Thanks for reading. 

But I should probably go now. 

Feel free to unsubscribe, if you want. 

It's been fun.  Truly.

E.

ps: read Mad Jack

When my dad heard about Geoff and Claire, he gave me a present. 

"Nothing much.  Just a little .38 snubnose.  I hope you enjoy it."

As if he'd just given me a box of girlscout cookies.  I really have no idea how this ugly hunk of metal works other than some vague sense that if I point it at someone and pull the trigger, something fatal is liable to occur. 

"Dad, what am I supposed to do with this?"

"Just for your own protection, sweetie."

I think he just hates the idea of male specimens putting their grubby hands on me.  But I am twenty-two and things do have a way of happening at that age; I'm canny enough to handle it, I like to think. 

The first and last time I fucked up was my freshman year of college.  Dazzled by a sense of independence.  Dulled by too much bright-colored alcohol--I remember it tasting like pineapple juice. 

I remember someone carrying me and setting me down on a bed.  I couldn't move for some reason. 

I woke up the next morning tucked in.  A comforter over me.  There was a note by the bedstand that told me the day, month, and year (I think that part was sarcastic) and that the individual who'd moved me to the bed had "taken the liberty" of removing my shoes so as not to dirty the sheets. 

My head throbbed until two that afternoon. 

Lucky lucky lucky.       

Yesterday, my best friend's brother Geoff was convicted of rape.  He had been accused by an old roommate of mine.  Sentencing will follow. 

Here's a cautionary tale because I don't think he did it:

Claire (not my current roommate) had a lot of problems.  I'm not quite sure what the exact nature of her problems were; I do know that they weren't pleasant for her and, because I was living with her, they were particularly unpleasant for me.

The girl had a psychological maelstorm ripping away in her head and when she was calm and I was in the room with her, it felt like being surrounded by some natural monstrosity--right in the eye of that storm.

Jess, a very close friend from high school, came to visit me once from Florida and she brought her brother Geoff, who was sixteen at the time.  Geoff's a big kid.  He'd filled out nicely in recent years and he was athletic--he doubled as a corner and a running back for his school football team.  A good kid, but a teenager nonetheless.

We went to a party that night and I don't want to dwell on the details of who drank what, who got wasted, or what time everybody passed out.

What I do know is that Geoff went with Claire to one of her friend's apartments where they had sex.  At around 3 in the morning, Claire woke up and called the police and accused Geoff of raping her. 

So you see the problem.  Claire is petite--around 5'4".  Mentally, she's fucked up five ways to Friday.  Geoff is well over 6' and is an athlete to boot.  Not to mention that he's a hormonal 16 year old.

In the end, who did the authorities believe?

You know the answer.

Los Angeles has a history of obliterating its history.  When you think of Hollywood architecture, you tend to think of something very sleek, very modern--unbroken surfaces, built-ins, and expanses of glass and aluminum.  That's because everything old gets torn down. 

On Wilshire, towards the downtown area, are a wonderful cluster of old Hollywood mansions.  Muhammed Ali has a place there, I am told.

I was contemplating renting out a room from a friend of mine who lived in one such mansion.  Frankie's grandfather was a doctor who lived in a huge lime-green brick of a building, a horrific enclosure of concrete, hardwood floors, and passages leading to nowhere.  Now it's only Frankie living there.

In the basement, there is a gaping hole in the foundation (what I presume to be the foundation at least).  I asked Frankie about it.

"Oh, my grandpa was trying something with dynamite," he said.  "It was a bad idea."

I definitely wanted to live there, but it was a bit out-of-the-way for me.  I wasn't worried too much about being alone in a big house with a large male specimen named Frankie.  He likes women a lot but we have a relationship that's simply platonic.  Once, he broke up with a girl because he found a bag of porn in a Santa Monica alley.  A story for another time. 

The house had three stories and each room was a museum of worthless antiques--old typewriters, photodevelopers, broken toilets, and tarot cards.  It's unsettling for sure.  The living quarters were so big, it made me dizzy realizing that I was actually enclosed in a room.

Up a staircase with carpeted steps as red as valentines, I noticed duct tape masking the mirrored walls. 

"To cover up the bullet holes," said Frankie.

"Bullet holes?"

"Yeah.  My grandpa had a contract on his head.  Didn't I mention?"

"You said he was a doctor." 

"Well, he was also a moneylender.  And people who didn't want to pay what they owed him often tried to kill him."

"He just lived here alone?" I asked.

"Well, there were whores here also."

"I'm sorry?"

"It wasn't a whore house.  God, no.  No, he was just a really nice guy and the whores liked him.  A friend to the whores."

"Oh."

"Anyway," Frankie said.  "There were three different times in his life when he woke up to find someone in the house who wanted to kill him.  Hence the bullet holes."  Frankie scratched his chin.  "Actually, I think he might have made those particular ones himself when he fired back."

"Hey, Frank," I said.  I was getting sort of nervous about staying with him.  "Tell me, please, that nobody actually died here."

Frankie began to look nervous and his hand played with the brushed aluminum banister by the staircase.

"Well...Okay...Here's the thing..."

I decided in the end not to stay with him.  Sure, the house had character.  But I'm superstitious and I don't want the ghost of Frankie's old mad grandpa haunting the stairwell, cackles echoing off the smokey shafts and blazing a tommy gun through my living quarters.

Plus, like I said, the place was too far out-of-the-way. 

My room smells of vagina.  Always.  I've tried spritzing it with Febreze, leaving around open bottles of detergent, and there's nothing I can do about it. 

My roommate is the best reason why you should never select based on a "room wanted" ad hanging off a telephone post. 

Normally, she's very clean, but her natural body odors--the odors that everyone has--are amplified tenfold.  The acrid smell of her scalp, the sour stink of her feet, the oil on her brow.  I smell it all. 

She's a sad person and I feel bad for her.  She calls boys she likes but who (I'm sure, having met many of them) at best don't share the same feelings and, at worst find her to be completely repugnant. 

After she's done calling, she hangs up the phone and locks me out of the room we share.  Usually I don't mind.  I only use it for sleeping. 

But sometimes, I need access to my bedroom, and whenever I pound on the door, she moans: "Hhhold Onnnnnnnnnnnnnn.  Hh."

Five minutes later, she opens the door and my room, again, reeks of fresh vagina.  And not a clean one either. 

Yet, this is not a topic I'm anxious to broach with my roommate.  I need her money so I can meet the rent.  I don't want to kick her out.  I'd prefer to come to an agreement with her. 

And I'm currently at a loss.  I don't even know how to explain to her that I have a pretty good idea as to what she's doing behind my locked door.

I hate the idea of using this blog as a Help Wanted forum, but, truly, I am beginning to feel rather desperate.

Any suggestions?