by A. J. Albany
jump the bum
There was one other kid at the St. Francis, named LaPrez. He was a nine-year-old mulatto who had a glorious auburn afro and wild green eyes. I was now seven, very pale and suspicious.
Being ingenious street kids, we made up games using what few resources were available to us. Our favorite game was called “Jump the Bum.” Simply put, you would jump over a street bum until he got pissed off enough to make a grab for you or, if he really had some moxie, get up and chase you away. On a bad day, you’d get “dead bums”—too tired or loaded to budge no matter how much you provoked them. One time, LaPrez was midleap over our latest victim when, out of nowhere, the bum pulls out a broken bottle and slashes open LaPrez’s ankle. It took twenty stitches and kept him out of commission for the rest of the summer. On reflection, perhaps it was a cruel game, but most of the bums were good sports, almost looking forward to the attention. It wasn’t like any of us had anything better to do.
LaPrez lived with his mother, a very pretty but badly strung-out hooker. Under the circumstances, I always thought he was a well-adjusted kid—always able to laugh, whereas I was eternally sullen. One night, LaPrez came to our room and asked Dad if he could give him some help with his mother. When he opened the door to their room, she was sitting straight up on a Murphy bed, eyes wide and staring at us, scarf still tied around her arm. She was blue, dead at least an hour.
In the hotel lobby, there was a TV set that three of the resident rummies had total control over, twenty-four hours a day. Usually horse races were on, but for this one fucked-up night, they sat us down on their smelly old-man sofa and let us watch cartoons. LaPrez stared, serious and silent, at the television, and I stared at him. He was staring at Top Cat when the coroners wheeled out his mother, and he did not look up when the police came, inquiring about next of kin (none). Nor did he move when my dad, crying, handed them a bag of his belongings. Then, the cops walked over to him and said something ridiculous like “Come with us, son.” It was then that he turned and looked at me, expectant and drowning, and I did nothing. I could have taken his hand or, even better, told him to run. Maybe we both should have run, but my father was sick and needed me—I could never desert him. After that, I was the only kid at the St. Francis. I was like Eloise without the frills.
feverish
When Mom took off, the one item she left me was her copy of Flowers of Evil. “Love, Mom” was inscribed beneath one of the book’s woodcuts, each woodcut depicting some agonized individual with head held in hands. I didn’t even pick it up for a couple of years, and when I did, my comprehension was minimal. However, I did sense a disturbing connection with the prostitutes and vampires that Baudelaire wrote of. One line that struck a chord in me was “Angel teeming with healthfulness, do you know fever?”
Fever and I were fast friends, courtesy of my chronic asthma. Dr. Byrne often spoke in heavy tones to Dad or Gram, warning them of “possible brain damage,” so prolonged were my fevers. Though it is likely that brain cells were sacrificed during the perpetual illness of my youth, it wasn’t all in vain. A sustained high fever can produce some wild and vivid fantasies. The fiery mirages I experienced were a welcome respite from reality. On one windy night, as I sat in bed watching the shadows of leaves knocking against the window, each leaf began to morph into a miniature witch on a broomstick. These witches proceeded to fly into the room and perform aerial acrobatics, three feet in front of me. After some time, they lined up and flew out as suddenly as they’d arrived. The leaves of the rubber tree turned back into leaves, and so ended the evening’s entertainment. These hallucinations often involved parts of my body. My toes frequently developed faces, each one different and argumentative with each other. The toe people would inquire about my health, ask me to sing a song, wonder how I liked being out of school. “Very much,” was always my reply. When I attempted to read during a spiking fever, the book’s characters would often appear before me and begin acting out the story as it unfolded. It was like having two sets of eyes. I could at once read and direct my attention to the scenarios being played out before me. I had to be careful what I read. The Arabian Nights turned into claustrophobic chaos. I was forced to close the book, only to find that the characters remained, frozen on their horses with swords drawn, wondering what to do next. I pulled the pillows over my head and waited for the fever to break.
I shared these experiences with my father, who had the fearless and fragile heart of a child. “That’s wild—fantastic!” he’d enthuse, as I related my latest adventure. The depth of his sincerity always broke my heart.
corpses
My grandfather died on September 20, 1969. An open-casket service was held at San Fernando Mission. I was there with Dad and Gram, who had her hands full attempting to comfort Grandpop’s second wife, Virginia. He had remarried soon after Gram divorced him. I don’t remember a lot about Virginia. At the funeral Dad looked thoroughly distraught, which I could never comprehend. This was the man who’d killed and cooked my dad’s pet rabbit, then tried to make him eat it. I guess sorrow is a knee-jerk reaction: perhaps we’re crying for what might have been. Dad ushered me over to the waxy corpse and said: “Kiss your grandpop goodbye, honey.” There was no chance of that, and I visibly squirmed and backed away, looking to Gram for support. “It’s the living you should fear, not the dead,” she offered. Didn’t I know it. Dad let it go and gave Grandpop an extra peck on the forehead for me. Even in death, I could feel his tyranny at work in the small room. It seemed to inspire fear in my father.
It was a great relief to me when our “final goodbyes” were at last over, and I could escape from the too-bright room. Though I’d seen LaPrez’s mother’s body only a month earlier, it hadn’t made me feel uneasy like this. Only sad. The sadness of her life carried over to her death. Dad said her soul would fly straight to the bosom of the Virgin Mary. Grandpop, however, was an odds-on favorite to end up in the big boiler room below. Eternal damnation is the stuff of nightmares, and I had plenty of Poe-style nightmares after that day.
the haunted elevator
At night, the hallways of the St. Francis were transformed into foreboding corridors fraught with dangers both real and imagined. At the end of the hall there was a window, and a bare red lightbulb illuminating an exit sign. The few other lights that dotted the walls were inevitably broken or burned out. On our floor, there was a perpetually flickering bulb that created an eerie strobe effect, making the images that crept into my peripheral sight twice as disturbing. You could sense that after dark, anything was fair game. Lawlessness prevailed in the hotel, and you could feel it, an agitated air that seemed to wait outside the door. The best bet was to stay put in the room with every light on, the stereo and TV going, and perhaps even a book to complete your distraction.
I couldn’t stand the sound of the old elevator, which would stop and open randomly at different floors all night, usually without any passengers. Often when I was on it, it stopped between floors, opening up onto a concrete wall. Ralph, resident bookie and one-eyed ex-jeweler, told me it was haunted. In Ralph’s previous life in Vegas, he’d been a jeweler to the mob. Engagement and pinky rings, christening bracelets, brooches for Mama—Ralph was the mob’s choice in Las Vegas. Occasionally, he was called on to unload stolen goods, melting down gold and platinum, recutting gems when necessary. One day Ralph was accused of double-crossing a big-time boss, a story he never denied. The boss sent a couple of goons around to cut his right eye for punishment. His right eye was the tool he relied on the most, whether checking the quality of a piece through his magnifier or doing intricate engraving. His eye couldn’t be saved. He had it removed and replaced with a glass one that the doctor, a back-alley quack, put in backward. All you could see was the white, while the colored iris apparently rolled around in the back of his head somewhere. Dad had asked why he didn’t have it corrected. “Surely they can pop it out and flip it around.” Ralph shook his head: “Joe, it’s my cross to bear. Besides, it’s my inner eye—keeps
tabs on my soul.”
After being washed up as a jeweler, Ralph moved out to L.A., where he made a living betting on the horses, a full-time job that always kept him busy. He’d track a horse’s whole history sometimes, its sire and mare, breeder, trainer. He also had an elaborate theory regarding a jockey’s compatibility with a particular horse that at seven years old I didn’t really understand. We’d sit in the lobby, a racing form between us, and he’d do his best to school me in the science of betting.
The haunted elevator was one of Ralph’s many convictions. He claimed that one night, a former resident who was “real bad news” got on the elevator drunk and pressed two buttons simultaneously, ending up on a floor that exists somewhere between two and three, where likewise dubious characters were destined to dwell for eternity. If that were the case, I thought, three-quarters of the hotel would have been banished long ago to floor 21/2, where I imagined carpets of an undistinguishable, depressing color that stank of century-old Thunderbird, with Welcome to Hell spelled out in cigarette burns. I knew it was bull, but I opted for the stairs after that, being naturally nervous. It was only three stories, but on a bad day, when the smog hung thick, it was a walk rough on my asthma, and I had to stop several times. My preferred option was to stay inside, where no stairs, haunted elevators, or evil fourth dimensions need concern me.
kitty
One day, I was on my own in our room, 312, awaiting the return of the television, which Dad was picking up from Harry’s pawnshop. They were happy occasions, those days when the TV came out of hock, and I was attempting to make a celebratory “hot plate omelette” when a ferocious banging at the door made me stop cold, filled with dread. I felt certain it was trouble calling, and as I tiptoed over to the door to bolt the latch—which I had opened so I could run down the hallway a dozen times, my daily exercise therapy—I saw the knob turn slowly. Quick as a flash, I was out the window, moving down the fire escape. I was crouching on a second-story landing when a venetian blind was pulled up with a loud, rusty squeal that nearly cost me my footing, especially when I saw the woman standing on the other side of the blind. “What the hell?” she croaked, and pulled me into her room. I’m not sure how old she was, maybe early forties. When you’re seven, anyone between the ages of thirty and sixty looks like one universal age somewhere around forty, and that means they’re ready to bury. She had big red teased hair, a couple of chins, frosted pink lips and nails, nicotine fingers, and minimal clothes over maximum flesh. Certainly she’d been through the wringer, but a flame still burned in her dark-ringed eyes. She was Kitty Goldstein, and she worked at the Pussycat Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard. “You’re the kid upstairs with the nice-looking father. What are you doing lurking out there? You could get hurt.” I told her about the stranger at the door, then remembered the hot plate omelette that had probably burned down half the St. Francis by now. Kitty grabbed a kitchen knife and charged up the stairs, an avenging ex-stripper—enough to scare the crap out of anyone.
She burst through our door to find my puzzled father bending over the television, trying to reattach the rabbit ears. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.
“You’ve got fucking nerve leaving a kid alone,” she squawked, and he glanced at me, looking betrayed, while I blurted out my story of a faceless intruder and then noticed that the lousy hot plate must have shorted out, because the eggs were half raw but the switch was still in the on position.
So started a brief union between Dad and Kitty, full of brawling, mad jealousy, and little else. “Get me a piano if you want to make me happy. I can park it right on that roomy ass of yours,” coaxed my charming father. Women always complicated our life, but they never lasted long. Kitty became last year’s news within five months. To her credit, she’d watch me from time to time and could cook decently when she tried. But she was a boozer, and when she got tight, she got nasty. One day when Kitty had finished a fifth of bourbon, she turned on me and said, “I know what you’re thinking—what happened to her? Sure, I suckled at my mother’s breast, and Daddy dear bounced me on his knee, so what?” Well, I hadn’t been thinking that at all, but I wondered about it plenty after that day. When is the moment people give up, and when do others decide to turn away and cut them out?
dracula and the man
To eat Chinese takeout on a pulled-out sofa bed, watching Dracula’s Daughter on the late show, reading magnificent fortune cookie poetry—“Due to your melodic nature, moonlight never misses an appointment”—chain secured on the door, and Dad by my side: surely heaven was a pale place, strictly old hat, when compared with this bliss.
Then the Man would come to the door with his quiet, dead-end knock, poised to piss all over paradise, and I’d look up to check that the dead bolt was bolted. A quick sideways glance at Dad told who would be victorious that evening. I’d tell him, “A vampire can only enter a house if you invite him in.” He’d smile and wrap me in his long arms, whispering that we would not invite the vampire in, and so for this night, his soul would stay intact. Most of the time, my seven-year-old brain could think of nothing clever to say, and the door would be opened. After a short exchange in hushed tones, the inevitable trip to the bathroom. When Dad emerged, it was not the same, and I’d hastily feign sleep and wish I had a stake to drive through the Man’s heart, if he had one. At times, I could see that Dad needed the Man, and we’d go looking for him, though I was told only that we were getting fresh air or buying milk. We’d make our way to the liquor store a few doors down and always stand at the same telephone booth, Dad shifting nervously, pretending to make a call that mysteriously never connected.
One night, I saw the Man first and did not tell, then fell into ten-ton guilt, because Dad got sick, and two bottles of cough syrup did little to help. I’d struggle with right and wrong and come to no conclusions. Usually, the Man would find him, and I would avoid his eyes for fear of falling under an evil spell. “Aren’t you a pretty thing,” he’d say like whispering death, brushing my cheek with two soft, cold fingers that would stay forever on my face.
the cake bride
Fazzi’s, which stood on Western Avenue between Hollywood and Sunset, was a mecca for Italian groceries. To walk through its doors was to enter someplace holy. When we had the occasion to treat ourselves, Dad and I would head over and carefully select our favorite items. A half-pint box of Sicilian olives and a hard roll were all that I desired. Dad went for the prosciutto and capicola, and the mortadella that melted in your mouth if they sliced it thin enough. The albacore tuna packed in good olive oil was fine right out the can.
Fazzi’s had a basket full of two-foot-long bacala. Dad would grab one and challenge me to a duel. “Step down, in the name of good King Richard!” he’d shout, backing me into a case of tomato paste with the smelly dried fish pointed at my nose. A dirty look and a stern “Che fai?” from the owner usually put an end to our game.
Across the street from the market was Fazzi’s Bakery. The smell in there made me swoon. It was almost impossible to describe: warm sugar, almond paste, rum extract, and unknown sublime odors that swirled together, blessing a half-block radius with an ethereal aroma. In the window stood a giant multitiered wedding cake. It was covered with the palest pink frosting, trimmed with some lacelike confection and little white plastic lilies. The perfect porcelain bride and groom were perched on top. The base of the cake was surrounded by small net bags filled with silver- and gold-coated almonds, the kind they give out at Italian weddings. It took my breath away. Marie the mustached lady always gave me an amaretto cookie, which I’d promptly hide until I found a secure area where I could enjoy it without the fear of being seen. Sometimes I’d save half for Dad, who had a terrible sweet tooth, even without dope. He’d make some coffee, dunk his cookie, and roll his eyes, making ecstatic eating sounds that made me laugh.
I invented a game in which I imagined that I was the porcelain bride on the wedding cake. I would stand perfectly poised and silent in my one ragged party dress, up on a chair or t
able, and pretend that I was untouchable. It used to make Dad nervous. “Hey—what do you call that game? Are you a zombie queen or what?” I would never answer him. I remained inanimate and serene, existing atop my sugary oasis for as long as my mortal legs could stand it.
probation
Dad had a series of probation officers he had to check in with regularly. The one I remember most clearly was a man by the absurd name of Mr. Wumplebottom. Dad reported to his PO every couple of weeks, informing him of upcoming work and assuring him that he was staying clean. He really sweated it. On those days, we took the bus down to Wilshire Boulevard for the “third degree,” as Dad referred to it. Personally, I looked forward to his interviews, because we’d usually go to a nearby movie theater afterward. I saw Easy Rider, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Midnight Cowboy, and a few other films that didn’t make quite as strong an impression. I’m eternally grateful that Dad didn’t concern himself with which movies were age appropriate for a seven-year-old. The only criterion was that they were good, and back then, they were.
One day Dad’s usual anxiety was particularly bad. I felt I could see it crushing him under its weight. When we entered Wumplebottom’s office, Dad sat nervously, looking down between long, fidgeting legs, tight mouthed, clasping and unclasping his hands. Wumplebottom let him suffer a while before speaking. “I received some information that has been verified.” Long pause. “You violated your parole.”
“That bitch,” Dad muttered.
“Ah, cherchez la femme, ha ha. Whatever the case may be, I’m now left with the unpleasant task of what to do, what to do.” Wumplebottom’s sigh was a death rattle void of all empathy. He enjoyed his work, all right. Poor Dad. This was the second time that I knew of when an angry female had turned canary on him, prompted usually by some real or imagined infidelity. Wumplebottom now turned his reptilian eyes on me and, holding out a too-pretty hand, beckoned me over. I looked at Dad, who was still averting his eyes, and decided it was best to comply. Wumplebottom lifted me onto his knee, patting my leg, and continued. “Joe, I could have you turned over, right now, have your sweet child here placed in protective custody.” I felt like I’d just been pushed off a cliff. I was free-falling and unable to speak. Now I looked desperately to Dad, who was intently gazing at last year’s gum on the floor. “I don’t enjoy this. I’m here to help, if you’ll work with me.” Suddenly and casually, he lifted my dress, asking: “Does Daddy take good care of you?” Dad looked up then, for a split second, and next I knew, I was waiting outside the office with the receptionist giving me pitiful looks, expecting the police to bust through the door at any time.