3. 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.
4. 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
6. 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.
7. 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
8. 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-
9. 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
10. 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.
11. 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.
12. 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.
13. 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.
14. 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.
15. 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.
16. 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
17. 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.”
18. 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.
19. “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
20. 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.”
21. 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.
22. 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
23. 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
24. 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.”
25. “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?”
26. “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
27. 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
28. 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
29. 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
30. 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
31. 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
32. 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.
33. “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.
34. “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‟
35. 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
36. 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
37. 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?”
38. “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.”
39. 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
40. 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 nothing to do
41. 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.
42. 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.
43. “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
44. 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.
45. 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!”
46. 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.”
47. 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
48. 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.”
49. “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.
50. 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?”
51. “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
52. 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
53. 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.
54. 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
55. 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
56. 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.
57. 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
58. 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.
59. 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
60. 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.
61. 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.
62. 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
63. 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
64. 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
65. 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, brick,
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
66. 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.”
67. 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.
68. 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.”
69. “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
70. 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
71. 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
72. 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
73. 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.
74. 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.
