheet you‟re holding and wrap it around yourself so no one

can see you. Okay Mrs. Rankin.”

She nodded, whispered yes, got up, wrapped the sheet

around her and hobbled to her room on the first floor.

After she was in her room, the policeman, Dawg, Kitzi

and I were talking about the incident. We later got on the

subject of the big party that happened a while back.

Evidently, it was rumored that every cop in LA knew about

it. I was curious about the cop I saw the next morning

laying naked on the foyer floor. The cop broke out

laughing, he said it was he, and it was the best party he had

ever raided. And, asked when the next one was going to

take place. I told him the beginning of the school year in

September. That night I didn‟t get much done. It had

slipped my mind to visit Mr. Tall. I was glad I got a good

night‟s sleep for once. The next morning I woke with a

surprise.

97

The radio turned on blasting Beethoven‟s unmistakable

Ninth Symphony. My eyes popped open just as the gust of

„Freude‟ blared from the clock radio speaker. I looked

through the banister and beyond. I saw, but I didn‟t

recognize what I was looking at. Also, I didn‟t hear

anything after that initial burst of „Freude.‟ Silence filled

my head with a void. Then all of a sudden, it came back to

me, the „Ninth Symphony‟ crackled-snapped-popped in my

ears, filling my head with Ludwig von Beethoven‟s clearly

identifiable melody:

Freude, schöner Götterfunken,

Tochter aus Elysium,

Wir betreten feuertrunken,

Himmlische, dein Heiligtum.

Deine Zauber binden wieder

Was der Mode Schwert geteilt

Bettler werden Fürstenbrüder

Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt.

Then all of a sudden, why, popped into my mind; this

was Tuesday not Sunday. Why can‟t they play something

subtle and soft? It‟s not a rest day. It‟s a workday for Pete‟s

sake. Let me sleep. I covered my head, and then I heard this

voice, “No. I will not let you sleep.”

I sat up and saw nothing. The wind outside was blowing

as I‟ve never seen before. The Santa Ana had gotten worse

over the night. Everything was blowing, trees ripping apart

in the fierce gusts, my windows were rattling. I got up

thinking the voice I heard was only the storm outside.

Again, the voice said, “Why?” clear and distinct.

“Why, what,” I said. I saw nothing that was speaking.

“Why were you not in my room last night?”

I looked around; there wasn‟t anything to be seen. It was

Mr. Tall, but he wasn‟t visible to me.

“Where are you Mr. Tall?”

“I‟m here by the foot of your bed.”

“I can‟t see you.”

“It‟s too light for me. It has to be darker.”

“Why did you call me? Why didn‟t you wait until

tonight? I‟ve got to go to work.” I looked at my clock. “It‟s

late. I‟ve got to get ready. Now what is it that you want?”

“I want to know why you didn‟t come to my room last

night and pick up my letter.”

“There was this emergency down stairs.”

“Mrs. Rankin and Putnam.”

“Yes.”

“They do it every year. It‟s their wedding anniversary.”

“What,” I bellowed, “their wedding anniversary?”

He laughed, “Yes. They get together every year to re-

consummate their vows…you know like Mrs. Dolmeier.”

“But, they have different last names.”

“No, his last name is Rankin, just like hers.”

“Why don‟t they live together then?”

“They‟re divorced, but they still get together once a

year. It‟s their thing.”

“You could‟ve fooled me. I mean, all she said was „I

can‟t,‟ and he kept saying, „I‟m sorry,‟ over and over.”

“Yes, it‟s the same every year…the police, and his

problem. He suffers from erectile dysfunction.”

“I guess I missed it the last two years I‟ve been here.”

“You were always out with your sweetheart.”

“Reni.”

“Yes.”

“She‟s just a friend. We‟re not serious.”

“She likes you. You shouldn‟t ignore her.”

“I‟ve been through all that. I don‟t want to get serious at

this late date in the game.”

“You have to understand, love is the only real emotion

that has any meaning. We all have experienced love,

whether it was good or bad, that‟s how we relate to people.

Without it, life has little meaning. Love is what motivates

us, compels us, and gives us a purpose for life.”

“Yeah, I understand what you‟re saying, but I‟ve got to

get to work. Can we continue this tonight?”

“It is tonight.”

I didn‟t realize it but the whole day passed within a brief

moment. The room was dark. I could see Mr. Tall. The

night cityscape was in full twinkling brightness. I got out of

bed and I was amazed at what had transpired. The whole

day shot. What are they going to say at work?

“They‟re not going to say anything.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You do your work. You don‟t dillydally.”

I went into Mr. Tall‟s room to see his note. I began:

I was so bitter over what had happened at

home, I never wanted to talk about my home or my

family. For all practical purposes, I now was an

American. And, I never admitted that I was German

or came from Germany only that my parents came

from somewhere in Europe.

Fortunately, I was university educated, but never

finished. Thanks to my brother’s eagerness to see

me out of his sight.

My field of study was chemical engineering.

Coming to America, didn’t matter at the time if you

had an education or not. The country, during that

period, was open to anyone who was clever,

enterprising, and had an entrepreneurial mind. That

I had, and it was to my favor, which brought me

much wealth during my life, as you can see by this

grand house.

I had a knack for languages, and already spoke

six coming to this country: Latin and Greek,

English, French, Italian, and of course German.

Spanish was a synch for me, since it was related to

Latin and Italian. This made me a marketable

product. I was able to do a number of things for

businesses that needed expertise in chemistry or

translation. I later settled in Chicago due to the

large German population. I was well paid, but my

ambition didn’t stop at being just a clerk or simple

chemist. I had higher hopes. My ambition was to

become wealthier than my brother. This was to

show him I was capable of becoming something he

could not―a self-made man. As one might say

another Andrew Carnegie.

I had reached the end of the page, and right before me, it

vanished like the nights before, dissolving into nothingness.

When I resurfaced from the attic, it was again the next

day. The sun was coming up over the horizon in a deep

burnt orange. LA was on fire. The hills to the north were

ablaze in the Santa Ana foehn.

For some strange reason I wasn‟t tired but refreshed.

Being in another dimension has its advantages―without

time―without dimension―just an unlimited mind trek into

another time warp. I prepared to go to work to see if I was

still on, or was I still lost somewhere in a dream.

98

I was surprised no one said anything about me not being at

work yesterday. I‟m sure it had something to do with Mr.

Tall, maybe not. When Sierra Nevada stopped by my office

to give me coffee, she didn‟t even say anything about me

not being at work either. But then, she wouldn‟t, that

wasn‟t her position. She was as nice as always, and gave

me my coffee like before, black and straight.

On my computer, I pecked my way through another

morning of proposals. At noon, I was out the door for

lunch. I figured I had a good start for the day, nobody said

anything about me not being at work, so I headed over to

„Little Tokyo‟ for lunch, a favorite spot everyone goes to.

Los Angeles was in a rain of ash. This will go on for

days as long as the Hollywood Hills are burning. By the

end of the day, LA looked like it had experienced a gray

snowfall. The ash was about a eighth of an inch thick over

everything. People were dusting it off their cars. Walking

through the mess wasn‟t any better, more like trudging

through a dust heap.

When I got home, Mr. Baktlfahrt was standing outside

with a new tenant. He introduced him as Mr. Oran Jooz. I

took it as Orange Juice. He took Ms. Starris Kinnite‟s

room. The young man was another art student, this time

from Otis. The fellow was another bodybuilding-piercing

gargoyle. He had studs all over, three in his lower lip and

two on the upper. When he talked he sounded like a

percussion ensemble—clickity-clack-clack. Another stud

was in the middle of his chin. His ears were lined with

pierced earrings. A gold crescent dangled from his nose.

I‟m sure he had them all over his body too. Plus he hand

one he called a French-tickler on his tongue, which forced

him to lisp.

“So,” I said, “what brings you to this wonderful place,

the Shalimar Mr. Jooz?”

“Uh…caws me O-dJay. Dhad‟s whads ebrybody caws

me,” clickity-click-clack. Mr. Jooz paused, looked up to the

mezzanine window. A flash came to his mind. His eyes

darted back and forth over the house. “I heard dyou hab

mind-bogglin‟ pardties, clickity-click-clack, in dhis place.”

“Yes, they‟re unbelievable. The last one was the end of

the school year in May.”

“Uh…when da nexd oned?” click-click-clack.

“It‟s the first week after school opens in September.”

“Uh…uh dthad‟s greadt, wonderful…click-click-clack-

clack, clickity-clack…uh, can‟d waidt.”

“So, you took the mezzanine room.”

“Uh yeah, widt all dthose colored glass…id‟s a

dtrip…uh, don‟t you dthink so,” clickity-clack-click.

“The gal that had the place before was a trip,” I said.

“Uh yeah, shed uh ardt studendt dtoo?” clickity-clack.

“No, she was from Venus.”

“Huh, Venus…,” he laughed, “she musdta been a real

dtrip,” clickity-click-clack.

“A real trip. And everybody in the house believed she

finally did…trip off to Venus. Some were hoping to Pluto.”

“Uh yeah, I dtink I‟m goinna like dthis place here.”

clickity-click-clack-ting. He continued to look at the

building, the mezzanine room and down the street.

Without saying anything, Mr. Jooz wandered off. He left

me hanging. I watched him round the building and walk off

down the street. I suppose his car was around the block. I

gave Mr. Baktlfahrt a shrug, and he returned a shrug too.

“He‟s a vierd vone too,” said Mr. Baktlfahrt.

“Evidently,” I said.

I entered my apartment, and turned on my computer. I

wanted to get a full hour of work in before anything

disturbed me. But, no sooner then I could sit down, I heard

Mr. Talbot screaming from outside. What now? We just

had a disturbance with Putnam and Mrs. Rankin last night.

Who was it this time? Next came a banging from my door.

I trudged down the steps and opened it.

“Yes,” I said looking at a flustered Mr. Talbot.

Red faced and eyes squinting, Mr. Talbot was tense,

almost frothing at the mouth. “Mr. Homes,” he said, “some

asshole took my parking spot on the driveway.”

“Mr. Talbot,” I said, “what can I do about it? It‟s not as

if it‟s your private spot with your name on it. We all have

rights to it.”

“But, I‟ve been parking there ever since I‟ve lived here.

That‟s my spot. You hear.”

“Do you know who parked there?”

“Don‟t know. It‟s a new car. A black something or

other. I don‟t know cars. They all look the same to me.”

“Let‟s go down and see. It may be that new tenant Mr.

Oran Jooz.”

“We have a new tenant?”

“Yeah, he took Ms. Starris Kinnite‟s room.”

He stopped. “Uh, oh,” he said, “Starry Night‟s room,

huh. The new fellow took her room…huh?”

“Yeah, he‟s one of those freaky artsy-craftsy student

types like Dawg and Kitzi.”

“I think he‟s going to be bad news if you ask me.”

We stepped out the door and stood looking at Oran

Jooz‟s car. Mr. Talbot had his two hands on his waist and

shaking his head. He kept repeating, “Bad news, bad

news…that‟s what it is…it‟s all bad news all over again.”

“Why do you say that Mr. Talbot? Mr. Oran Jooz is a

nice guy. You‟ll like him. I‟m sure he‟ll understand your

position, and let you have the parking spot.”

He turned to me. “I don‟t think so Homes. He took

Starry Night‟s place. And anybody that takes her place is

going to be just like her…ditto all over again.”

“I don‟t think so. The guy is nice. You‟ll like him.”

I want to meet the guy first, you hear. Then I‟ll make up

my mind to see whether he‟s nice or not.”

“If the man is in his room, I‟ll introduce you.”

He took a last look at the black 1994 Chevy. “He needs

to get some body work done. What a catastrophe.”

Mr. Jooz‟s station wagon looked like it had seen better

days. It needed a lot of bodywork, and a good cleaning over

inside. It looked like he had been living in it for some time.

His sleeping bag, drawing board, art supplies, McDonald‟s

bags, wraps and cups were strewn all over. It looked like he

used it for his own personal dump-truck.

“I wonder,” said Mr. Talbot, “if this guy is going to be

like his car…a trash heap…another piss throwing pot

head.”

“We‟ll see Mr. Talbot. He must be in his room. Let‟s go

up and see. I‟ll introduce you.”

After knocking on Mr. Jooz‟s door and waiting for five

minutes, he came slogging up the stairs.

I turned to him. “You okay Mr. Jooz?” I said.

“Yeah. A liddle dtired dthough,” click-clack.

“I‟d like you to meet Mr. Talbot. He lives on the next

floor.” Turing to Mr. Talbot. “He‟s our new tenant.”

Mr. Talbot was a little reluctant to give him his hand,

but did after he took two steps back and gave him a

thorough look up and down. He held his hand at arms

length to shake Mr. Jooz‟s hand. Mr. Talbot gave me a

displeased expression and a slight shake of his head.

“Uh…yeah…itd‟s nice meedtin‟ya Misda Dtalbodt.

Nice meedtin‟ya,” clickity-click-clack. “You can caw me,

uh, O-dJay…okay. I‟d like dthat bedda. Ebrybody caws me

O-dJay. Uh, okay,” clickity-click-clack.

Mr. Talbot just kept nodding as OJ spoke, looking at his

clickity-clack studs lining his lips and the one piercing his

tongue. With every click, Mr. Talbot‟s eyes grew larger,

and nodding to every click-clack he made.

99

No one knew Mrs. Dolmeier had a secrete that was dear to

her heart. Not only does she possess the desire to fulfill her

annual wedding anniversary rites, but also she was a

packrat of sorts―hoarding money. Money was her passion.

Each month she took her Social Security check and

withdrew fifty percent of her allotment from the bank. This

part of her SSA check became part of her room.

Somewhere and somehow, she filled every cranny until it

was crammed full. Then she found another spot to stuff her

clumps of waded cash. She has put most of it in her

wardrobe, underneath it, on top of it, and taped to the back.

Wherever she found a place to put money, not exposed to

eyesight, she would stuff it. She also loosened the wooden

windowsills, and filled money between the wall studs. Over

the past twelve years, plus her husband‟s insurance

payments, she had carefully stashed at least three-hundred-

thousand dollars in one-hundred dollar bills; a good sum of

pocket change for anyone who happened to stumble across

it.

After returning from the bank, Mrs. Dolmeier entered

her room, put her purse aside, and looked around for

another secure place to stuff her bucks. She forced open a

windowsill, looked in and saw it jammed full. Looking

around, she went to the wall, tapped it, and heard if it was

hollow or not. Then she took a kitchen knife and gauged

out a hole, and dropped her cash into it. When the hole was

filled, she would place a picture over it so no one would

realize there was a hole in the wall.

The money never went anywhere. Her stash was just for,

as she would say, that special day that comes around once a

year to acquire the means to fulfill her promise. She doesn‟t

eat much. She wasn‟t like her counterparts downstairs, a

drinker. She didn‟t require finery to be happy. All she was

concerned about was her annual ritual wedding anniversary

and her allotment she got from Social Security and her

husbands insurance.

Her late husband told her when he took out the policy;

this insurance will make sure you live the way you desire.

And she was doing just that—humping on an annual basis,

and whenever she got depressed, which seemed to be more

and more these days. As she told Mrs. Rankin once: “These

parties these art students have are driving me to do things I

don‟t want to mention.”

Mrs. Dolmeier heard commotion outside her room. She

stopped, turning an ear toward the sound, and concluded it

was Mr. Talbot arguing with one of the tenants, possibly

Moe or Mike. As she listened to the footsteps coming

closer, she realized it wasn‟t who she thought it was. It was

Mr. Talbot and the new tenant Mr. Jooz. The conversation

was lively, because Mr. Talbot was hard of hearing and had

to speak above voice. Not only that, his eyesight was

minus- five, so he had to squint and lean into Mr. Jooz‟s

face to get a better perspective of the man he was talking

to.

Mr. Jooz not wanting to interrupt Mr. Talbot dialog,

repeatedly said, “uh…huh…I know whatcha mean.”

Mrs. Dolmeier exited her room and hesitated, then

slowly passed the two men in conversation. Mr. Talbot

didn‟t acknowledge her presence, but continued to tell Mr.

Jooz his troubles he had with Ms. Starris Kinnite—his car

and her pee affair. Slowly, Mr. Jooz began grinning until

his lips parted and showed his full set of gleaming white

teeth. Mr. Jooz had a gold tooth in one of his front teeth

with a diamond stud. It glistened every time he returned a

toothy smile. It annoyed Mr. Talbot. His eyes smarted as he

looked at it.

“Misda Dtalbodt…uh…I‟m sorry about y‟cah. I won‟dt

do dthad to you any mo‟e. I move my cah as soon as I gedts

my dtinks dtogedder. Okay,” clickity-click-clack.

Mr. Talbot nodded. “I hope so Mr. Jooz…”

“Like I said Misda Dtalbodt…caw me O-dJay. Dthad‟s

whad eberybody caws me. Dthad‟s mah name…O-dJay.

Okay.” Click-click goes his dangles.

“Okay Mr. Jooz…I‟ll do that. But, right now, I‟m

concerned about my car. I‟ve been parking it there for the

last fifteen years and I don‟t want to move it any place else.

You know it‟s hard to find a parking place around here.”

“You dtellin‟ me,” clickity-click-clack…ding.

“You have a new sound there Mr. Jooz.”

Mr. Jooz shakes his head. “I said caw me O-dJay, Misda

Dtalbodt…O-dJay.”

“Okay…Mr. O-dJay.” Mr. Talbot emphasized the „d‟.

Mr. Jooz shook his head and looked up to the Tiffany

stained glass dome. BINGO!

“Mr. Dtalbodt, how does one gedts up dto dthad dome?”

OJ pointed upward. “Up dthere dto dthad dome dthere on

dthad ceilin‟.”

Mr. Talbot looked. “Uh…why?”

“Cause djust curious.”

“I think you‟ll have to talk to Mr. Homes. He has the

only access to the attic.”

“Attic…huh…Mista Homes you say.”

100

Mr. Oran Jooz, pronounced „oran-juice‟ and better known

as OJ, had a precarious past. All his knowledge came from

the CIA, FBI, USASS, USAP clandestine hit squads, and

that included the International XYZ. He was trained,

groomed, schooled and nurtured by the best of men from

all these agencies. After completing one-hundred hits,

stings, and undercover assignments, he realized his value

was worth more than his unlimited credit card, his new

Porsche each year, his quarterly one month all paid expense

vacation, and his annual one-hundred thousand tax free

income he was getting form the government‟s secrete

dipping pot. Since he knew everybody in the underworld

and the upperworld, he put out his calling card for anyone

who was willing to support his expertise. And now, he

found himself in the services of one mob system better

known as the „Los Angeles Laundry Acquisitions,

Incorporated—aka, in better circles as one super

management company, LALA Inc.

OJ knew what his mission was, to find out what had

happened with the sack of cash that was to be picked up at

the Tap d‟Hat liquor store. After taking the room at the

Shalimar, he had one purpose, to reconnoiter and study the

people in the area. Over the last two months he had been

living out of his car to appear as if he were a vagrant in

transit, or one of the kinky type art students you see around

these days.

The houses in the adjoining block had been investigated

except one—Sherry Jung‟s house. Her house was more

difficult since the house was occupied constantly. All the

other houses were much like the Shalimar, pensioners,

social deadbeats and illegal aliens. So, getting in and out

was a pushover for OJ. But, Sherry Jung‟s house had one

problem, other than someone being there all the time; it

was the family dog—a huge male bullmastiff. This

presented a problem for him to investigate the inside. In

order to enter the Jung‟s house he had to wait for an

appropriate time, hopefully at summer‟s end when the

Jungs would be away on vacation, and therefore, taking

their dog.

Stretched out on his bed, OJ had his Tiffany stained

glass windows open, not because it was a hot day in LA,

but so that he could observe the Jung‟s house for a chance

to enter. If he had any sense, he would have kept them

closed, because of the firestorm happening in the

Hollywood Hills. The rain of ash kept worsening as time

went by. Not being concerned about the firestorm, he was

beginning to feel the effects of the fine ash sifting down

from the blue above. It was causing his breathing to be

hampered. Coughing forced him to keep his mouth open.

He had to inhale the ash, making his breathing worse.

Spread all over OJ‟s room was crumpled up toilet paper

he used for blowing his nose. Since never having been in

LA during a firestorm, he wasn‟t accustomed to the

benefits LA had to offer on its semi-annual occurrence. His

nasal congestion was bothering him to the point he had to

blow his nose every minute or so just to keep his nose from

overloading. Repeatedly, after each blow, he uttered,

“Shidt, dthis is worse dthan Muskogee Oh-Kay.” Blow,

sniff, blow, sniff. “Shidt dthis is worse dthan Warner

Robins Gee-Ay.” or, “Dthis is worse dthan Fontana Cee-

Ay,” or, “Dhis is worse dthan da Pitts or worse dthan da

Philly.” Or this is worse than…so on and on and finally he

uttered, “El-Ay‟s da worsdt, da pits.” On top of that, he had

an allergy attack that was triggered by LA‟s fine rarefied-

air―smoke filled smog. He was developing a rash along

his neck and down around his crotch, which caused him to

constantly scratch and go through the list of places he

hated, which in turn, seemed to be every top city in the US,

plus some. Not only was he allergic to the fine elements

made up of LA‟s atmosphere, he was prone to pollens, cat

dander, and especially dog slobber, dogs of the bullmastiff

male gender to be exact. As one may not know,

bullmastiffs slobber profusely. At times, the saliva of

bullmastiffs can be a constant flow due to hunger,

excitement or just being chronic. Sherry Jung‟s dog „Flo-

Job‟, as she called him was such a dog.

101

After Mrs. Dolmeier placed a picture frame over the hole in

the wall, she just made for her newly inserted wad, she

stepped back to see if she hung it straight. It was straighter

than straight. Oddly enough, the frame didn‟t have a picture

in it; it was just the frame and glass, looking like a picture

of a hole…the size of a large fist. Later she would get a

picture for the frame. But right now, she was concerned

with getting her pocket money in the hole.

She titled her head to one side then to the other, in her

quiver-piqued voice, she uttered, “Perfect.” Then out of her

room she went leaving her stash for better days.

OJ‟s keen hearing picked up her footsteps as they passed

his door. He perked up. Listened intently, and reacted to the

descending heavy steps of Mrs. Dolmeier fade as she went

down the stairs and left the house. He heard the downstairs

door close. After a moment, he looked out his window and

saw no one. Sniffing, blowing, wiping, coughing and

thinking: The person that went out must have gone out the

front door. His eyes darted back and forth rapidly as he

imagined the person leaving. It could be Mr. Homes. But a

better time for me to explore his pad would be when he

goes to work tomorrow. Then I have all the time in the

world. He returned gazing and scrutinizing the area outside.

By the end of the day, looking out the window

periodically, whatever might have attracted OJ‟s attention,

especially the Jung‟s house, something finally caught his

interest. The Jung family was getting in their car. His eyes

perked up. Where are they going, he thought, movie,

shopping, out to eat, where? Without thinking,

methodically he leaped off his bed and headed for the next

street. It was dusk outside. There were no shadows present,

but the firestorm still raged in the Hollywood Hills. The ash

continued to flutter down from above. OJ covered his nose

and mouth with his handkerchief, sneezing into it ever few

minutes to clear his congestion.

Stopping in front of the Jung‟s house, he blew again into

his handkerchief, wiped his nose, and looked around to see

if anyone in the area would notice him. No one could be

seen on the street. He walked up to the front door and rang

the doorbell. No one came to the door. He tried the door. It

was locked. He rang the doorbell again. Then he pulled out

a pick and inserted it into the lock, turned it once, and the

door popped open. He entered without a sound.

The house was a mess. It looked like they hadn‟t picked

up the place in weeks. Dog bones all over the floor, scraps

of dog kibbles strewn here and there, dog toys, read

newspapers scattered on the floor, sofa, coffee table, bits of

food and discarded crumpled boxes lying here and there.

The hunt began. He began sneezing repeatedly without

stopping. In the corner, something stirred. A large head

appeared from behind an easy chair. It was Flo-Job. His

ears perked, his mouth began to salivate, his stubby tale

started to wiggle—he had a playmate. In one second, Flo-

Job was on OJ. OJ sneezed, blew, sneezed and blew forcing

phlegm to shower all over. Flo-Job excited to see a

playmate, pounced on OJ, knocking him down. Barking

and jumping repeatedly on OJ as the saliva began flowing

on OJ‟s face.

“No, no, get down,” he said. Sneezing, blowing,

sneezing and blowing. “Down you basdtard…get down,”

click-clack went his studs.

Finally free of Flo-Job, he continued his mission looking

into every cranny his wet eyes could peer into, closets,

cupboards, between mattresses, under beds and dressers as

Flo-Job clung onto his pant leg. Finally exhausted, beaten,

he lay on the floor as Flo-Job drooled over him. Flo-Job

had two paws on OJ‟s chest, and began licking his face. OJ

sneezed. Flo-Job growled. OJ reached for his knife he kept

strapped below his knee, extracted the stiletto and rammed

it into Flo-Job‟s ribs. Lunging forward, Flo-Job opened his

mouth, took one last mouthful, and snapped at OJ‟s nose.

“Yowl,” cried OJ. Grabbing his nose, he felt just a stub.

“You sonovabidch…you asshole…you cocksuckin‟ mutt.

You bit my fuckin‟ nose off.” He got up, reached for Flo-

Job and opened his mouth. His nose was lying on Flo-Job‟s

tongue; he grabbed it and put it back in position as best he

could. Blood was gushing out all over. Cursing, he reached

for his handkerchief and used it to stop the bleeding. Blood

covered the floor. Not knowing if he had the time to

continue, he quickly took a last look around the house as he

held onto his nose. He stopped by the bathroom to wipe

himself from all the blood, looked in the mirror at his face,

and heard a car coming up the driveway. In one second, he

was out the front door and rushing down the street. No

more than three houses down the block, he heard Sherry

Jung scream. The mother screamed. The father yelled,

“What the…” OJ rushed as fast as he could around the

corner. No one noticed the strange man holding his nose as

he faded out of sight onto Hoover Street.

The nose was put on crooked, not exactly straight on, but

off to the side a bit, making OJ look like he had a badly

placed prosthesis by a startup student, or someone that

didn‟t know what they were doing. Looking into the mirror,

he slowly removed the bulbous end from his nose and

gawked at the gaping hole in the middle of his face.

Cursing, he replaced it as best he could, but upside down.

He took a bandage and laid it over his nose to keep the

bulbous part from leaving its position.

Taking one last look he said, “I‟m glad you‟re dead, you

sonnovabitchin‟mothafuckin‟ cur. You‟ll never do that to

anyone or me.” Looking at himself closer in the mirror, he

said, “Man do I look like shit.”

102

The resident ghost, Mr. Billy Tall, had very little tolerance

for snoopers, especially those who poke around and left his

domain untidy.

Billy was an immaculate housekeeper, everything had to

be in its place, and any deviation from it caused him to go

into a rampage.

When there were disturbances down stairs, Billy would

start dragging and shuffling his chains louder, hopefully to

keep outsiders away. If that didn‟t work, he went on a

poltergeist charge. He also had the false belief any form of

noise or disturbance kept intruders away. During the spring

and fall Chouinard parties, caused Billy to make such a

ruckus it seemed to drive the roof off the house. Billy‟s

commotion had no effect whatsoever. The intense

inebriated and elevated condition the festivity was having

downstairs overshadowed his upset condition.

Rarely did he have meddlers in his domain. I was an

exception after our initial encounter; I made a pact, an

agreement of sorts that pleased him—writing down his

memoirs. His incessant need to tell me his life at first was

welcomed. After a bet, his need to express himself became

irritable. He never seemed to leave and give me peace. It‟s

as they say, give the person a mouth and they‟ll gab the

whole day―non-stop―filling your head with tidbits of

trivia.

While I got ready for work in the morning, Billy would

join me in conversation. Thinking it was quite humorous at

first, for a ghost to go to such lengths to tell me about his

life, I let him talk uninterrupted. Occasionally, I would

glance over to Billy, or view him in the mirror while

shaving and watching the misty man go through his

exaggerated motions. This was good too, because I got a

better picture of Billy‟s life and suffering—his love for the

woman he could never have.

That morning was no different. Billy joined me in the

bathroom to tell me about his suffering. Not wanting to

interrupt him, I let him rattle on as I shaved, bathed, and

dressed. Glancing occasionally toward the foggy image, I

noticed Billy, for some reason, stops his chattering. I

looked over to him, and all of a sudden, Billy dissolved.

Not knowing why, I shrugged it off and continued getting

ready for work. Thinking: I guess he forgot it was daylight.

Downstairs, OJ heard Ean‟s footsteps clump across the

ceiling. Occasionally, OJ pressed the Band-Aid ends to

make sure his nose stayed on properly. His eyes followed

the sound back and forth. Sneezing, blowing, and cursing,

he grabbed a roll of toilet paper and ripped off the last bit.

As he held his nose then muttered, “The dude is getting

ready to leave. Got to get ready to see what he has.” But, no

sooner did he reach for another roll, there wasn‟t any. He

sneezed into his hands. Each sneeze was dreaded pain that

released copious amounts of coagulated blood and mucus.

Then he took the bed sheet and wiped it off. Looking

around for another tissue, he grabbed anything he could

wipe his nose on. An old tissue did fine. Sneezing, blowing

into the crumpled tissue, he continued listening to the

footsteps clatter across the ceiling. They stopped. His eyes

darted back and forth. Again, he picked up the sound of

footsteps coming down the stairs. A door opened and shut,

followed by steps passing his door then out the side

entrance. Ean had gone to work.

OJ listened for any other sounds coming from the hall or

stairwell. He popped his head out from the Tiffany stain

glass window to see if it was Ean. He couldn‟t see anyone.

“The dude must have gone out the front,” he whispered. He

listened again for any other sound coming from within the

house, nothing was heard, and then he slithers out of his

room. Quiet as a snake, he ascended the stairwell to the

next floor; no sound was heard.

Cautious, he looked from left to right. Nothing was seen

out of the ordinary. Slow, wary, calm, he walked with the

skill of his training and listened as he approached Ean‟s

door. Twisting the knob once, twice, it didn‟t open. He

looked down at the keyhole; his face grimaced, then he

looked at the key slot. Easy, this was a synch to open. Then

all of a sudden a sound came from Mr. Talbot‟s room, he

stopped and froze. Seconds before Mr. Talbot opened the

door; OJ hastily slinked to the back stairwell and waited.

Fussing to put his things together, Mr. Talbot got ready

to leave. After he read his newspaper, he neatly placed it on

the stack against the wall. He admired his collection, gave

it a little pat, and left the room. He stopped briefly at the

phone niche, looked at something, but didn‟t know what it

was he was looking at, turned, waved good-bye, and went

out the door. The mime waved back and continued his

dialogue with Oliver.

Standing before his beloved car, Mr. Talbot patted the

roof, and admired its spotless appearance. For the first time

since Ms. Kinnite lived at the Shalimar, he had a clean car.

No sooner then he opened the car door, a gardener next

door watering the flowerbeds and lawn, tripped and

drenched Mr. Talbot‟s car. He looked over to the gardener

who tripped and gladly said, “Thank God, at least it isn‟t

piss.”

Mr. Talbot entered his car and fidgeted with the car

keys. Shortly after, OJ stood on the side stoop looking at

Mr. Talbot. Mr. Talbot didn‟t pay any attention to the

sinister character. OJ took one look at Mr. Talbot, nodded,

but didn‟t get any response from him. He started to wave at

him, holding up his hand, but it was too late to catch his

attention. OJ watched Mr. Talbot back onto the street and

drive off. Knowing that Mr. Talbot goes daily to

MacArther Park, he walked in the same direction. The only

thing on his mind was his nose, and to see what Mr. Talbot

did at the park. It would let him know how much time he

had to explore Mr. Talbot‟s room.

Moments later Mike stuck his head out the door, saw

nothing, and turned to Moe. “I guess we can go Moe. I

don‟t see anybody. I don‟t hear anybody either.”

Moe said, “Mike, this laundry bag is big…it‟s heavy.

Don‟t you think somebody‟ll get suspicious? Don‟t you

think we should have gotten suitcases instead?”

“Look Moe, if anybody‟s goinna be suspicious, it‟s

goinna be you. If we got suitcases, it‟d be obvious we‟d be

hidin‟ somethin‟. All crooks carry money in suitcases. A

laundry bag…no…it looks like we got clothes…lots of

„em. You hear me Moe.” Returning a suspicious glance,

Moe shrugged his shoulders. “Look here Moe; we put

clothes, my clothes and your clothes in this bag. It looks

like we got clothes in this bag…nothin‟ else…period.”

“I don‟t think so Mike. I think we look suspicious.”

“Listen Moe, if you look suspicious, you‟ll be

suspicious. If you look normal, you‟ll be normal.” He

looked up to the ceiling, taking the palm of his hand and hit

himself on the head, bam. “Look Moe,” he reiterated, “if

you gotta dump in your pants, you‟re goinna look like you

gotta dump in your pants. Do you capisce, understand,

comprendo, versteh…Dumbo!”

“But Mike I can‟t look like I‟ve got a dump in my

pants.”

“Make a dump, and you‟ll look like you gotta dump in

your pants.”

Moe grunted.

Mike said, “Oh my God what‟s next.”

“I can‟t. I can‟t just do it like you say. It has to come

natural like.”

“Look Moe,” Moe eyes enlarged. “Listen to me…ain‟t

we two alkies?” Moe nodded. “Well then look like your

one…okay.”

“Hic…that I can do…that‟s for sure…hic.”

“Good, then act the act and walk the talk.”

Moe held out his hands. “Wait, wait, hold it…we forgot

somethin‟ very important.”

Mike said, “What? What did we forget? I don‟t see

anything.” He looked around the room. “We‟ve got our

clothes, bag, money…what else have we forgot?”

“Asche.”

“That CAT.” Mike pointed down at the cat. “How are

we goinna take her on the train? We can‟t just carry her on.

They have rules concerning animals.”

“I‟ve seen some people carry pets on the bus.”

“Like how?”

Moe had to think. His brow furrowed, his eyes squinted,

and in one motion, he pooped his head up. “In a carry

case…that‟s how.”

“We don‟t have one, and we don‟t have time to get one.”

“There‟s a pet shop up on Sixth near Alvarado. I‟ll just

go in there and buy one.”

“We don‟t have the time Moe.”

“We‟ve got the time. The train don‟t leave until later. If

you have to get to the train station…go, but I‟m not leaving

without my Asche. She‟s my pussy, and I‟m not leavin‟

her…you hear.”

103

Holding onto his bandage, sniffing and snorting, OJ entered

a corner market on Eighth and Hoover to get some nose

wipes. His allergy was driving him mad as he sneezed and

snorted phlegm and blood.

Moments later Mike and Moe emerged from the house

and headed toward Seventh Street to catch the bus to Main

Street. After OJ exited the market he noticed the duo, he

leisurely followed, but kept enough out of their sight and

appeared to be interested in something other than the two

intoxicated chums. Occasionally, he stopped to look at

something when Moe nervously looked around.

The two turned on Sixth and Alvarado.

Moe pointed. “See there‟s a pet shop. I‟m going in.”

Mike followed reluctantly. After ten minutes, Moe had

Asche in her case, and Mike grumbled as he toted the

laundry bad.

The first bus they saw, the two took it. The bus was

going in the direction of downtown. The two men entered

as Mike dragged the laundry bag between them. Quickly

OJ was right behind and entered seconds later. He held a

handkerchief over his parted nose to keep the nasal

discharge confined. Moe and Mike were unaware of OJ‟s

presence. For some odd reason, OJ didn‟t recognize the

laundry bag containing money, only that it was a bag full of

cloths. His mind was only centered on the two alkies, not

on what they were carrying.

Moe and Mike took seats three rows down. Asche

meowed. To calm Asche, Moe reached into Asche‟s cage

and gave her a gentile tickle under her chin. OJ paid his fee

and continued to the back taking a seat next to the window.

His view was unobstructed of the two men he was

watching.

Moe kept looking around the bus eyeing everyone with a

suspicious glare. OJ pretended to dose, but he listened as if

he were a cat in search of a mouse, he was all ears. His

attention tuned to any conversation on the bus. Listening to

Mike and Moe, he decided it was just the two winos

gabbing as usual. He didn‟t realize what they were up to.

OJ‟s attention went to the next group of people in

conversation. Nothing unusual was heard by the

passengers. He continued his fake slumber and listened to

other passengers on the bus.

Mike was taking the bus ride all in stride. He dozed; his

head bobbed down then jerked to catch himself before he

fell too deep into slumber.

“Uh,” he muttered and licked his lips. “You got any with

you Moe?”

“Got any of what Mike?”

Mike whispered, “Hooch, what else?”

Moe answered, “Oh yeah, we‟re suppose to look like

alkies aren‟t we.”

“Shhhhhh…not so loud. I don‟t want anybody to see us

takin‟. Now where‟s that bag of mine?”

Moe reached into the laundry bag and pulled out a

whiskey flask. “Is this what you‟re lookin‟ for?” he

whispered and held it up in clear view.

“Yeah, but it‟s suppose to be in the paper bag. Where‟s

the bag?”

OJ noticed Mike and Moe, going through their slapstick

actions and sniggered quietly.

Opening the bag wide, Moe looked in. “Yeah, it‟s here

Mike,” he said, then gave out a loud hiccup.

“Gimmy that.” Mike jerked it from Moe; put the flask

into the paper bag. “Like this dimwit. You know you‟re

actin‟ it up too good. Put your head back on. Don‟t make it

so obvious. Or they‟ll kick us off the bus…and the train too

if you act that soused.”

“But, you said Mike.”

“I know what I said. But, you‟re doin‟ it too good.”

Five minutes passed without a word. Mike looked at the

passing street, and turned to Moe to say something about

the shops he was looking at. Moe was lying back on the

seat with his mouth open. Shaking his head, Mike

mumbled, “Oh no, not again. What am I goinna to do with

you Moe?”

“Huh, huh.” Moe jolted, sat straight up. “We here yet?”

His eyes were as big as saucers. His eyes darted back and

forth looking outside and down the bus aisle.

“I wish. We‟ve got another two blocks to go Moe.”

“You think everything‟ll be okay Mike?”

Casual, Mike uttered, “Everything‟ll be fine. Just act

normal and don‟t over do it.”

“What‟s wrong? You don‟t like goinna Truckee?”

Hearing the word Truckee, OJ perked up. His keen sense

of hearing honed in on the two drunks.

“Shhhh, like I said no one‟s supposed to know where

we‟re goin‟,” said Mike.

“Shhhh, like I know Mike. No one‟s supposed to know

where we‟re going, only us two.”

Realizing what Mike and Moe were talking about, OJ

eyes opened and focused on the two down-n-outers. After

five minutes, the bus stopped at Main Street. The two men

got off dragging their duffle bag between them. Moe

lugged Asche with two hands.

OJ‟s methodical mind searched for answers: They might

have the stash, and are going to Truckee. But why Truckee?

Was it because of Reno? Why Reno? Was it because they

plan to gamble it away. He watched the two men head up

Main Street. The bus jerked and eased into the street.

Taking a transfer on Main Street, the bus finally stopped

in front of Union Station. Mike was thinking in over-time.

With a vigorous gate, Mike continued and said, “We

haven‟t much time. Let‟s hurry Moe.”

“But my legs hurt Mike, and Asche is heavy.”

“I told you not to bring her. I‟ll meet you inside, okay.”

“But where Mike?”

“Take a seat in the waitin‟ room where we were the

other day. I‟ll meet you there. I‟ve got to do somethin‟ fast

before we get on the train.”

“What you got to do fast Mike,” he shouted to Mike as

he took off with the laundry bag and entered Union Station.

Mike shouted back, “I‟ve got to take a pee.” But, Moe

didn‟t catch the last word.

Moe shouted back, “You‟ve gotta see. What you mean

Mike…you‟ve gotta see what?”

Fifteen minutes passed; Mike was looking for Moe in

the waiting room. His eyes searched up and down the large

Spanish style hall. Finally, he spotted him. He headed for

his companion and took the seat next to him. Moe looked

up as Mike took the seat and settled in.

“Whatcha been doin‟, I‟m worried.”

“I got it all settled. Watch the bag, I gotta take a dump.”

“Me too Mike. I didn‟t leave, cause I figured you‟d not

see me.”

“Let‟s make it quick. The train leaves in fifteen minutes

on track four.”

“Ten minutes. I can‟t pee in that time. You know how

my prostate is.”

“Do a half a pee. We‟ve gotta make that train. You can

do the rest when we get settled in our seats and on our way

to our destination.”

104

“Another bottle and another day,” Putnam slurred his

words looking at the empty container, turning it upside

down and looking through the opening. A drop of whiskey

hit him in the eye. It stung. “Ouch,” he screamed wincing

from the drip. It woke up Dr. Langweilig from his deep

slumber.

“Uh, what, what, what‟s goin‟ on here?” Dr. Langweilig

barked. He looked around and saw Putnam holding his eye.

“What in hell happened Putnam? Is there something wrong

with your eye? You need a doctor?”

“No, no, just got some hooch in it.”

“What, your eye taking to drink too?”

Laughing, “No just lookin‟ at my bottle upside down.

Da hooch dribbled in.”

“Next time you look at it, look with your mouth under it.

You aren‟t going to be my test case if you drink it into your

eye.” He laughed.

Laughing at Dr. Langweilig, Putnam said, “Sorry Doc,

but I was just lookin‟. We‟re out. We need more.”

“No problem, you act like it‟s the end of the road.”

“But, Doc there just ain‟t no more.”

“We‟ll just take a jaunt down to the store. It‟s as simple

as A-B-C, you see, and your wish will be your command.”

Sleepy eyed and staggering back and forth, Putnam said,

“You know what Doc?”

“What my good friend and drinking chum?”

“It must be nice to be rich.”

“I wouldn‟t say I‟m rich, but I‟m working on it.”

“You goin‟ on another date Doc?”

“I‟m thinking I might. The other three were nothing I‟d

like to make a commitment on.”

“How‟s that Doc.”

“Like I told you, I was married once, taken, and burned.

Never again will I fall prey to such a trap.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean Doc. Marriage can be

either bliss or a pot of piss.”

“I had the piss…mark my words.”

“You goinna ask her to the party comin‟ up?”

“The end of summer party the two artsy-crafties are

having?”

“Yeah. It‟s the annual Shoonardt party. They have it

twice a year you know.”

“I‟ll have to think about it. I don‟t know if she‟ll like

going to a school party.”

“It ain‟t just a school party…hic…it‟s the party of

parties…you remember? You were there weren‟t you?”

“I think so,” said Dr. Langweilig. He gawked at Putnam

scratching his groin. His head took a tilt and began to

smile. “I‟ve been so drunk sense I got here. It‟s hard to

remember what I did.” Paused, watching Putnam scratching

his groin. “You got to take a pee…or you got crabs?”

“Yeah, I gotta take a pee. It hurts somethin‟ terrible.”

“Well, don‟t just stand there my good man; it‟s just

across the hall.”

“Yeah I know, but it‟s gettin‟ up and getting‟ there. I

can‟t quite walk yet.”

Putnam picked up one foot and slammed it down ahead

of the other, then did it with the next leg. Dr. Langweilig

laughed. “I‟m goin‟ Doc. As fast as I can.” He stepped over

his right foot slowly, and then took another step over his

left foot. See Doc, one…two…three…steps. I‟m getting

there.”

“After you‟re through, let‟s go down to the liquor store.”

“I‟m witcha Doc…I‟m witcha. I‟ll be just a sec.”

105

The two inebriated chums climb on the train. Mike took the

lead, dragged the laundry bag behind him and Moe took up

the rear with his pet carrying cage to obscure their

camouflage cache. One by one, Mike pointed with his

finger at the door numbers and called them out as they

passed by. They stopped at door 37. He opened the door

and entered. Moe stood at the entrance. Puzzled, he

watched Mike put the laundry bag up on the shelf and sat

down.

“Why you sittin‟ here?” said Moe. “You got first class?”

“That‟s right my old man…first class.”

“Ain‟t that expensive?”

“Not with the money we have.”

“Oh, that‟s right. We‟re rich.”

“Not rich…well-to-do is more like the term.”

“So, when we get into Truckee?”

“Shut the door Moe and have a seat. I have somethin‟ to

tell ya.”

“What‟s that Mike?”

“In about thirty minutes after the train takes off I‟ll tell

ya all about it.” He patted Moe on the knee.

Moe looked at Mike patting his knee. Slowly, warily,

Moe whispered, “You‟s gay. That‟s whatcha wanna tell

me…isn‟t it.”

Mike burst out laughing. “Nah, no, nah…uh…uh…”

“You‟re a fuckin‟ fag.” Moe began to cry. “My best

buddy‟s a fag.”

“No, no, no…it‟s somethin‟ else Moe.”

Sobbing, “What then Mike?”

“I‟ll tell you later gator. This isn‟t the right moment. I‟ll

explain it all in due time…when the train gets outa LA.”

“I hope so. I don‟t think I can take this changin‟ an‟

rechangin‟ stuff no more.”

Five minutes down the track, Mike and Moe‟s heads flip

back and forth watching the scenery pass.

Moe said, “I never knew there were so many buildin‟s

out this far. You think we‟re still in LA?”

Turning to Moe, Mike said, “LA is big. It‟s one-hundred

miles wide, and one-hundred miles long. A hundred miles

square from tip to tip. That‟s how big it tiz.”

“A hundred miles square,” Moe whispered. “I can‟t

believe it. No, wonder why I never left LA. I‟d get lost if

I‟d think about it.”

“Well, we really ain‟t in LA. We‟re in whatcha might

call…the greater LA.”

“The greater LA.”

“Yeah. It‟s the whole shemozzled mess from Ventura to

San Berdo…from Long Beach to Santa Clarita.”

“The whole shemozzled, huh. Well I‟m glad you‟re with

me Mike. I‟d get lost if I‟d take the train by myself.”

“Well, we‟re chums aren‟t we…old friends?” Moe

nodded. “Well we‟ve been together for a long time, so it‟s

fitting that we spend the rest of our life together. It‟s kinda

like bein‟ married.”

Moe‟s eyes popped open wide as he flinched. “You‟re

gay. You‟re a fuckin‟ fag.”

“No Moe. I‟m not gay. I‟m not even a fag. It‟s just a

figure of speech. We‟ve known each other for so long. We

might as well spend the rest of our dyin‟ days seein‟ it out.”

Moe‟s eyes glanced over to the scenery passing by.

“What you goinna do with the money if I die Mike?”

Not really knowing what to say to Moe, Mike hummed

and hammered over the question. “I guess…I‟d shoot

myself…dead.”

“Shoot yourself. Why you‟d a thing like that Mike?”

“I don‟t have any other friends. I know you better than

anybody else Moe. You‟re the best I‟ve ever known.”

Moe‟s eyes water. “Ah Mike, you‟re the best.”

Their eyes shifted from their conversation to the passing

scenery outside. The city became less urban, less industrial

and more suburban. They pass Azusa, Pomona, and chug

past Claremont, Montclair, and Upland through Ontario.

The scenery began to be sparse with newly built gated

walled communities here and there. The train passed

Cucamonga and Fontana. After a bit the train took a sharp

left, then took a long chug ascent past the San Bernardino

Mountains, and Lytle Creek came into view.

Mike turned toward Moe. “Now I can tell‟ya.”

“Tell me what Mike?”

“Where we‟re goin‟.”

“We‟re not goin‟ to Truckee, right?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Cause.”

“Cause why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

Mike flung his head back. “Now listen to me Moe.”

“I am.”

“No you‟re not.”

“If I‟m not, what?”

“You‟re repeatin‟ me.”

“Repeatin‟ you.”

“Yes, repeatin‟ me.”

Moe hesitated. “What you wants to tell me Mike?”

“We ain‟t goin‟ to Truckee.”

“You told me that. Why?”

“Because.”

“You‟re the one repeatin‟ not me.”

Shaking his head, Mike said, “Listen.”

“I am.”

“Good.” Pausing he smiled, then said slowly, “We‟re

not goin‟ to Truckee cause…”

“You said that Mike, why?”

“LISTEN,” Mike shouted. “Because, we‟ve gotta trailer

after us.”

Moe looked back out the window, enunciated, “Trai- ler.

What you mean we‟ve gotta trailer after us?” He looked

outside again. “I see only passenger cars.”

“I mean someone‟s followin‟ us.”

Moe shouted, “I told you Mike, they‟re comin‟ after us.”

“Wait Moe, listen to me. I saw this guy on the bus

lookin‟ at us. I figured if he finds out where we‟re goin‟,

I‟ll change our destination.”

“You‟ve changed our destination…where?”

“We‟re goin‟ to Omaha.”

“But, but,” Moe stammered, “why Omaha?”

“Cause Moe…Omaha is nowhere.”

“Whatcha mean Mike?”

“It‟s the furthest thing from Truckee and LA.”

“But, if Omaha is nowhere…what‟s there Mike?”

“Corn. Nothin…just corn.”

* * *

106

It was half past three in the afternoon. OJ entered the

Shalimar, and started to ascend the staircase when stopped

by Dawg and Kitzi coming out of their room. Dawg noticed

OJ but didn‟t say anything at first, but watched OJ stop at

the mezzanine room. Dawg noticed something in the phone

niche. He shook his head. The mime was on a dialogue

rampage. Dawg shook his head as he looked up to OJ.

Kitzi said, “What is it? Why you shaking your head?”

He grimaced. “I don‟t know. Something looks odd.”

Looking up to the mezzanine room, he called up, “You

must be the new guy.”

Turning around, OJ said, “Yeah, I‟m da new guy on the

block,” clickity-clack-clack, went his lip studs. He

chuckled. “More like da new dude in the gilded cage.” He

looked up to the mezzanine Tiffany stain glass window and

pointed.

Dawg, Kitzi laughed along with OJ.

“So, what brings you to the Shalimar?” said Dawg.

“Uh, I was lookin‟ for a cool place da live…man. You

know whadt I mean man,” clickity-clack-clack.

“Well, you found it here. What do you do?”

“I‟m an ardtist. I go to ardt school…Odtis,” clickity-

clack-clack.

“Otis…oh that other school. That‟s in Santa Monica,

right. Or have they moved again?”

“Yeah, somewhere like dthat. I haven‟t figured id out jus

yedt.” He motioned. “Somewhere dtoward da beach.”

Dawg turned to Kitzi. “The dude sounds like he knows

what it‟s all about.”

“You have any with you…Jack?” said Dawg.

“My name is O-dJay. People call me O-dJay,” clickity-

clack-clack, “About the sdtuff. I‟m goin‟ in a minute da

gedt some. You wandt some?” Clickity-clack-clack.

“Is it good stuff…man?”

“The besdt money can buy.”

“See you later dude.”

“Right on,” said Kitzi.

Back in his room, OJ pondered: I‟ve got everything to

get in, but I can‟t now, it‟s too late. But, I can go into Mr.

Talbot‟s room. He doesn‟t usually return until six or so.

And then, I can have a good look to see if he‟s got it, which

I doubt. But you can never tell. I‟ve seen weirder things in

my days. Then he mulled over the things on his bed.

He peered out the Tiffany stained glass windows, up and

down the street, and then closed them. Taking his

makeshift key, he left his room and walked directly to Mr.

Talbot‟s door. Tapped it quietly. Listened. No sound,

motion from inside was heard. He inserted the key, turned

it, turned the knob, and entered. Taken aback, he stared at

the piles of newspapers from floor to ceiling and from wall

to wall. What in hell is this, went through his mind. The guy

is a packrat…a trash collector…a living dump. Taking a

quick look, he rummaged through some of the newspapers;

he realized there wasn‟t anything in the room but

papers―tons.

He no sooner left Mr. Talbot‟s room than Mrs. Dolmeier

lumbered up the stairs. She didn‟t think anything about OJ

exiting Mr. Talbot‟s room. She walked by him and entered

her room without any recognition by him. Feeling uneasy,

OJ gave her a quick smile and cautiously descended to his

floor and entered his room flopping on the bed.

It was too late to see if Ean Homes‟ apartment had

anything. He thought of tomorrow and about Ean Homes‟

apartment. It has to be there, he thought.

107

Sierra Nevada, the coffee gal, took up my time at the office.

We had gotten into a conversation about art. I had

mentioned I had gone to art school but never found any job

in art. I had studied design. What job I ended up having

was a proposal and catalog writer with some graphics. The

furthest from anything I wanted. But, it was a job and a

steady income from poverty. When Ellsworth Bunk hired

me, he had advertised for an all around all- in-one artist,

which included knowing something about putting ads

together. He said I could take the job, considering I would

learn to do everything. Little did I realize at the time I

would end up doing it all, one-hundred percent, and that

included doing his job.

Our conversation became so involved while on our way

out of the office and out the building; we decided to go

down to Little Tokyo and continue over a tub of rice. We

talked about life and our philosophies. Our conversation

went from what we do in downtime, to why we are doing

the things we do today. Sierra had the philosophy that life

is life, nothing more than just that.

“It doesn‟t make any difference,” she said, “what one

does in life. It all gets you to the same place anyway. So

why try. If you accomplish everything you wanted in life,

all the better. But if you don‟t, why sweat it. It just causes

heartburn and stress. What will be, will be. That‟s all there

is to it.”

“It‟s all about stress…right,” I said.

“Stress will kill you dead, every time.”

“It‟s the number one killer I hear. Second to heart

attacks, which is caused by stress?”

“My pa died from stress,” she said. “He had a brain

hemorrhage. It was horrible. He bled from his ears and

nose. All his life he slaved for this guy. And guess what?” I

shrugged my shoulders. “His boss didn‟t even go to his

funeral.”

“I can say the same for my father and mother. The only

one at their funeral was the mortician‟s plebe.”

She looked at me surprised. “You didn‟t attend?”

“I was in Georgia at the time. Besides, I had seen my

parents just before they died, and Dad said this would be

the last time I‟d see him and Mom. He didn‟t want me to

come. He planned to have their bodies cremated

immediately after their death.”

“Together?”

“When Mom died, Dad committed suicide.”

“Oh, that‟s terrible.”

“Not really. They didn‟t have much to live for. They

both had deteriorating diseases.”

“What?”

“Mom died from that dreaded Alzheimer‟s disease, and

Dad had a deteriorating nerve condition that left him totally

incapacitated. He couldn‟t even go to the john by himself.

Some nurse had to wipe his ass it got so bad. Personally, I

think she helped him to it.”

She took my hand. “Gosh, that‟s terrible,” she said.

“Yeah, in a way it was terrible.”

Sierra was nervously twiddling her fingers. “So, what

did they do with the ashes? Put them in an urn for you?”

“No, they threw them onto the death-tree out back of the

crematory to be blown to the wind.”

“And you allowed that?”

“What could I do? They said it was the state‟s law.”

“So, you don‟t have anything from your parents.”

“Nothing.”

She shook her head. “How terrible. It‟s unjust. How can

they do that? It‟s almost criminal.”

“But, as you said Sierra, life is life, what‟s just about it.

The good die just like the bad. And, after a couple of

years…who remembers them? Do you remember Caryl

Chessman?” She shrugged her shoulders. “I‟m sure the

ones that executed him do.”

“You still remember your parents?”

“I think about them all the time.”

108

Not knowing the house‟s reputation, OJ had no idea there

was a ghost lurking in the attic. Due to several factors, OJ

had a constant nasal flow due to his allergy, but also from

his new acquisition by Flo-Job―the detached nose.

Because of his newly acquired condition, OJ constantly

sniffed and spitted blood and phlegm to relieve his backed

up condition.

I came home late that night. It must have been after ten-

thirty when I got in. When I entered my pad, it was a total

mess. Strewn all over the floor were my clothes. Even my

dresser was emptied. Then, I heard this horrendous noise

coming from the attic. I usually don‟t go in because of Mr.

Tall, but since I was in a good relationship with him, I

entered to see what was going on. In the middle of the

room, laying flat on his back was OJ. Standing over him

was the ghostly image of Mr. Tall. Evidently, OJ surmised

I wouldn‟t be coming home at the usual hour of seven.

Looking through the place, he couldn‟t find what he was

looking for and decided to do the unexpected, search the

whole apartment, which meant going into the attic. What he

didn‟t realize, the attic was Mr. Tall‟s domain. He entered,

saw the things in the far corner and saw nothing of

importance and finally ending up in Mr. Tall‟s room. BAM,

that‟s when it happened. OJ got the surprise of his life. Mr.

Tall evidently can wallop a blow and surprise the wits out

of someone. And, that‟s how I found OJ. Flat on his back

looking up at me as if he had seen a ghost, which he just

did. His nose was lying to one side of his face as if it were a

page in a book. Blood was all over his face, shirt and floor.

When I first glanced at him, he looked like he had a red

face from being awfully embarrassed. After I shook him

back to reality, I realized it was blood. Blood that was

coming from his departed nose. At first, I thought Mr. Tall

caused the detached nose, but later OJ stated it was Flo-Job,

Sherry Jung‟s bullmastiff dog.

After getting a wet towel and getting OJ back to his feet,

I finally got him into my room and on the sofa. I didn‟t

think he really believed he saw what he saw. He kept

shaking nervously trying to make sense of the whole thing.

When he finally calmed down, he began to stutter

something terrible while putting his nose back in order. I

went to get him a Band-Aid. At first, I couldn‟t make out

what he was saying. Then it came to me, he was trying to

tell me that he saw what he thought was a horrendous

ghost.

“But you did Mr. Oran Jooz…you did see a ghost. It

was Mr. Tall. He lives in there, and you shouldn‟t have

gone in there without permission.”

Shaking his head, his eyes bulged, and stuttered, “Uh,

uh, y-you, d-dtell- ing-ga me.” Clink-clack.

“Right, no one is to go in there. It could have been really

dangerous. Mr. Tall doesn‟t like anyone going in there,

even me at times.”

“Uh, uh, y-y-you, d-d-dtell- ing-ga me.” Clink-clack.

“Why were you in there anyway? I didn‟t give you

permission. What were you looking for? Do you know my

whole apartment is a mess…this attic? Why?”

OJ kept shaking. He put his face in his hands and

nervously shook. Tremors went all over his body. A

nervous sweat covered him, saturating his clothes. He

looked like he just went to hell and back. “Dyou d-dtellin‟

m-me…uh…is id for sure a real ghost, or somethin‟ dyou

made up?” Clickity-clack-clack rattled his lip studs.

“He‟s real, more real than you think. He‟s been here for

a long time since he bought the house way back when.”

OJ‟s voice came back to normal. His nervous reaction

stopped. Looking up at me, he motioned at the closet door.

“Is dthat dthing goinna come oudta dthere again?”

“No not unless you threaten him.” I watched him shake.

It was like watching a child tremble from a horrendous

experience. “Mr. Oran Jooz, why were you in my attic in

the first place? If you won‟t tell me, Mr. Tall will. He

knows all, sees all, and will tell me everything that has

happened. We, the ghost and I are on good terms.”

Calm, he raised his head out of his hands and said, “I

hab been hired by LA…LA…Inc.”

This was when I found out LALA Inc, the company I

worked for was a laundry outfit for the mob. And he

suspected that the money taken from the Tap d‟Hat liquor

store was somewhere in this house, where, he didn‟t know.

He didn‟t find anything in my apartment, he reassured me.

He suspected someone else at this point, but couldn‟t tell

me for sure who it was.

“Will you keep dthis a secredte,” he said, “…undtil I‟ve

found out where da money wendt?” Clickity-clack-clack.

I reassured him I would. And, if possible, I would help. I

gave him coffee, and he continued to tell me all about

himself and his work. I have known several hit-men in my

day, and it always surprised me, they were so eager to

dump their sins. Why that is, I don‟t know. It‟s like being

their father confessor I guess, and any minute can be their

last moment on earth. It‟s almost as if they believe they live

by the sword and will die by the sword. And, this reality is

more real to them than anyone else I‟ve ever known.

I was surprised when he told me that LALA Inc was a

laundering firm. All the years I have worked there, the only

thing I was aware of was the numerous businesses under

their roof. The Tap d‟Hat was just one of many liquor

stores across the country they managed and promoted as

well as supermarkets and gas stations. I figured, here in

LA, there must be thousands of these enterprises, all being

part of their laundry service. No wonder I was being paid

well after Ellsworth got his traveling papers.

After OJ regained his composure, I asked him, “Did you

know Ellsworth Bunk, my former boss?”

“No,” he said. “All I‟m concerned width is investigatin‟

problems LALA Inc has. Why do you asgk?”

“There was a new XO on board and he brought his

people from his last post. And for no reason I could tell, all

the managers were dumped and Ellsworth Bunk was one of

the chosen few.”

“As far as I know no one was canned, and that includes

depardtment honchos. Dthey know dtoo much.” Clickity-

clack-clack. Then he began to talk normal. His clickity-

clack-clack disappeared. “People like you know little. If

you‟re canned, terminated, given your walking papers it‟s

because you don‟t know what LALA Inc is. But your old

boss, most likely, was relocated to a different area to

accommodate the new XO. He was not busted.”

“Then that explains why my present boss is a do-nothing

freeloader like Ellsworth.”

“All those managers got their position by being soldiers

of the org. After spending so many loyal years running and

doing their service, they were given prime positions. Your

new boss, as you‟ll find, is no different from your old boss,

they‟re all goldbrickers. And, they get people like you to do

all their work. Otherwise, if these soldiers had to do the

work, the org wouldn‟t last a day. I‟m due for retirement.

I‟ll be forty next year, and I‟m sure I‟ll be placed in a

position much like your Ellsworth Bunk. Maybe, I‟ll get

your bosses position and manage you.” He laughed.

“Since, you told me all this…what‟s going to happen to

me now?”

“I really don‟t know Ean. At this moment, you know too

much.” His eyes twinkled, the right side of his mouth

curved upward. “Maybe, you‟ll be put on the hit list.” He

returned several chuckles.

“That‟s reassuring.” Chuckling I said, “Finally I made

the hit list. I hope I‟m not at the top.”

Now I know what my future might bring me―either a

long good standing in the company, or given concrete swim

fins and told to go swimming. One way or the other, my

future is guaranteed. I laughed, we laughed over my newly

acquired permanence, and he was glad I had a good sense

of humor over the matter. What else can one do, but laugh

at the situation. Life is life as one Sierra Nevada had said.

What comes comes. Don‟t stress it. Relax and enjoy

it―even if it‟s going for a swim―gurgle-gurgle.

I told him about my relocated neighbor who was in the

Mafia, and that he would do anything for me if I asked.

But, I never got the chance to test him. He died before I

could. But then, if I ever did ask a favor, I don‟t know if I‟d

want to get involved in such a matter.

OJ had to laugh at the one. “I‟m sure,” he said, “that‟s

how you got your job at LALA Inc, and not because of

Ellsworth Bunk. All he did was what he was told to do, hire

you. I‟m sure it had a lot to do with your neighbor.”

Laughing, “Now I‟m in the mob too,” I said.

“No, you‟re just inadvertently placed. They won‟t place

demands on you. You‟re relatively free to do what you

want. For instance, you can quit, change jobs.”

“They can fire me,” I interjected.

“I doubt they would ever do that. You‟re a vital function

in the company…you work. Your present boss doesn‟t.”

“Well, let‟s hope I can hang on for two more years.”

“You‟ll retire then?”

“I‟ll be sixty- five.”

“If you‟re in good standing, you could ask to be put out

to pasture.”

“What do you mean, pasture?”

“Like your neighbor, I‟m sure he had a cushy job in his

retirement years doing what he liked.”

“He was partner with three other relocated guys in a

New York type Italian restaurant. He was the cook.”

“See what I mean. You‟ve got it made. A loyal worker is

an asset. Maybe, you‟ll take over the Tap d‟Hat.”

“I doubt if I‟d want that. But, one can never tell.”

109

Mike was facing the window while talking to Moe and Moe

moaned about how the mob was going to get them, string

them up and make an example of their wickedness. “It

don‟t make no diff Moe what you do in life. Life is life.

Just enjoy it while you have it.”

Looking out the train window, Mike pondered the

Mohave landscape. The dry vast panorama stretched out

over the rolling landscape and sagebrush. Here and there,

cactus and pinion trees dotted the scorched land. There was

nothing to be seen that crawled, walked, or slithered in the

sunset landscape. The sky was glowing red in the west and

darkness creeping slowly over the terrain.

“You see those small pine trees out there Moe.” Mike

pointed. Moe nodded. “They‟ve been around for eons.

Some say before Christ. They‟re some of the oldest trees in

the world, besides the redwoods and Sequoias. They‟ve

lasted out here under extreme conditions of drought. No

water for years, but yet, they continue to live and strive for

that one purpose…life. It‟s a miracle Moe, a miracle that

they‟ve lasted this long. Man, on the other hand, would‟ve

lived but a day in this God forsaken place if he didn‟t have

water, shelter, food.” He turned to Moe. “You know what I

mean, it don‟t make no diff…life is life…what comes is.”

“But Mike, I can‟t believe we was placed here to suffer.

Then, it‟s like we‟re in hell.”

“We weren‟t placed here to suffer. We were placed here

to live. Nothing more than that Moe…just to live. Come

what may, you might say. We‟re here to live out a life no

matter what or what it is or what happens to us. Life is life.

That‟s all there is to it…nothing more.”

“But that‟s predestination. One has choices. One can

change what happens to him.”

“Everything has its order. We just happen to be one

element of that order…no matter what happens.”

“Then I‟m free from sin no matter what I do.”

“Yes…in a way. But, if you ask me what really

matters…not what you do, but how you think…what your

opinion is. It don‟t matter what happens in the world…it‟s

what and how you think about it that counts.”

“So, if we get caught by the mob and killed…it don‟t

make no diff…is that what you‟re trying to say Mike?”

“Exactly. It don‟t make no diff. It‟s just how you think

about it? That‟s all it is…nothin‟ more…nothing less.”

“What about all those poor souls starvin‟, wastin‟ away

under some dictators ruthless hand?”

“It don‟t make no diff Moe. It‟s like I said before, it‟s

how you think about it. These things have been around for

eons. They will never change. We all experience some

kinda disaster, some perish, some go on, and some become

stronger under the influence, but nothin‟ ever changes. It‟s

been around forever and ever and ever and ever, and it will

continue forever…amen.”

Moe turned from the window. “This is our hell.”

Mike returned a, “Ditto, amen, my good friend…and it

all started with a shot in the dark.”

“Like splooey.”

110

OJ and I talked the whole night. It was five-thirty when I

realized what hour it was. I bid him goodbye, have a

wonderful day, and finished saying, “Don‟t poke around

where there‟s ghosts.” I was too tired to go to work, but on

the other hand, I wanted to see if it made a difference

knowing what OJ told me.

It was fascinating and intriguing to know I worked for a

mob organization. One reads about such things, or sees it in

movies, but really living the part was different.

Even though I was tired, my energy was up. I somehow

got ready for work. As I passed the bathroom on the second

floor, I saw OJ fiddling with his nose. I asked him if he was

okay, he nodded. I went to work.

I was the first to walk through the door. No one was on

the floor but me. I turned on the hall lights, went to my

office, entered and did the usual―boot up my computer.

After working on a project for about a half an hour,

people started to mosey in. One by one, the office cells

filled up, and I could hear the computers‟ tune echo one by

one throughout the mass hall. A low chatter filled the vast

room meant another day began. The sound of music came

over the audio system and replaced chitchat.

An hour later, nine-thirty to be exact, Sierra Nevada

poked her head through the door and asked, “Coffee Ean?”

I looked up and answered, “By all means Sierra. This

morning I sure could get a good jump-start. I was up all

night with a tenant.”

“What was wrong?” she said.

“He had an accident in the house.”

“What happened?”

“When I got home last night, I found him lying at the

bottom of the steps. He was out cold and his nose was

severed from his face.”

“What did he do, fall down the stairs?”

“Evidently. It was quite a fall. How he severed his nose,

was beyond me. It just happened I guess. Or maybe he did

it the other day. He didn‟t say how and I didn‟t ask him.”

“Did he want to go on emergency…ER?”

“No, he was okay, and if anything developed, he‟d let

me know.”

“And that took all night? That sounds pretty bad to me.”

“After he regained his composure, we started talking

about life. Just like you and me last night. It seemed last

night was a night for viewpoints and confessions.”

“So, what did you realized after our talk and his?”

“I was tired.” I wiped my eyes. She poured me a cup of

coffee. And the first sip reassured me that life was back to

normal. “This is ecstasy,” I said. “You make the best damn

coffee anywhere.”

“I‟m glad it isn‟t hell. I‟d get it from the boss up-top.”

“I‟d tell you Sierra, your coffee is one hellofa boost in

the morning. Without it, I‟d never get from A to B. What

do you put in it? It sets the day for me.”

She smiled. “Just coffee…whatever comes in the little

packet and water. The only thing…I add a little extra to it.”

I wasn‟t going to ask her what that „little extra‟ was, it

may be part of LALA Inc‟s laundry. I let it be. Life is just

life. What will be, will. Just enjoy it while you got it.

Sierra went on to the next room. Later on, I could see

her going from cubical to cubical dispensing coffee. I got to

thinking, was she here the same as me, a favor from a

friend, a good will gesture, or was she hired without

knowing what LALA Inc was all about. I really didn‟t care.

I had a couple of more years to go anyway, and I wasn‟t

going to upset the boat to find out. I like swimming without

concrete swim fins.

111

“Yes Putnam, I think I‟ll take her up on it…this gal that

wrote me the other day. She sounds promising. She‟s not a

doctor of anything; she doesn‟t live in a palatial mansion.

She sounds just right.”

“It sounds like…hic…your theory of companionship is

getting‟ to…uh, hic…become more than just an idea. More

like somethin‟ could be serious out there.”

“From her picture, she‟s a knockout. And, that I could

go for.” He holds it up so Putnam can see it.

Putnam took the photo, scrutinized it. “Yeah, she‟s one

hellofa good looker isn‟t she?”

“Putnam, you think she‟s on the up and up?”

“You mean real, not a horny in-heat bitch who‟s

crammed with silicon?”

“Of course.”

“That is…hic…if she has all the endowments to go

along with it.”

“Money is numero uno Putnam.”

“So, when you goinna take…hic…her out?”

“You know the big party is this Friday. I think I‟ll go

over to her house instead of joining the artsy confusion.”

“You not comin‟ at all…hic. Why?”

“I don‟t think she is the type to appreciate such exciting

entertainment. From what I gather, she‟s quite uppity.”

“You think she‟s too classy?”

“She sounded haughty over the phone.”

“Haughty, huh…haughty but I‟m sure she‟s naughty.”

“We‟ll see…if she‟s a little. I hope not too much.”

112

Dawg and Kitzi came home from school to get the

ballroom ready for the big shindig, the revitalized

Chouinard party. They worked all afternoon. During the

cleaning, Dawg discovered the little jets on the

chandeliers―they were gas jets. In the foyer, he found all

the sconces had gas jets too. He called Kitzi to come and

see his discovery.

“Do you think they work?” he said.

“We won‟t know until we try them,” she said. “We have

matches don‟t we?”

“Sure, next to the stove…up on the shelf…next to the

salt box.”

“I‟ll get them. Don‟t get down.”

Dawg turned on the jet. It hissed. He turned it off. “Hey

Kitzi, it works,” he said. She gave him a match and he lit it.

Pouf ignited the jet. He tried on another and it lit. “This is

amazing. Do you think they‟ll work tonight?”

“All we can do is try‟em and see.”

Throughout the room, the foyer and up the staircase,

every jet was turned on. Dawg and Kitzi stood at the top of

the staircase looking down in amazement. “Wow,” they

said in unison. “This is fantastic…just like the old days

when they didn‟t have electric lights.”

Kitzi said, “This is goinna be the pièce d‟résistance.”

“The crowning moment of the party,” said Dawg.

Both looked at the illuminated area in awe. “It‟s

awesome, just awesome,” as they repeated to each other.

113

The party was set. The drinks were on the table. Munchies

and dips eager for greedy fingers and hungry mouths were

placed around the room. Little ashtrays were placed on

sills, tables, and every little nook in the room for mind

candy, all provided by Mr. Clickity-Clack Oran Jooz. They

waited. Dawg and Kitzi looked at each other, shrugged

their shoulders and wondered if it would get off to a good

start.

Kitzi said, “Is anyone goinna come?”

Dawg said, “It looks like a flop this time. Maybe

everybody had their fill during the last one. It was wild.”

“It was untamed and fierce.”

Dawg and Kitzi were ready to close their door and call it

a night when the first person showed up at ten-thirty, it was

Ellsworth Bunk. He glanced over the foyer and noticed

something strange happening in the phone niche. He didn‟t

know what to think of it and shrugged it off. He entered

Kitzi and Dawg‟s room.

“I hear there‟s a party happening here,” he said.

Excited to see someone, anyone, Kitzi said, “Come right

on in.” Dawg gave him a glad hand and a big smile.

“You came to the right place. You‟re not to late…but

then, you‟re not too early either,” said Dawg.

“What is your choice of libation?” said Kitzi.

“I‟ll take anything that‟s wet, dry, and gets you high,”

said Ellsworth looking around the room, skimming his eyes

over the little bowls of sugar cubs. He took a seat on the

sofa, and continued looking around. “Where‟s all the

people? Am I the first?”

Kitzi stammered, “Uh, right, you‟re the first.”

She handed him a beer and offered him munchies.

Ellsworth took a sip. “Thanks,” he said looking at all the

dips and munchies. “I hear this is the party of parties.”

Kitzi said, “You came to the right place.”

“You don‟t say. The last time I was here, the place was

jumping like monkeys in a barrel…wild and crazy.”

“It‟ll get that way later on…uh…what‟s your name?”

Ellsworth responded, “Just call me EB.”

“Okay Ee-Bee, as you have experienced, this is a two

night bash. So, we don‟t expect anyone to show up „til

late…sometime around midnight.”

“That‟s okay, I‟ve got the whole weekend.” He took a

long drink from the can.

The conversation between Kitzi, Dawg, and Ellsworth

fell flat. They repeated how great the last party was and

how much fun it was ten times. Ellsworth noted he was

looking for another mindless experience. Kitzi reassured

him he came to the right place. “A guaranteed one-hundred

percent experience,” she said.

An hour later, people started to show up. The foyer

became the meeting point for handshakes, introducing, and

mutual pecks on the cheek if not straight on tongue

touching and mouth sucking. Next, one of the new arrivals

extracted a plastic bag of white powder and dangled it

under everyone‟s nose. Everyone ooed and aahed and

grabbed a pinch. The party was on―full force.

Up in the mezzanine room, OJ exited and made his

appearance. Making sure his Band-Aid was on straight and

his nose wouldn‟t take a slide. All decked out in his

studded finery, he descended the staircase in grandeur,

holding onto the handrail, the other hand on the bandage,

and stepped on each runner one at a time, slow and stylish,

until the first person caught his attention.

“Hello there big dude…where you coming from,” said a

young eager gal. She wore a skimpy dress with nothing

under it. The dress clung to her reveling ever curve and

nook she was advertising. She clung onto his shoulder and

squeezed his well- formed tattooed biceps.

“Honey,” said OJ, “I‟m all yours. You goinna show me

whered da pardty is?” His clickity-clack-clack was back.

“Just follow me,” she said.

They walked into the ballroom. OJ looked around and

noticed all the amenities―all the things that made a good

party happen. “So, dthis is da pardty.” His lip studs click-

clack-clicks as he looked for Kitzi.

“Yeah, just wait „til later,” said the gal.

OJ looked over to his companion. “I‟m anxious babe,”

he uttered looking around the room. He caressed the gal

clinging to him. “Whadta‟s ya name babe?” Clickity-clack.

“You said it man…it‟s Honey…like honey bee.”

“I‟ll bedt ya dtasdte sweedt and sexsational.”

She looked at him and batted her eyes. “When you‟re

good and ready Superman.”

OJ wasn‟t too eager to please Miss Honey Bee. His

interest was waiting until the right moment to get into Mrs.

Dolmeier‟s room and search it. He didn‟t think much of

Mrs. Rankin; she was too preoccupied with telling

everyone about her grandchildren and her small talk. He

figured anyone so occupied with her thoughts was too

stupid to recognize a large bag of money, let alone money

itself. And, Mr. Talbot‟s and Ean‟s apartment were out of

the question after what he saw and experienced. But, Mrs.

Dolmeier was promising; he hadn‟t yet gone into her room.

At midnight, the hour of enlightenment, the whole house

was illuminated by gaslights. The foyer lights remained off.

The eerie gaslights gave the right ambiance to the festive

occasion, song, dance, booze, banging, and mind-altering

experiences were turned on full force. As Ellsworth often

had said: “A good party has three essential ingredients:

grass, ass and gas.” How little did he know how import the

third element would be at this party?

Ellsworth looked up to the little flames emitting their

ignited lethal vapors and admired the dancing flicker.

Again, Ellsworth was flying high. His clothes seemed to

vanish with every step and gesture he made until he ended

up behind the sofa with a gal of the same frame of

mind―blownout.

114

The noise was chaotic as it always has been in the past.

The house was vibrating to the full blast of the audio

system. Mr. Tall was nervously anticipating the worst as he

howled the night away hoping the ruckus downstairs

wouldn‟t encroach upon his domain. But, in Mrs.

Dolmeier‟s room, sensual heavy breathing was the

obsession. Mrs. Dolmeier, somehow, had acquired a

willing participant. He was high and flying, and she was

taking advantage of the prize she brought upstairs. The man

was naked, she was naked, and they were enraptured in

their gluttonous ecstasy.

Finally, OJ decides to depart from his hooked feline

companion and venture onto the second floor to search

Mrs. Dolmeier‟s room, since he had noticed her earlier

taking part in the party. But, what he didn‟t realize, she and

her companion had returned to her room.

He entered quietly as a cat slinking toward a mouse.

The room was dark except what was coming from the

window. His keen sense of hearing caught the sigh of

heavy breathing. Not knowing what to think of the heavy

gasps of air in rhythmic unison, he felt around the room. He

took no notice from the squeal of bedsprings Mrs. Dolmeier

and companion made as they rocked to the rhythm and

vibration downstairs. He continued to search. An empty

frame on the wall caught his keen eyes. It caught his

curiosity, and reached through the frame. The hole was

real. Down reaching deep, he felt paper tickle his fingertips.

Grabbing and pulling out wads of money, he reached

further in pulling out more. In a gush of excitement, he

blurted as if he just struck the mother- load,

“EUREKA…eureka I‟ve found it.”

Suddenly, the heavy breathing and rocking bedsprings

came to an abrupt halt. “Wha‟,” came from the other end of

the room on the bed. OJ turned and saw two people pulling

away from each other in surprise.

Mrs. Dolmeier shouted, “Who are you? What are you

doing here…in my room?”

“Uh…uh,” said OJ.

Standing up, pulling the sheet from the bed and

wrapping it around her, Mrs. Dolmeier turned on a table

light. The naked man gasped, “Wha‟ the…,” he said, “shit.”

Then he fell back on the bed and covered his face.

Mrs. Dolmeier noticed her money OJ held in his hands

and shouted, “What are you doing with my money?”

“Your money,” said OJ.

“Yes, my money. Now put it back or I‟ll call the police.”

“No you won‟t you bitch.” He turned and started to rip

open the wall. More money came pouring out. “You got it

all, don‟tcha bitch? You got all the money.”

Hysterical, Mrs. Dolmeier rushed to stop OJ. She

became tangled in the sheet. She stumbled, falling and

hitting the floor with her fist swinging like a windmill.

“You bastard,” she screamed, “You‟re taking all my

money…it‟s mine…you hear…MINE…not yours.”

“Fuck you…bitch. It‟s now mine.”

Little did anyone realize at that moment, with all the

commotion and partying going on, someone decided to

play with one of the flickering gas flames along the

stairwell. It of course went out, and the person walked

away from the extinguished flame not being fascinated with

it any longer. As the hall filled with gas vapor, one of the

festive fellows stoked up his pipe with a fresh batch of

cannabis, lit up next to the extinguished gas sconce. Then

all of a sudden, the room became literally aglow in a

fireball―VAWOOM.

Anyone and everyone in the stairwell, foyer and second

floor were truly enlightened. Moments later, not one person

in the main part of the house was clothed―suddenly; all

became well equipped as Adam and Eve, but less endowed.

Everyone who was coherent ran here and there to escape

the engulfing inferno. Those who were victims of grandeur

were not so lucky. They had reached the ultimate of

heavenly heights.

At the time of the incineration, fate was on my side, I

was on a date with Sierra Nevada. After we had seen a

movie and had an after the movie bite, I decided to bring

her to the house to witness one fantastic glorification of

life, the party to end all parties.

When we rounded the corner, it turned out to be just

that, the house was in total flames. People were running in

all directions, most were nude. The fire department came

roaring up and down the streets. It seemed the whole area

had turned into sirens and chaos. I stood there looking at

the inferno stunned. It was as if a bomb just hit me.

“I can‟t believe it. The house is on fire,” I uttered

turning to Sierra.

Sierra said, “Is that were the party is?”

Stunned, all I could say was, “Yeah.”

“I guess that ends that.”

Again, I said, “Yeah.”

She said, “Do you live there?”

“Yeah.”

She laughed, “I guess you don‟t now.”

Chuckling, what could I have said but, “Yeah.”

I was so stunned and shocked; I think the only thing I

said that night was…yeah.

“Would you like to stay the night at my place?” she said.

Of course, what else could I have said but, “Yeah.”

Still giggling, she said, “I guess that‟s that.”

“H-he-yeah,” I chuckled.

115

That night I felt like crying. The whole weekend I felt like

crying. The next day, Saturday, Sierra and I walked over to

Hoover Street to see what was left of the old house. It was a

shambles. Since it was wood frame, nothing remained but

ashes and a few chard studs sticking up here and there. The

cellar was filled with burnt debris, and the water boiler

stuck out from the ash. Amazingly, the boiler was still

intact and functioning. Steam was spewing from it like an

endless geyser. Nothing else was recognizable. There

weren‟t any Tiffany stained glass windows either. The

leading melted and so did the glass. The mezzanine

windows and the dome would all have been a great treasure

to any collector.

The strangest thing of all, in the midst of this entire rebel

was this fellow ramping and raving as if he were talking on

the telephone. Out loud and clear as a bell, I could hear him

say, “Now listen here Oliver…it just doesn‟t make sense.

This whole thing is a shambles. The world is a shambles.

And to tell you the truth, I feel like I‟m heading in same

direction.” He paused looking at the phone receiver and

continued his conversation, “No don‟t hang up on me

Oliver. What I‟ve got to say is important. I tell you, the

world as we know it is coming to an end. Do you believe

it? I tell you, it‟s the truth. Everything‟s a shambles.”

Pausing. “What?” said the mime. “The idiot hung up on me

again. Shit. I don‟t believe it. It‟s just like when I got that

award…who in the world would ever believe I‟d get that

award, since I was put on the „black-ball‟ list years ago.

And they still gave me that award. I just don‟t get it.

Everybody is crazy. The world is crazy. I‟m beginning to

believe…I‟m crazy.”

Mr. Baktlfahrt was standing on the sidewalk looking at

the house, shaking his head and muttering. I couldn‟t

understand him; he was speaking Yiddish.

Finally, he turned to Sierra and me. “Vhat dyou t‟inks

Mr. Homes…pretty sad huh?”

What could I say but, “Yeah.”

Sierra squeezed my hand and snickered under breath.

Mr. Baktlfahrt said, “Dyou know zhat house had lotza

money in it. It had real Tiffany stained glass vindows. Real

Tiffany. Real. And zhat‟s no lie…zha real stuff.”

I uttered, “Yeah.”

Sierra squeezed my hand again and giggled.

There were several bodies found in the rebel as far as

they could make out. They couldn‟t be identified; their

remains were completely chard. As Mr. Baktlfahrt said,

“Like krispie- little-kritters…all…ashes to ashes.”

And I still said, “Yeah.”

116

Later that morning, Dr. Langweilig came back and couldn‟t

believe what he saw. When he came up to the house and

saw the condition, his mouth dropped open so wide he

couldn‟t speak a word but, “Uh, yeah!” Putnam, his friend

never got the lowdown on what was Dr. Langweilig‟s last

adventure. Putnam ended up in a hospital for three weeks

with minor burns. By the time he got out, Dr. Langweilig

had gone back to Chicago. But, I did find out about his

research into alcoholism. I saw him on a TV talk show one

night.

Mrs. Rankin, I never saw again. I‟m sure she took

another cheep room in the neighborhood, so she could talk

about her grand children with all the grannies in the area.

That is if she got out of the inferno.

I heard they suspected that OJ and Mrs. Dolmeier were

incinerated in the firestorm, since they were never located.

Maybe, they were smart and split LA. I‟m sure OJ had a

new assignment, and took another identity.

I did run into Mr. Talbot at MacArther Park one

Saturday afternoon while Sierra and I were in deep

conversation and feeding pigeons. He was truly upset over

all his newspaper catching fire. He told us: “They just went

up in one big fireball.” It was all he could do to get down

the back stairs and out of the house.

I asked him about Dawg and Kitzi. He didn‟t know what

they were doing, since nobody returned to the house after

that weekend. If they ended up in the hospital as so many

did, they weren‟t released for several days or months

depending on the severity of their burns.

Nobody ever heard from or about Mike and Moe. The

fire marshal said they might have gone up with the house

too. They weren‟t sure how many perished in the fire, since

it was so violent; it was hard to tell from what was house

from human.

* * *

117

After two weeks, I regained normalcy, at least somewhat. I

wasn‟t bothered by the house going up in smoke so much.

Nor was I bothered by the people who might have been

incinerated. Or by the money OJ was looking for. It was

my relationship with Mr. Tall. He, like everything else in

the house blew away with the smoke. Like my folks did

from the death-tree―poof away with the wind, never to be

seen again by me or anybody else.

I‟m sure Mr. Tall was around somewhere looking for his

lost love. I‟ve never found out why he really wanted to

stay, rather than cross over. I don‟t think he was just

waiting for her. I really don‟t know. Such is life they say.

It‟s as if what comes is, and there‟s nothing you can do

about it.

I found a new pad. It‟s not too far Sierra Nevada‟s

apartment, which makes it convenient and easier to see her.

It‟s nice to have someone you can relate too.

Lately, we go down to Little Tokyo for lunch and have a

bowl of rice and just talk and talk. Sometimes after work,

we find ourselves doing the same thing before we go home.

I haven‟t done much writing at home lately. As I said,

the house and everything went up in smoke, so did my

computer and all my saved memory discs. I‟m reluctant to

buy a new one just yet; I‟m still in shock over my loss. The

only thing that has saved my mind from going wacko was

that I periodically put all my writings on the Internet.

Otherwise, I‟d be totally lost.

Anyway, Sierra was taking up my free time, and getting

back to writing isn‟t one of my priorities right now. I still

feel like I‟m lost and don‟t have any direction where to go.

Maybe there will be a story in Sierra―an adventure of

some sorts into the reaches of unknown territories yet to be

discovered―the hills and valleys I‟m sure.

118

As luck would have it, I ran into Ellsworth Bunk. He told

me he was off to adventures unknown. He scored one more

time. He happened to have escaped the disaster, being

catapulted out the back door and rolling down the hill

where the beer tsunami ended up. Retired now from the

mob, as they like to say, he was put out to pasture. Later I

got a letter from him. He was fulfilling a long life dream on

some far away tropical island, sitting on a deckchair

sipping piña-coladas as he gazed at the luxury yachts out in

the bay, and watching the voluptuous tits bounce by, and

taking a drag off a roach and thanking God for a wonderful

life.

119

Across the plane to the other side of hysteria, Russ and

Bibbie enjoy their success. But Bibbie still had reservations

about what Russ‟ role was. About all Russ did was count

money, bank it, and bragged about how he made it rich―of

course on the back of one talented madam. Why she kept

him was still a mystery to her. But then, he did mind the

shop, one successful brothel hidden away in the hills above

Carson City, Nevada.

On occasion, Russ did work. The mob realized what a

boon they acquired, and called on him to do special

projects that required his talent―a hit now and then.

120

Somewhere in the Eastern planes of Montana, on a lonely

road going nowhere into infinite distance and emptiness,

sits a lonely wood frame batten-and-board building that

provides gas service and vitals for hunters and fishermen or

travelers going to the Rocky Mountain resorts. On both

sides of the road, prairie grass could be seen for miles. An

occasional windmill pops up here and there. Periodically,

cattle, buffalo or caribou graze through the area.

The service station is a typical frontier type structure

with a covered porch and sign running the length of the

roof. Outside the structure are three gasoline pumps—

regular, regular plus and ultimate grades. The sign over the

porch reads: „TAP d‟HAT.‟ Under the name are the words:

General Store, Emporium and Fortifications. And under

that in small italic letters: Everything and anything to keep

you in good sprits. Outside, along the building‟s surface are

signs that post sales of ammunitions and canned fishing

bate for the forgetful sportsmen.

Inside the general store are shelves displaying goods. A

large table features on-sale goods. As you come into the

store, there is a cast iron potbelly Franklin stove with chairs

around it. During the cold part of the year, the stove is

continently stoked, keeping the place warm from the bitter

cold winters and the Northerns coming down from Canada.

The store is a very popular place for the locals and

wanderers looking for items forgotten. Many get involved

in conversation with the new owners. Travelers will stop,

gas up, spend time around the Franklin before traveling on,

and give their opinion about life―a must by the one owner.

It was the dead of winter. The weather was bitter cold

outside. The sun going down in the distance looked cold

blue and had a blue hazy ring around it. There was no snow

on the ground, only frost.

The Tap d‟Hat was warm and comfy inside, Mike

explained the meaning of all that had transpired. “It‟s this

way Moe. We got the money. We‟re rich. We bought this

little general store along the highway. We renamed it in

memory of Josh. And we‟re scot-free. What more do you

expect out of life?”

“I still think somethin‟s goinna happen to us…me.”

Asche was coiled on Moe‟s lap; he caressed her. She

purred strong and loud.

“Look Moe, nobody knows who we are. And nobody

knows where we‟re at, or if we‟re dead or alive. I made

sure when we got to Omaha and made that change, we‟d be

safe and out of harms way. To tell you the truth, I really

don‟t think nobody really gives a damn.”

Moe uttered, “You think so. I don‟t.”

But Mike didn‟t pay any attention to what Moe said and

continued his dissertation. “Everybody in the area thinks

we‟re the greatest thing to come along since the invention

of the still. You can‟t ask for anything better. That‟s just

the way it was Moe. Life is just life, good or bad, it comes,

it goes, and we finally got it. It‟s great to be alive. You

know what I mean Moe.” Moe nodded. “What comes is,

good or bad, better or worse…don‟t you get it? We got it

made.”

“Yeah, but I still think somethin‟s goinna happen and

we‟re goinna be fish bate for sharks.”

“You can look at it that way Moe, but I‟ll tell ya…I had

it once and somethin‟ did happen…I lost it due to a freak of

nature. And when I had it, I had a lot of problems. The

more you have the more problems you get. It‟s all

relative…shit hits the fan for the rich too…only it‟s more.

We just get a little bit; they get the whole septic tank. It‟s

all about what comes. Nothin‟ else. Life is life…it‟s all

relative, and how you can handle it. Otherwise, it all goes

poof to the wind.” He looked at Moe. “I‟m tellin‟ya; I‟ve

been there and back.”

Moe took another swig from his Johnny Walker Blue

Label, sighed and belched. “Oh well, hic…I guess so. But I

still think…” He noticed a car pulling up along side the gas

pumps outside. Asche, startled by Moe‟s sudden

movement, jumped off his lap and darted behind the

counter.

The door rattled open. Moe and Mike looked up. A large

burly man opened and held the door for a smaller man. The

small man walked under the arm of the taller man. Cold

wind gushed in. The door slammed shut. The two men

wore black heavy winter overcoats with fur collars. They

removed their overcoats and flung them on the chairs by

the Franklin. They were dressed in pinstriped suits, black

shirts with white ties, and wearing heavy flannel fedoras.

They flipped their hats on top of their overcoats. The taller

man was six foot six, three feet wide shoulders, and looked

like he could be a center for the Pittsburgh Steelers, if not

the Dallas Cowboys.

The other man was short, thin, about five feet three, and

talked out of the side of his mouth with a mousy squeak.

He was smoking a Cuban „Esplendido,‟ and dangled it

between his teeth as he exhaled smoke.

The bigger fellow said in a deep nasal gruff voice, “I

wantsa speaka widta proprietor. Is da man in?”

Mike‟s eyes grew large; he couldn‟t believe what he

saw. The two men looked like something that came out of a

„B‟ grade movie from the thirties. Moe cowered; he was

uncertain what would happen next. He feared the worse

from the two ominous men in black pinstripe suits.

Stuttering and stammering, Moe said, “C-c-can we

helpya with somethin‟ s-sirs, uh sir, uh…y-you?”

The smaller man said “Yeah…weza looks…a…for

some-a sharka-bate…youza gotsome?”

Mike uttered, “Ohhhhh…shiiiiiit!” His eyes crossed.

Moe froze, and uttered, “ung.”

The big burly man said, “Whatsa wrong widtcha

guy…you gotsa problem.” His eyes darted back and forth

between Mike and Moe.

The small mousy fellow said, “Youza da pro-prie-tor?”

He pointed to Moe in the way one points a gun after

drawing it from the hip. He turned to Mike. “Or isa you da

pro-prie-tor?”

“Uh, uh, yeah…we two own the store…yeah.”

“Weza lookin‟ for a sharka-bate…youza gotsome?”

“How much?” said Mike.

“Oh, about da…two milliona dollas worta.”

Moe passed out. Mike looked over to Moe and started to

attend to him when the little mousy guy said pointing his

finger like a gun, “Hold it dhere…stoppa…don‟ta move.”

Mike peed in his pants, looked up to the ceiling and

said, “Oh shit,” and thought: shit is shit just like life is life,

and we got it straight in the face…the whole septic tank.

“What's da matta dude…sometin‟s wrongs witdcha?”

“Uh…uh, no…of course not…I‟m okay…we‟re okay.”

“Okaaaaay,” said the taller man. “Weza wantsa

sharkabate or two milliona in Jacksons, Franklins, and

Grants. A whicha it gonna be?”

Mike poops his pants.

The little mousy guy sniffs the air. “Whatsa dhata smell?

It smells a like a somebody make a dump.” He threw his

gun finger at Mike. “You didn‟t do da shits did ya?”

Mike uttered, “Probably smell cows…this is country.”

“Is dhata whata tiz…huh…country…cows?” Turning to

his partner. “I knewd I‟da hate da country. I knew I‟da hate

dhisa job.” He turned to Mike.

“Da only t‟ing dhatsa good about cows isa when dhayza

served bloody rare and hot…dhen dhaya don‟t smella like a

country or da fresha dump.” He squinted at Mike.

Mike uttered, “That‟s country for ya.”

The big bury fellow pointed his finger at Mike and said,

“Whatsa it goinna be guys…sharka-bate or t‟ree-mil…” He

reached inside his coat. “…or weza goinna…”

Mike said, “What‟s the…” He watched the small mousy

guy reach into his coat as if to withdraw a gun. “…or

wwe… w-what?”

The mousy guy said, “Weza makesa a deal.”

“W-w-what‟s the deal?”

“Youza duza our laundry.”

121

It was early morning and the Franklin was happy blazing

away with just stoked wood Mike threw in. The cozy little

general store was warm and toasty. The place was filled

with an aromatic smell of fresh ground coffee brewing; a

daily must for travelers coming in from the bitter cold.

Mike took an occasional glance outside. The morning sun

still hadn‟t come over the horizon. Along the eastern plane,

the sky began taking on a purple tinge. It reminded Mike of

buffalo roaming and their little home on the range.

Finally pulling himself out of bed, Moe heard Mike

singing in the kitchen. For the last hour, Mike had been up

preparing the day. He was singing „Home on the Range.‟

Coming up beside Mike, Moe joined him and bellowed out

off-key, „Stars and Stripes Forever.‟ For a minute or two,

they sung off-key to each other as if it were a duet.

Mike turned back to making scrambled eggs for the two

of them. On the two plates was a pile of steaming

homefried potatoes. For the first time in Mike‟s life, he

didn‟t drink the usual hooch to give him a jumpstart for the

day, he filled a tall glass of orange juice spiked with vodka

provided by the Montana Laundry Service Inc. Mike kissed

his gift from the MLS Inc and continued making breakfast.

After breakfast, they sat around the Franklin talking.

Moe occasionally tossed a stick into the Franklin‟s belly.

They waited for the travelers to stop by for coffee and a

little libation, compliments of the MLS Inc, to warm up the

chill outside.

As always, Mike told Moe his never-ending dissertation

on life, liberty, and the pursuit of „it don‟t make no diff.‟

“You see Moe; things turn out for the good. If you do

good…good things happen. It‟s just like that. The bad has

to balance out with the good. You understand?”

Moe nodded, but didn‟t really pay any attention to Mike.

“It‟s like this…if it don‟t, problems happen. It‟s just like

what happened the other day. We thought we were goinna

be ready for deep-six.”

Moe interjected, “Shark-bate.”

“Right. But we didn‟t. They came to make a deal, and it

worked out in our favor…their favor…both our favors…a

win-win situation.”

Moe mulled over what Mike just said. “You know Mike;

we‟ve known each other for a long time.” Mike agreed

nodding his head. “And I‟ve noticed too you are one smart

dude.” Mike agreed again. “And I was just thinkin‟. How in

the world do you come up with the right answers all the

time…every time?”

“Well it‟s easy my chum…it‟s like puttin‟ two and two

together and comin‟ up with one.”

Moe poured his favorite Blue Label Johnnie Walker into

his coffee and stirred it around. “I‟m not all that convinced

if you‟re right about what happened the other day…but it

does appear to pan out that way.” He took another sip.

Mike put his hands behind his head and positioned his

feet on the Franklin. “It‟s a one-hundred percent win-win

situation…like I said. What‟s the big deal?”

“I don‟t think everything is one-hundred percent like

you say Mike.”

“How‟s that Moe?” He returned a frown.

“There has to be a little consequence in there

somewhere…it can‟t all be positive like you say. It‟s like

my old man was constantly drummin‟ into me…there are

liabilities and benefits to everything.” He paused, taking a

sip from his coffee flavored Johnnie Walker Blue Label

whiskey. “I‟d like to know what and if what the liabilities

are. I don‟t see any and don‟t trust MLS Inc all that much.”

Mike pondered what else he could add to his never-

ending dissertation. He stopped, rolled his eyes and said,

“If you look at it that way Moe, the liability is we have to

work seven days a week…twelve months a year,

nonstop…for the rest of our lives. And I may add…twenty-

four seven.”

Moe took a sip, swirled it around in his mouth,

swallowed, and licked his lips. “Mmmm…what about the

benefits…what are the benies Mike.” He raised his coffee

cup, took another sip to watch Mike‟s intellectual

expression fill his face.

Mike reflected for a moment then said, “The benies as

you say Moe…is we get to drink as much hooch as we

like…non-stop forever…until we die.”

Moe said, “I‟ll toast to that. Now, that sounds like a gift

from God.”

“Amen, and that‟s one-hundred percent…twenty- four

seven for the rest of our lives.”

Punkt-Ende-Punkt

About EN Heim

Presently living in Germany, EN came with the intention to

escape the SoCal (Southern California) heat. He found the

clean Keltic environment more suited to his character than

the chaotic rush of LA. On occasion, he does venture back

to see his progeny.

From his modest home in Germany, he awakes every

morning to cackles, moos, oinks, and meows, forcing his

bod to launch another productive day.

After a pot of coffee to give his gray matter a jumpstart,

he settles down to his computer to tap away another s tory

based on his past.

EN lives in an obscure out of the way place in Franconia,

nestled between rolling hills, covered with barely fields

waiting to ripe and be brewed into Germany‟s best.

EN‟s third completed book “Charlie‟s House” is

reminiscent of his early days going to school in Los Angeles

during the late 1950s.

All events did take place, of course with creative license.

The Shalimar house did exist on Hoover Street, and all the

characters, including one ghost was real. The other ghost is

questionable.

Charlie, please go to sleep. The book is finished.

Author’s Note

Those who are interested in contacting me please go through

my email: en.heim@yahoo.com, that way you will get

answers to your questions promptly, provided you are

serious and not just to put me on your mailing list. Life is

short for me, and I don‟t want to be burden with twaddle. I

get enough of that from my family, relatives, and friends.

Please tell me how you liked the story, but don‟t give me

„this is what I would do‟ palaver. These events did take

place and I can‟t change that. That‟s life.

If there are any typos, grammatical errors, please let me

know about them too, so I can get them changed pronto like.

I read a lot of books, and I know how it looks when you run

across errors. I hate them as much as anybody else does. But

that‟s life. It‟s all about changes whether we like it or not.

Other books by EN Heim

Upshot

Let‟s Clone It!

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