picked up a dude in DTLA at the old American Apparel factories. id been there a few times, luckily both times, when it was still happening. but i didnt mention it.
sometimes it’s the notes you don’t play.
we headed west and passed Sam’s Hofbrau House.
guy asked, ever been in there?
nope.
why not? looks fun!
ah, strip clubs seem weird to me to go to in your own town, i explained. i mean look at me. i turned to give him a full glance at my berrymore profile. do i look like i need to go to a bar and pay to hang out with bad bitches?
we laughed as we passed through the Pińata District.
he continued, well that strip club is key to the great movie you might have heard of, Pulp Fiction.
oh yeah? who doesn’t love Pulp Fiction.
only snakes, he sneered. rumor has it Quentin was in there one night with some industry types. he was thinking about using it for one of his films. they got drunk. and when he got home he realized he didn’t have his wallet.
so he retraced his steps and told his assistant to call Sam’s.
assistant calls and asks, hey do any of you remember seeing the director Quentin Tarantino in there last night?
whoever is on the other end of the line says, don’t know who you’re talking about, but even if i did, we don’t divulge our guests. company policy.
the assistant says, fair enough. well he’s my boss and he thinks he left his wallet there.
bartender or whoever asks, can you describe the wallet?
assistant laughs a little and says, it’s very unique. it’s brown and says Bad Mother Fucker on it in all caps.
bartender chuckles and says, yes we have it, but you need to ask him where he got it because we all want one just like it.
we drove through skid row, laughing, then not laughing
from where we were it almost looks like a movie set
abject American poverty being encroached on by a slowly revitalized arts district of downtown LA to the north, and gnawed at on the other sides by advancing affluence.
ever pick up someone on skid row? the dude asked me.
yeah, i said. it was around this time of day, the sun was still up but barely, people were going home. i got an overly high fare to take someone from the middle of skid row, like next door to the midnight mission, and then take them to the city of commerce.
because im a little crazy i figured, lets see what this is all about.
my guy was all ears.
picked up this little old man outside a free clinic who waved me down. his english wasn’t great but he sure loved speaking it.
i kept peeking at him in my rear view because he looked old, but he was so full of energy. so i asked how old he was.
sixty niiiiiiiinnnnnnneeeee, he said, like a teenage boy who had learned how to say something naughty in a foreign language.
turned out he had lived on skid row for 15-years working as a cook, first at a Chinese restaurant in Chinatown, and then on a food truck. he was making enough money that he could have left his little SRO near skid row, but it was cheap and everyone left him alone.
recently his kids pressured him to move out, but he was there that day to see his doctor.
you’re 69, you could go to any doctor, right? arent you on medicare or some shit? i asked?
si, but i like this doctor, he said. everything under one roof: exam, x-rays, prescriptions. boom. boom boom. he said tapping his hand on his lap.
and they always say, yes, he laughed.
i asked the old man, what would they say no about?
he said, sometimes they don’t want to give you pills.
oh i said, but didnt really understand, so i asked what pills did you ask for today?
he held up his bag and said, generic Viagra.
you son of a gun, i called him
and thought about writing down his address so i could give him the wallet he so deserved.