Homeless Man in Westwood Village

Homeless Man in Westwood Village

                I don’t remember the exact date I arrived in L.A.  It might have been September 17 or it might have been September 19 or it might have been September 21.  I’m going to say the last one for the sake of the argument.  This is also something Sycamore could tell you for sure, as he has that letter in which I chronicled my entire month on the road. 

                He told me to meet him when he got out of work at UCLA Medical School for the day—at 5:00.  He said to try to find a parking spot near Wilshire and Westwood Blvd—the first time I would hear these streets names with which I would soon become so familiar.  I found a metered parking spot very close to the location specified, and was heartened to see the car in front of me display a prominent Fugazi sticker on their back window.  The first car I park behind in L.A. also digs Fugazi—this had to be destiny. 

I walked over to the Coffee Bean shop to spend another hour or hour and a half waiting for Sycamore.  In line I heard some people talking about where Spike Jonze was shopping.  I was really in Hollywood!  The first conversation I overheard was about a celebrity!  It was only a matter of time before I would meet one on my own and parlay it into a successful gig in the entertainment industry.  I was so excited. 

I order a caramel frappucino, or whatever the Coffee Bean equivalent of that most favorite Starbucks drink of mine happened to be called, and sat outside in the warm sun.  I opened up my laptop to do a little more work on the beginning of Self-Mutilation, the second novel I was now going to take on full-time.  Then I saw a homeless man come up near me, and he just started talking. 

The following is a journal entry I just found that I wrote on the day it happened (September 18).  As before, I will add the total of words I am cutting and pasting here to the 50,000 that I must write on my own during this month.  Thus, 50,978 now becomes 52,018:

9.18.07

Sitting in my car on Le Conte (near Westwood)

I’m waiting for Sycamore to get out from his job at 5:00.  I have thirty minutes.  I wish I had less, but in the time I killed (from 3:00 until now), I went and got a coffee and tried to do some writing.  I couldn’t do any (I did a few sentences of chapter six of self-mutilation) because a homeless man with AIDS talked to me for the entire time.  I couldn’t leave without giving him a dollar, though I’m sure everyone around considered me a sucker.

I had an iced vanilla coffee drink, which was very good, and the man was sitting outside and immediately looked at me and I thought he was some kind of older artist who was checking me out or something, but no, he was homeless, and I don’t believe he was gay.  But this is if I believe his story, which frankly I have a very difficult time believing, but I would like to believe it.  Of course it makes the world seem a much darker place than it really is.  Trying to write it down will only make me seem dumber for actually listening to him. 

He began by saying how he his family had a globally recognized name—which he later revealed to be Welch.  He had a PHD in Physics from UCLA and had been in the Air Force, until he snitched on them, and subsequently had his life destroyed, with the loss of his social security number.  The secret was, aliens had exchanged technology—apparently they laid fiber optic cables on the ocean floor to connect all continents. 

His father was very rich, and a murderer.  He shot his daughter’s boyfriend—he had slapped her at a gas station and kicked her out of the car.  She called to be picked up, and instead her boyfriend was brought back by two henchmen, and the father shot him.  The father also shot this man’s brother-in-law, who had been a homosexual who had married a daughter for the money, apparently. 

This man had been sent to the Shaolin Temple in Beijing at age 8, and then returned 9 years later to see the hippie era in full bloom.  He had also received oral sex as a 7-year-old from his “wet nurse” once a week prior to that. 

It hurt me to talk to him.  It hurts me to write this, but the man should have a story written for him.  I am hungry—I haven’t eaten since having a massive DQ “flamethrower” last night in Hurricane, UT.  I felt so sick after eating it, because here I am not trying to put on too many pounds, and I get this hamburger as a little snack after having beer & wings nearby, a little snack to make me full, and I ended up being full to excess.  I couldn’t even put a dent in the Blizzard Treat I got as the real reason I went to DQ.  I watched the end of Rope and the first half of Young Frankenstein on AMC, and tonight I want to convince Mike to watch Vertigo (There’s 7 days of Hitchcock on).

So, if what this man says is true, then all conspiracy theories are true.  I equate conspiracy theory with schizophrenia, unfortunately, and so this man was probably just mentally ill.  He maintains that he is not, but I have a hard time believing he would choose to be so down and out, when if he wanted to, he could be extraordinarily rich.  Very difficult for me to get along with anyone in the world, when I can’t tell if I’m being put on or not.  I hope I am not preyed upon while in L.A.  I would like to move here.  It is more affordable than New York, but just now I received my third ticket on this trip, which ends today, and which has lasted 30 days. 

Ticket #1: Greenpoint, Brooklyn.  Parking my car outside Wendy’s house, not realizing I had to move it by 7:30 AM for the street sweeper.  $45.00

Ticket #2: Hardeysville, OK.  Going 40 in a school zone with flashing lights.  There was no one in the town.  It was tiny.  I even got out there to try and use a bathroom in a gas station, but the gas station was condemned.  The cop gave me a break by saying I went 35 instead of 40.  He didn’t search my car—I considered that the break.  $115.00

Ticket #3: Los Angeles, CA.  Parking 1 ft across the line in a metered zone.  I will be contesting this ticket, as I had paid the meter, and it is my first time parking in a metered spot in L.A. and I didn’t realize we have these “line” parameters to follow.  They should take pity on me, but they probably won’t, because IT”S THE LAW!  $35.00

Now, there’s 14 minutes until Mike gets out.  I’m going to sit in this spot and if any cops come, I will explain my ticket.  I just got a call from him.  He’ll be here in 5-10 minutes, so I should just shut this down. 

I enjoy L.A. and I want to get a sublet here in the next few days.  Good-bye Chicago, though I am missing it a bit.  I watched the Bears vs. Chiefs game on Sunday in Boulder, CO, and the game was in Chicago, and seeing the skyline made me a feel a pang of misguided nostalgia.  It is a beautiful city, yes, but filled with so many bitter people.  If I move to L.A., I will have lived in each of the three major cities of America by the time I am 24.  That is something pretty cool to say you’ve done.  I have soaked up the culture of New York and Chicago, and now I must suck up the culture of L.A., and with that knowledge, become the preeminent writer of our generation.  This is all for now.

Note: I believe I meant to write “soak up the culture of L.A.” for parallelism, but that typo is so unbelievably poignant that I can’t bear to correct it.