Part 6

(Go to Part 1 for the beginning.)

(Continued from Part 5)

 At a prized window table at Dunkin Doughnuts on Hollywood Boulevard I'm hypnotized by the cars whizzing by and disappearing along with my hope of becoming a photographer. I'm tempted to raise the white paper napkin on my lap, wave it in surrender, and retreat to the safety of San Diego. A remnant of pride won't hear of it. Don't quit. Not yet.

My shutter finger runs down the classifieds and pauses: Houseman Wanted for Beverly Hills Estate.. No pay. Free room. In a flash I'm at a pay phone booth. Yes, this is Mrs. Wesley. How is two o'clock? My coughing car struggles up steep Coldwater Canyon passing mansions. It's one magnificent mausoleum after another. The residents no doubt call it peaceful; I'd call it dead. Not a blade of grass out of place and not a soul in sight. Suddenly the Pinto lets out a booming backfire which in this crusty neighborhood is the equivalent of an elephant fart during a eulogy.

Mrs. Wesley opens the thick door and leans against it. She has steadfast hazel eyes and grey-black hair that frame a prune-like face. Though money is obviously no object she's chosen to age naturally rather than undergo the knife of Beverly Hills' finest cosmetic surgeons. On the way to the den she says, I regret that my husband couldn't be present for the interview. He's a judge. He should be here soon, very soon. It seems she wants to make it clear that if I have any peculiar ideas about raping and robbing her I'll be immediately apprehended by her husband, a judge, who should be here soon, very soon.

The colonial den is lined with two of my least favorite objects. Guns and drawings of the so-called sport of hunting. I'll call hunting a sport when I see animals armed and shooting back. Trying to mask revulsion I overdo it and smile stupidly. Mrs. Wesley grimaces and looks away. I'm thinking the interview is already over but she motions to a fine leather chair. Settling into it is so pleasurable that I have to resist another stupid grin.

Awkward silence fills the air as Mrs. Wesley leans forward and stares. Her eyes are about to fire lasers when she blurts, There will definitely be a thorough FBI check on your background. I don't go screaming from the room which brings the first sign of satisfaction to her tight thin lips. Where are you staying? With a friend, I say weakly, and the friend is my car which is a bold lie because a car that's a friend doesn't constantly humiliate you with sudden booming backfires.

I think you should know that you're the most presentable young man I've interviewed so far. I'll show you the estate. One grand room outdoes another and wherever I look it's a page straight out of Architectural Digest. You wouldn't believe the problems we had importing this pink marble from Italy! I give her a sympathetic look and we walk outside past tennis courts complete with night lights, an Olympic size swimming pool adorned with a statue of a young nude woman that I try not to show too much interest in and finally as if an after-thought there's my would-be room. I don't have the key, she says. If you're accepted my husband will show it later.

We're back at the front door and she says, Check in early tomorrow. No problem, I say cheerfully but it's a long depressing walk back to my car-motel knowing I have to endure another night cramped up like Houdini and longing for escape. First thing in the morning I stretch my aching back and call Mrs. Wesley for the verdict. Of course I remember you, Mr. Capri. You can move in today if that's agreeable. I do a crazy little dance, jab my fist in the air, and say casually, Today would be fine.

(to be continued every Tuesday)