Homeless, 1988, Part 2

Homeless, 1988, Part 2

 

I made it through Hollywood, as the afternoon light was disappearing, and stood at the eastern border of Beverly Hills where it meets West Hollywood. I looked down at the cracked and decaying road beneath my feet. The differences—between Beverly Hills and the rest of the world—are not only apparent in social and monetary intangibles often spoke of or reported in many tabloids, but are as concrete as the streets that laid before my feet, where the grayed and weathered roads of West Hollywood meet the meticulously tarred streets of Beverly Hills.

I glanced around for a moment looking at the decaying streets of West Hollywood. Above me undernourished trees hung limp from a cool California winter and at my feet gnarled weeds sneaked up from the crevices in the concrete . . . My perspective swung towards the Beverly Hills side, where bordering the streets laid manicured lawns and flourishing emerald green vegetation appearing more like that of a surreal enchanted forest than that of a contemporary city. 

This was the place, where Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks and Charlie Chaplin once lived—a place I passed through often—but, never on foot.  My mind feverishly searched for help . . . Would I get arrested my first night of freedom, or, perhaps this would be how I got my first free meal. But, I wasn't hungry or tired and I felt it best to trek on.  My mine aimlessly meandered . . . Would I meet any stars and pitch them a story?  Would they be enthralled with it? Maybe I'd be working with Arnold or Bobby Di Nero.  Or maybe I'd run into Farrah Fawcett or Morgan Fairchild out walking their dogs.  They'd ask me to come home with them: To stay and have dinner.  Farrah was married to Ryan O'Neal so there could be some problems there; but not with Morgan she was probably alone and in need of some quality companionship.  We'd have a delicious meal cooked by one of her many chefs.  It would probably be something with truffles and a funky French name.  We'd crack open a bottle of 1945 Chateau Mouton she had illegally purchased.  She would say she had saved it for someone as special as me.

I turned down Hillcrest with the hopes of avoiding the police, and with a bit of luck chance upon Morgan somewhere along the route . . . Perhaps I'd find her out picking up her dog's crap in a plastic De Beer's bag that had recently carried home a new pair of diamond earrings.

I passed rows of tall California palms. There warm green and orange tones contrasted by an ocean blue sky. I loved the palms of Beverly Hills.  They reminded me of Florida and the times I spent cruising with Harley along the coast.  They also flooded my thoughts of Rita and me and how the coconut trees at her home were aligned around the mini golf course in her backyard.  Would Morgan be as kind, as sweet, as giving as her? I thought to myself.  Would she have a pool? Probably. And a cabana? Of course.  Would she love me?

"SHIT!" I screamed, angered at my fool's paradise. 

A dog barked.

Was I delusional?  Had I cracked completely over the last couple weeks?  I knew things were getting rough before I left my apartment earlier that day. Had I gone completely mad? I smiled.  Mad is a good thing, people use it as an excuse to commit murder, I reasoned.  Is not insanity the prerequisite for great poetry.  Was not Lee Marvin a drunken lunatic, and Kafka insane as a loon?  I took pride in that moment of recklessness.  There was clarity in my irrational.

A woman stood across the street, a poodle at her side taking a crap.

"Morgan, is that you?" I asked

The woman didn't respond.  The dog continued his task at hand.

It can't be Morgan, I thought.  She'd be over here, hugging me, kissing me, holding me.

I continued to walk and walked most of the night.  No one stopped me, the police, Morgan, Farrah, Ryan or anyone else. 

Eventually, I found a building to lie behind where a Volvo had backed up into a small alley.  I walked behind the vehicle and laid out my bag as a cushion.  I turned to the back of the car; a bumper sticker was starring me in the eyes.  I lit my lighter and held it towards the rear of the vehicle. It said, "Shit Happens." All I could say was “Fuck you!”

I was feeling my father’s affliction for signs and perhaps I was going mad. I laid my head back and looked up through the building's walls that surrounded me. I could see the stars.  "I put'em there," A No. 1's voice spoke to me. I relaxed and fell asleep.

The next morning, the starting of the Volvo’s engine and spewing of carbon monoxide broke my sleep. The car pulled away from my modest lodging and revealed sunlight raking a blue building across the street. Cars and people passed by unaware of me tucked away in the alley.

As I stood up I realized I needed to pee.  I could have relieved myself in the corner, but I considered, perhaps another street wanderer would find sanctuary here on another night.  It wouldn't be right. Besides I had never pissed in any of the shops in Beverly Hills before and now was the perfect opportunity.  I grabbed my bag, held my water and walked out into the light of the pink sunrise.

I came to a shop that was just opening and asked the man at the door if I could use his bathroom.

"It's under renovation." He said.

Knowing this was total bullshit I continued my pursuit.

I found another shop and peered in the window.  People sat around having coffee and reading their newspapers. Poor bastards, I thought to myself. They're probably conditioned to show up here every day, same time, same station. I went to the door and entered. 

No one noticed me as I walked in, except a little girl that gave me a dirty look and ran off. I looked around spotting the REST ROOM sign at the back of the cafe and made my way towards it.  My plastic luggage knocked a table, and a sugar container to the ground.  Most of the patrons looked up for a moment, gawked, and then went back to their routine.  The coffee smelled good, I thought.  And something was baking.  I sniffed the air. Croissants, I considered, ahh, and bacon as well.  A man nearby, not noticing me, stood up pulling cash from his pocket.  He dropped a five-dollar bill on the table near his plate of half eaten rye toast and leftover potatoes. Ummm, breakfast and some pocket change, shot through my mind . . . I reasoned, I'm not that desperate at this point.

A short stocky man can from behind the counter and stood at the corridor entrance to the bathrooms.

"Can I help you sir?" He asked.

Now I really had to piss, and I knew this guy, who resembled a stocky Woody Allen, didn't want me pissing in his bathroom.

"Uh," I said, glancing up towards the menu that hung above the counter.

"Do you have eggs benedict, um, Florentine?"

The man stared for a moment.

"I'll need to ask the chef." He replied.

The chef, I thought to myself. It's morning, he's the cook.  Chefs don't show up till brunch, I smiled.

"Please inquirer, while I use your lavatory," I said.  "I'll need to wash my hands."

He walked behind the counter, as I went to the rest room.

The short man was probably another half-ass actor who had come to Hollywood seeking the dream: to be a star, to be rich, to be famous.  Having taken an acting class or two in Missouri because someone told him he looked like Woody Allen; and now he's waiting on tables and telling people who can and cannot piss in their fuckin' toilets.  Poor schmuck, I thought as I relieved myself.  Maybe I should ask him if he wants to join me on my grand adventure into the bowels of the antagonist called sunny Southern California. 

I walked to the mirror that hung above a stainless steel counter: I didn't look too bad at that point. My clothes were slightly wrinkled from the previous night's sleeping arraignments; I hadn't shaved in a couple of days and the short stubble of a beard gave me a look more GQ than derelict. So what's with this asshole stopping me from pissing? 

"Fuck him," I said out loud.  From a stall, I heard a toilet flush. 

"What's with that asshole stopping a man from a natural body function?" I fumed while exiting the bathroom.

The Woody Allen stand-in approached as I walked past the counter.

"The chef said, no problem," the little actor smirked.

"Fuck this place. Your bathrooms are atrocious,” I complained while exiting.

I stepped outside the place as two older women were approaching the door. I stared at them for a moment, twisted my head slightly, contorted my mouth and smiled strangely hoping they would interpret it as, this crazy fuck wants to cook our skin and eat our livers.  I could see the fear in their eyes as they circled at distance and passed by. My mine's angst relieved, almost calmed by thinking, I finally had some power over these selfish fools. 

The second day of the rest of my life was already promising.  I had pissed in Beverly Hills, told a waiter to go fuck himself, and scared the shit out two pompous bitches who had never worked a day in their lives.  It was good to get out the anger and express myself however I wanted—with no retribution, no judgment—other than, he's fuckin' crazy. It was bliss I had never experienced.  I felt freedom at last.

I strutted west on Santa Monica Boulevard giving pedestrians odd looks and spewing quotes from movies. 

"You know how to whistle don't you," I questioned a guy in a suit. 

"Follow the yellow brick.  Follow the yellow brick road," I sneered to another.

A young man approached.  "Get out of my way son, you're using my oxygen."  The words of R.P. McMurphy echoed in my head: You're not an idiot.  You're not a goddamn looney, now. You're a fisherman!

I was a fisherman—sans a boat, or a future in the film business—walking towards the Pacific Ocean.  I stopped for a moment to reflect.  I felt a freedom I had never experienced before.  Free to go wherever I wanted—or could walk—at anytime . . . Freedom to say whatever I wished.  No bills to pay.  No appointments.  No pressure.  No pain.  I was finally free and I had the greatest excuse in the world: I was as crazy as a fucking loon.