𝗠𝗬 𝗕𝗨𝗦 𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗣 𝗔𝗦 𝗔 𝗧𝗘𝗘𝗡𝗔𝗚𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗢 𝗘𝗔𝗧 𝗥𝗜𝗖𝗘 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗦𝗢𝗬 𝗦𝗔𝗨𝗖𝗘 𝗢𝗡 𝗛𝗢𝗟𝗟𝗬𝗪𝗢𝗢𝗗 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗩𝗜𝗡𝗘

   

The charter bus I'd taken from Tacoma encountered a traffic jam a mile from Los Angeles and the driver let me off near the HOLLYWOOD sign to walk the last mile into town.  I remember being intrigued by the black rubber that covered the first highway clover leaf I'd ever seen. 

As unsophisticated as you find me now, in the summer of '63 I was a complete rube, so naive I'd let a hotel desk clerk bait me into a wrestling match. The clerk put me in a sleeper hold and I'd woken up to smelling salts and intense laughter in the lobby of a rundown hotel on Figueroa Street.

From the old wooden window of my room, I peered down on a man pulling out a knife and street women making their approaches.  Knocking on the door of a Chinese restaurant near Hollywood and Vine, a waiter told me to go around to the back, then offered me white rice and soy sauce, telling me to keep the plate. (I left the plate and a dime at the back door.)

It's embarrassing to admit it now, but when I took my first bath in my hotel room and saw a bunch of skin I'd left in the clawfoot bathtub, I was certain I suffered from the "heartbreak of psoriasis," a malady we were warned about in early 60's TV commercials and I thought might be something like VD I'd contracted from the sin of masturbation.  A day later I relaxed remembering I'd sat on a bench covered in spilled turpentine while house painting to get the money for my trip.