Watching the Cadillacs go by, a relic of ancient vintage (circa 1984)


Watching the Cadillacs go by, a relic of ancient vintage (circa 1984). Predating the Perils of Pauline, Buster Keaton’s reality scene of silent nail biters, demonstrating the  absurdities of human nature

                                                  II

Joel Farnham, a 38 year boy and recreation director for the Los Angeles Recreation&Parks and amateur realestatnik, steered his Volkswagon thru the Sunday morning traffic on the San Bernardino Freeway.

A former cream cheese bandit who had seen the kliegs of rehabilitation after being nabbed shoplifting a pocket size Philadelphia cream cheese from a Los Angeles super market. He was bound for Gilman Hot Springs, a resort in the desert for those economizers who couldn’t afford the ego inflated rates of Palm Springs and Rancho Mirage.


                                                   III

Gilman, a Shangra-ila for tired glands and exasperating souls, had all the scents and flavors of Grossingers (Eddie Cantor, Dinah Shore, Eddie Fisher) Bright0n Beach and the St. George Hotel
around the corner of Montague and Court Street ,and the once swanky but down to earth offices of the Dodgers, before they bailed out for Chavez Ravine , eventual bankruptcy, and new owners.
 

Joel’s father, a retired vet from the Surrogate’s Court and the Democratic Kings County wars, was playing out his role of a “lady gayer” these days, basking in the sun and rolling in the Gilman mud.

                                                 IV

.....”I got my responsibility to the old man” said Joel to himself. Bring him back to the quicksand of the City of Angels before he finds a home in the mud.

 Anyway he would have been better off, if he  stayed in Flatbush and retired....you got convenience, you got the ghetto. Out here, you’re like a desert rat out of central casting, the way humans treat you.if you’re retired.

 And the stuff they feed you about the sunshine and the smog and rain and trremors didn’t exist,no less prevail. It’s a constant Buster Keaton to stay afloat.

                                              V

The old man had to sell the apartment and migrate.He’d be viable if was cutting it daily instead of sorting out his dailies, everytime the sun comes up.
 

That’s what happens when you retire . You’re in a squeeze play that fails. The catcher runs you down for the final out and the ball game.

The old lady doesn’t buy him into lounging around. Busting with some busy work “You’re a lady gayer, Kurt,” she assails the old man.
                                      

                                                VI
 

You’d think the momma would be settled in the sun Always finding fault and criticizing.The kosher franks are skinnier and smaller than the ones on Avenue J.

Why a man with an imagination and a thick frank like Nathan’s at Coney Island, could make a bundle. (Like these social networks going public in our 21st century)


A good frank is short and thick. Not decrepit like the ones out here. But lucky for mom and dad, they got each oither.

They make more noise than two alley cats.

“Esther, what’s it with this semi tropical  sun. Doesn’t anybody walk the streets at night?”

“Kurt, if they had sidewalks like they should, the humans would walk, talk, shuffleboard their way. Without street lights, you want the male of the species to be muscled. The women to be raped.
 

                                             VII

“And where’s the noise? You knew in Flatbush when it was quiet, someone had passed beyond the pearly gates. And when times were normal, there were mob scenes, street fights, punch ball , stick ball, hide and go seek. Ladies wheeling baby buggies, people’s people,sitting on the stoops, mothers with their heads out of windows, doing a  holler.”

“Look Kurt, you want me to holler on you. Humans out here do things differently.They holler on one another inside the house..”

“You mean they holler on one another when they’re inside a court room, suing for divorce. Mental cruelty is big out here. Wherever the baby boomers coexist, Esther.No one hollers inside the space they share. They carry it inside of their souls.

It’s called the silent treatment”

“Out here there’s nothing like a good holler. Everybody hollers in Flatbush.And they stick it out. ,in good times and bad. That couple on tee vee, married in 1919. The secret of their durability? Depression, soup lines, wars, recession, extending supply lines over oceans and land..

 When times are good, no one hollers. They get a legal eagle to do the hollering for them. You want Kurt, we should move back to the elevator apartment and hear Art Carney whistle his whistle from across the street. His folks living above the Bohack store on the corner.

The Puerto Ricans and Chinese are moving in. Learn a little “Habla el Espanol”. Cantonese or Mandarin dialect and you got all the humans you need.”

“There I can’t speak the language. Here no one speaks to me. It’s all relative,Esther. But it’s still the Frontier. The west is for a young man. I’m a schmutta compared to these studs. Maybe Mexico City Acapulco is our Destiny.

 A couple of pensioners on social security. Have ourselves a ball. All California is fahren and essen anyway.”

“Kurt, why did you tell me to close out the apartment, sell the furniture. Take the next bus”

“Esther bubbala, if the movie house of dreams hadn’t given up the ghost. Waiting around for the Loews contact, while living on unemployment, Maybe the scenario would have worked out. But a mensch like me can’t have a quiet mind.. What could I do? All my life I was an amateur photographer..

“An ordinary camera on an ordinary screen. Until’ Titanic’ sweeps into our living rooms like a
cinemascope .. The large screen ambushing me behind my back.  Trreading  the film differently.

“I would have taken the bubba monza. But the Unon is hungry for youth I couldn’t make things happen.”.”


                                              VIII
 

The San Bernardino Freeway curved around the Kaiser steel mills in Fontana.....”.this is no place for civilized humans. They need culture said Joel to himself. The best in anything that’s been said or done.

Yet the old man’s immersing himself in mud for his cure. Mud like you can find in your own backyard. The Palm, cactus, lemon tree.

He has to run away to escape his own tsores, while listening to to the other men schmose about theirs’
                                             

                                                VIII

“My son is 47. He sweats for Conrad Hilton. Manages a nice hotel....a nice boychek.a nice job. Marries a nice rich girl. They have twins. She dies.. He leaves the twins with his in laws. Marries a shiksa. He discovers she’s  an anti semite.”

“Give me some more mud, landsman  Schver tsu sein a yid,” says the landsman, snoozing in the soft mud..


                                                      IX

Joel was a nice 38 year old boy. Kind and gentle to his old man and old lady and all living humans that didn’t cross him.

To him the good life was a house in the Hollywood Hills,a two car garage, a swimming pool, a Reserve commission in the Navy, and a pregnant wife.

He would have had presence of mind if he could eliminate the pregnant wife from his auto insurance. He can get comprehensive fifty bucks cheaper. But he didn’t want to offend. Hurt her feelings.

Times were good. Only 4 hundred thousand divorces a year. And an election year. Two wards and “weapons of mass destruction

                                                    IX
 
Joel parked behind the solarium. The old man waved his arm from the mud..

“Hi ya,Dad”, he said, greeting his 140 pound father, who never made a penny for putting Joel on this here Earth, except the tsorees of his taumts and insults..

  “You’re looking like a momza from the North side of Santa Monica Boulevard befdore Wilshire and the sprayed technicolor water fountains..”.

 The father of the 38 year old boy looked out over the mud.”The answer isn’t money. It’s mud. “Wer got enough schlepers from Oregon ,Washington, and LA..We got a minyan. I found myself

 a home here.. Where’s the momma?”

“ She had some deal lined up with a broker to see some homes South of Ventura..” said the son “You know how hot she is for her own home. Her dream.”

                                               X

“Your mother is a straw buyer who likes to gas.,” said the tanned bald headed man. His little hair gray around the sides. “She’s been a gasser since she started chasing down pot cheese bargains after the first World War.”

“Yeah Dad. But what if she gets the shaft. Those hustlers in the Valley are shrewdies from the word ‘go’. Mom doesn’t know a thing about financing, trust deeds and resale values, Economics is a dead language to her. Absolutely dead.”

“The shaft will do her good asd long as it isn’t my money. She thinks the planet will stop revolvig on its moral axis for a two bedroom home in a nice neighborhood. If she didn’t win that  black&white tee vee from Davega ‘s,

“ And then she turned over $500 on that dog stock three years ago, she lost her humility.”

“She’s convinced herself about the good guys beating up the bad guys. Life is a happy ending with a sunset of answers and dollar bills.

That’s her Messiah and I’m only her husband. Who am I to say her character’s gone wrong.

Only God can do that.”

                                           XI

Joel Farnham, the 38 year old boy and recreation director for the Los Angeles Recreation and

Parks and amateur real estatenik, looked out over the swirling mud.

 He looked at his old man’s tanned face and leaping blue eyes. The gray hair around the sides of his bald head.

And he thought he and his wife and the kid on the way were seeing the wrong movies. Visuals whatever.....

Anyway what kind of mud did those mud baths have.? He had a house a top the Hollywood Hills. A two car garage, a swimming pool, a Reserve commission in the Navy and a pregnant wife.


The city that nevr sleeps May 6, 2012