I’d had breakfast not more than two hours ago so the urgency to eat again just wasn’t there. I had approached several people in the courtyard but couldn’t summon up the courage to ask for money. It just didn’t seem right. I moved back out onto the boulevard and crossed the street at the corner, this time heading east on Hollywood. I passed a travel agency and a hair salon before coming up to the Masonic Temple steps.
The Masons had long ago ceased to occupy the historic building and it was eventually bough by Disney and turned into a studio to accommodate a late-night talk show host. Next to the steps, in between two of the columns there was a cement platform where I spotted a young man sitting there playing a guitar. The guitar player had his case open and I could see that the young man had managed to collect three or four dollars in change just for playing a few well-chosen tunes.
“Looks like you’ve had a pretty good day so far,” I said.
“Not bad for a hour’s worth of strumming,” the guitarist said, still playing the song he’d started.
“How much can you make doing this?” I asked.
“Oh, I suppose on a good day I can pull in twenty, twenty-five bucks,” he said. “It’s a living.”
“Wish I had something to give you,” I said. “You’re pretty good.”
The guitar player finished the song and set his guitar aside. He reached into the case and plucked three quarters from the bottom and held them out toward me. I looked down at the change and then back up at the kid.
“Go on,” the kid said. “Take it. You need it more than I do.”
I waved him off. “Thanks, but you keep it,” I said. “You earned it.” I turned to walk away and heard the kid start another familiar song on the guitar. The music faded as I walked further along Hollywood Boulevard.
Twenty-five minutes later I found myself several blocks east of Vine Street and noticed that the throngs of people thinned out down on this end of the boulevard. I decided to see what Sunset Boulevard had to offer and walked two blocks south. On Sunset I headed back west again, taking in the sights and sounds and smells on the street. I remembered as a boy watching a television show called 77 Sunset Strip and wondered where that address actually was. I looked at the street numbers on the buildings. In this block the building had numbers in the 6300 range. I remembered that the Chinese Theater was somewhere in the 6900 block of Hollywood Boulevard. I also knew that Sunset Strip was west of where I was standing so it would be reasonable to assume that the numbers would only get higher the further west I went. A number as small as 77 would be miles to the east, if it even existed at all, and the place of television fame would end up with an address of something like 8500 or 8600 Sunset Boulevard.
I walked for another thirty minutes, taking in all I could of my surroundings and trying to get into the character of a homeless man. It was difficult since I’d never actually experienced homelessness. Regardless, there were not enough people on Sunset to justify spending any more time there so I walked north and found Hollywood Boulevard again.
It was getting on to eleven and my stomach was beginning to rumble. I walked past a pizza place that offered pizza by the slice. My mouth began to water as the pizza aroma sifted through my nostrils. I stopped and looked into the window. I could see the man making the pizza right there before my eyes. The man kneaded the dough, stretched it out and twirled it in the air. Then he’d spread on the sauce, sprinkle on the shredded cheese and other ingredients and finally he’d shove it into the oven on the end of a long wooden paddle.
My hand shot for my pocket again before I remembered that I had no money on me. If I expected to eat, I’d have to beg. It was a foreign experience for me. I’d always had plenty of money for anything I wanted any time I wanted it. I looked up and down the boulevard for a likely candidate who might take pity on me and let loose with some spare change. I saw an older woman dressed to the teeth and she was carrying a small dog in one arm. I stepped alongside of her and walked along at the woman’s pace. I turned to the woman, somewhat embarrassed.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, “But I was wondering if you could spare a little bit of money for a guy who’s down on his luck.” I held my hand out, palm up.
The woman looked at me as if a cockroach had just crawled onto her dinner plate. She tried to ignore me and just kept walking.
I stopped and let her go on her way, but couldn’t resist calling after her, “So that would be a no, then?”
She kept staring straight ahead and picked up her pace somewhat. I saw a man about my own age coming from the other direction and fell into step with him.
“Sir,” I said with as much humility as he could muster, “Could you spare some money for lunch?”
“Get a job,” the man said without even breaking step.
This was going to be harder than I had imagined. I’d have to be a little subtler and try a new approach if I expected to eat that day. I stood in one spot, waiting for the perfect candidate to come along. I let several people pass whom I didn’t think would give me the time of day, let alone any money. Then I spotted a plump teenage girl in slacks and a loose-fitting blouse. She might soften to my pleas.
“Good morning,” I said, smiling at the girl. “Would you happen to have a quarter I could borrow? I need to make a call and I’m fresh out of change. It’s very important or I wouldn’t bother a lovely young lady like you. Oh, please.”
And the girl stopped right there on the sidewalk and looked at me. “All you need is a quarter?” She said, digging a hand into her purse.
“That would help me out a lot,” I said.
She produced a quarter from a small pocketbook in her purse and handed it to me. “There you are.” She closed the purse and continued on her way.
“Thank you so much,” I said to the back of the girl’s head as she walked away.
The girl just waved without looking back, but I noticed that she too had sped up her pace as she walked away. I looked down at the quarter and smiled. If I could score like this with every tenth person who came past me, by the end of the day I’d have enough for a meal and coffee, too.
Back in his real world, I wouldn’t have even stopped to pick up a quarter if it was lying on the sidewalk. Right now, it seemed like a lot of money. But there still wasn’t much I could buy with it and I knew I’d have to step up my game.
I thought up a new approach and knew just the kind of person it might work on. And there she was. The woman looked to be in her late twenties, well dressed with perfect hair. I straightened myself up as much as I could and stepped up to the woman, who’d stopped to look in a store window.
“Excuse me, young lady,” I said politely, “But not more than twenty minutes ago I was mugged and they got my wallet. I was wondering if I could trouble you for a dollar until I can get back home. And if you’ll give me your address I’ll be sure to send your dollar back to you right away.”
The woman turned to me. “You were mugged?” she said. “My goodness. Did you call the police?”
“I couldn’t even do that,” I said. “They took all my money, even my pocket change. I’m just glad they didn’t hurt me.”
The girl opened her purse and looked in her wallet. She didn’t have any single dollars but found nearly two dollars in change and handed that to me. “I’m sorry I don’t have any dollars, but will this help?” She watched as I counted the change. There was a dollar eighty-seven there.
“Oh yes,” I said gratefully. “Now at least I can call for a ride home. Thank you so much, young lady. If you would just write down your name and address, I’ll return your money to you when I get home.”
The young woman closed her purse. “That won’t be necessary,” she said. “You just go on and make your call. I don’t need it back.” She didn’t mind helping out a fellow human being in need, but she surely was not going to let this stranger know where she lived. “Good luck,” she said, walking away.
I now had two dollars and twelve cents in my pocket. This could work
out after all, I thought. Another few bucks and I’d be set for the rest of the day. As I walked further along Hollywood Boulevard, I saw a young man with an armful of papers neatly folded under his left arm. The man had one of the papers in his right hand and was waving it overhead at passing cars.
I watched as a car stopped and the passenger side window rolled down. A man reached over to the window and handed the man with the papers some money and the got a paper in return before continuing down the street. I watched as the paper selling man pocketed the money he’d just received and plucked another paper from under his arm. He held the new paper up again, waving at passing cars.
I approached the young man. “Which paper are you selling?” I said.
Without looking back the young man said, “The L.A. Free Press.”
I was puzzled. “If it’s the Free Press, why aren’t you giving it away?” I said.
“That’s just the name of the paper,” the man explained. “You still have to pay for it.”
“How much is it?” I asked.
“Fifty cents,” he said. “You want one?”
“No thanks,” I said. “I was just wondering what you do when you run out of papers.”
“I go and get some more,” the man explained.
“And what do they cost you?” I asked.
The man lowered his hand and turned toward Philip. “If I tell you, will you go away and leave me alone?”
“Sure,” I said.
“They don’t cost me anything,” the man explained. “The printer gives them out for free to anyone who wants to sell them.”
“Then how can he make any money doing that?” I said.
“They make their money from the ads people put in this rag,” the guy said.
“And how much of the fifty cents do you get to keep?” I asked.
“All of it,” the man said. “Now will you go away and let me sell my papers?”
“Just one more question,” I said. “Where can I get some of these papers? I’d like to try selling some myself.”
“I’ll tell you,” the man said, “But you have to promise to find some other place to sell. This is my territory.”
“Not a problem,” I said. “I can go anywhere else, just tell me where to get a stack of these papers for myself.”
The young man turned back toward me and pointed up the street. “Three blocks up that way, turn left one block and it’s the little metal shed with the double doors on the front. There’ll be a guy there with bundled stacks all ready to go.”
“Thank you very much,” I said, hurrying off up the block in search of my slice of free enterprise, literally.
I found the metal shack and just as the young man had promised, there was a short balding man sitting on a stack of papers. Behind him stood dozens of other stacks neatly tied with twine. When he saw me walking toward him, he got up off his stack of papers, turned around and grabbed another stack by the twine.
“You waiting for these?” the bald man said.
I nodded. “And these are free? All I have to do is sell them?”
“That’s right,” baldy said. “If you run out, come on back and get some more. I’ll be here until four or until I run out of papers.”
I took the stack from baldy, tucked it under my arm and said, “Thanks. Thanks a lot. I should have no trouble selling these and I’ll be back for more. You just wait and see.”
“I hope you do,” baldy said, sitting on his paper stack once again.
I hurried back to the boulevard, untied my bundle of papers and held one up, waving at the cars that drove past his spot. It didn’t take but a minute for the first car to stop and roll its window down. I handed the man a paper, collected his fifty cents and thanked the driver. My mental calculator told me that I now had two dollars and sixty-two cents to my name. This was going to be easy, I thought.
I repeated the paper waving gestures twenty-four more times that afternoon before I ran out of papers. It was only two-thirty and I was sure I could sell another stack of papers before the end of the day. I had nearly fifteen dollars in my pocket as I hurried back to the metal shack for another stack of free papers.
By quarter to three I had sold out of my second stack of papers and the wad in my pocket had now grown to just over twenty-seven dollars. I was tired and hungry but I felt satisfied for having earned all the money in my pocket. Back in my real world, I could easily spend the whole twenty-seven dollar and more on one meal. Hell, there’d been times when I’d tipped that much.
I hurried back up the boulevard to the pizza place and bought a slice of cheese and sausage pizza. It had cost me one dollar and seven cents, including tax. I wanted another, but held back, knowing my money wouldn’t last long at a place like this. Instead, I walked further up the street and turned onto one of the side streets. There I saw a shop with a large window looking out onto the street. The sign above the window told me that this was a secondhand clothing store. Fascinated, I walked in and looked around at the selection of used clothes hanging on racks throughout the store.
I looked down at my present ensemble with disgust. Halfway through the store, I saw one rack with nothing but used suits on it. Back in my world, I’d thought nothing of spending four or five hundred dollars for a new suit. I was surprised to find suits hanging on the rack here for a mere five dollars. I sorted through the racks, looking for a subtle suit in my size. I found a black suit that looked several years out of date and wondered where the original owner was at this very moment. Perhaps he was laid out in one of his other suits and was now residing at Woodlawn Cemetery or some other suitable place.
I took the suit into the fitting room and shed my rags. I slipped into the second-hand suit, buttoned it up and looked at myself in the mirror. Not a bad fit. I walked back out into the store and found the shirt rack. There, hanging with hundreds of other shirts, I found a white shirt in my size and held it up. Yes, this would do nicely and the price tag on it was only a buck. I also found half a rack full of ties of all widths and designs. I plucked a plain burgundy tie from the rack, noted the fifty cents tag on it and carried it and the shirt back into the fitting room. I slipped out of the suit jacket and the grungy shirt Hugh had brought to my office and slipped into the white shirt, sliding the tie around my neck and securing it with a double Windsor knot.
In the mirror I saw a new man emerging from the grime. I scanned the mirror up and down and stopped at the shoes. The ones I was wearing would never do. Out in the store, I found the shoe aisle and scoured the shelves for a pair of size ten black oxfords. There on the top shelf near the back I saw a pair of wingtip oxfords in black. They looked to be in pretty good condition. I looked inside for the size. It said 10D under the tongue. I sat down on the bench and tried them on. A perfect fit. But those awful socks would have to go.
Next to the shoe display was a display of socks. The new ones cost six dollars for a three pack, but nearby I found a single used pair of plain black socks for twenty-five cents. I slipped out of the old socks and slid these onto my feet. I stepped into the black oxfords again and walked back to the fitting room. I saw a new man in the mirror and with a simple mental calculation, realized that all this could be mine for only eleven dollars and seventy-five cents. That would still leave me with more than fifteen dollars from my paper sales.
I removed all the price tags from the items I’d selected, emptied my old pants pockets of the money I’d earned and carried my old clothes and new price tags up to the register. I handed the clerk the price tags and said I’d be wearing my purchases out of the store. She rang up my total, took my money and gave me a receipt.
“Would you throw these away, please?” I said, holding out my old clothes.
The woman looked at my rolled up bundle of clothes in disgust and did not reach for them. She pointed to a barrel with a plastic bag liner.
“In there,” she said.
I thanked her and left the store feeling more human than I had all day. I hurried back to the boulevar
d, walking west again until I came to a barbershop. I gazed into the window at the poster on the wall and noticed that a shave would cost me ten dollars. Haircuts were even more expensive. This was not an option at this time.
I kept walking until I came to a drug store. I walked in, found the sundries aisle and pulled a three pack of disposable razors off the shelf. They were priced at ninety-nine cents so it was within my budget. I laid the razors on the counter, paid for them and left, searching the neighborhood for a service station with a restroom. I found one on Sunset, asked the attendant for the restroom key and locked myself in.
I hung my coat and tie on the hook attached to the back of the door, unbuttoned my shirt and stared at my grubby image in the mirror. There was a liquid soap dispenser hanging on the wall. I ran my hands under the water, added some soap and rubbed them all over my face, creating a lather any barber would envy.
I scraped away the tree-day growth, rinsed my face and dried it on the paper towels that came out of the wall-hung dispenser. I checked my reflection in the mirror and smiled. This was the Clay Cooper I knew. I buttoned up the shirt again, slipped the tie on, covering it with the suit coat. I straightened my lapels, looked in the mirror one more time and left.
I reached into my pocket and retrieved the fifteen folded dollars I still had left after the wardrobe purchase. I knew exactly what I wanted to do and I didn’t care about the consequences. I hurried to the nearest corner that I found and saw the bench. I sat myself down and waited. In a few minutes a city bus came along and pulled up to the curb.
The banner across the top of the bus told me that this bus was going to Western Avenue. I stayed seated and waited for another bus. Fifteen minutes later I saw the banner he was looking for. It said Downtown. I climbed aboard, gave the driver my fare and took my seat. What normally would have taken me fifteen minutes to drive in my car took closer to an hour. I stepped off the bus on the corner just half a block from my office.
The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories) Page 149