Distances in LA tend to be far. North Hollywood to Beverly Hills was not too bad with a car. A twenty minute ride. I was living with Scottie Taylor in a pool house.
The year 1995. Late spring.
The owner ran a strip club off West Pico Boulevard. The girls sunbathed nude in the mornings. They were Jesus freaks. Scottie and I were sinners in their eyes. We were running a nightclub in Beverly Hills.
The Milk Bar.
Decor very CLOCKWORK ORANGE.
Clientele; young, semi-famous, and druggy.
The naked sunbathers' prayer session interrupted my sleep and I'd stuff my ears with cotton. The Bible was reduced to mutterings. Jesus was not saving my soul. My wake-up hour was noon. Breakfast at a diner. Basketball at North Hollywood Park. A bicycle was my transportation. I had bought it from a junkie on Vineland. He wanted $50. I gave him $20.
Probably $10 too much.
My cousin Sherri lived on Hartsook. I spent my afternoons writing in her house, while she filmed XXX films with lesbians over in Van Nuys. Some of those girls were Jesus freaks too. None of them broke ranks, especially for a nightclub doorman without a car.
No one walks in LA. Only Losers. Walking gets you nowhere. The city is too big. Hitchhiking is illegal. The train system is a work in progress. Buses are the only transportation left for the lower classes.
Scottie had a car.
A mud-colored Pinto. Something was wrong with the steering. The brakes were long overdue for a change. Scottie was my ride to the Milk Bar most nights. We opened at 8.
Scottie and I had a problem.
The Simpson re-runs aired Sundays at 7:30. The show lasted 30 minutes. No one told jokes in LA. No one told stories either. Laughs were hard to find at the Milk Bar. Homer Simpson filled the gap.
"I can't believe you are going to be late for a cartoon show." Scottie only watched the History Channel. He liked to be serious.
"It's not a cartoon. It's the Simpsons. You could always watch it with me."
"I own the club. I have 20 people who work for me. They get there at 8. I get there before them. Otherwise they'll come in late. Like you."
"I don't mind taking the bus." The 420 ran over the Hollywoods Hills to Sunset Boulevard. I caught another bus on the corner. It went to Beverly Hills. The trip took 45 minutes. Sometimes less. Sometimes more. "Besides no one comes until 10."
"You ever think about giving a good impression." Scottie didn't shave. His clothing dated back five years. He was driving a Pinto.
'Not out here." I wasn't trying to be in the movies. My novel was about the last man on earth. Pornography too. Dirty cops. Lesbians. Murder. High-tech sex. I was on chapter 23. 200 pages plus. The end was off in the distance. "I'm on time the nights the Simpsons aren't on."
"What about the nights with Star Trek?" Scottie knew my schedule.
"That's VOYAGER." Seven of Nine was sexier than any of the Bible strippers. "Monday night."
"I can't believe it." Scottie would leave me in the pool house.
I'd sit before the TV. A glass of water in my hand. The clock on the wall ticking its way to 8. It was time for the Simpsons.
Ha ha ha.
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