by Bill Bernico
“What will the stakes be?” I said. “And what about time limits? How long do I have to get out of the predicament and back to normal?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Hugh said. “How about one week. If you can overcome in seven short days, I’ll, let’s see, I’ll uh, I know. How about if I win the bet you can treat me to lunch every day for a week. I you win I’ll treat you to lunch every day for two weeks. Now those are pretty good odds, wouldn’t you say?”
I smirked. “I’d be stealing your lunch money,” I said.
“Is that a yes?” Hugh said, holding out his hand.
I grabbed Hugh’s hand and pumped it vigorously. “You’re on, buddy. But I have to just let a few people know what I’m up to so they don’t send the cops on a missing persons hunt.”
“Okay,” Hugh said, “but one of the rules is that you can’t call on anyone in your present circle of acquaintances to help you in any way. You’ll be on your own.”
“Agreed,” I said.
“And second,” Hugh said, “you can’t be in contact with anyone in that same circle during those seven days. No one must know where you are.”
“I can do it,” I said.
“We’ll finalize the rest of the rules over lunch,” Hugh said. “Come on, this is going to be fun.”
“It may be fun for you,” I said, “but I’ll be the one out there on my own with nothing.”
“Are you saying you want to back out of the bet?” Hugh said, grinning.
“Not on your life,” I said. “Just stand back and observe the master at his craft.”
We finished our lunch and walked back to my office to type up a formal statement of the rules and the bets involved. I made two copies and gave one to Hugh and kept one for myself. I went through my appointment book and decided that the best time to start this adventure would be three days from today. That would give me a three-day start on a scruffy beard. I decided that I could always tell people that I was undergoing treatment for a skin condition and that the doctor advised me not to shave for a week.
On the third day Hugh returned to my office with a large brown grocery bag under his arm. He took one look at me and chuckled. “Nice set of whiskers, old man.” He set the bag on my desk and gestured toward it. “Go on, open it up,” Hugh said.
I unrolled the bag and peered down into it. I reached in and pulled out a rolled up shirt. Beneath it was a pair of faded and worn trousers. Beneath that I found a suit jacket that didn’t match the pants. One of the shoulders had stitching that had ripped and two buttons were missing from the front. I shook it out and held it up. On the bottom of the bag was a pair of scuffed shoes with a pair of socks tucked inside.
“For me?” I said. “You shouldn’t have. It’s not my birthday or anything.”
“Funny,” Hugh said. “Actually, this is what you’ll be wearing on the street. You may not need to wear the jacket during the day, but the nights get pretty cold around here this time of year.”
“I can’t believe I’m really going to do this,” I said.
“You don’t have to, pal,” Hugh said. “Just say the word and we can call the whole thing off. Of course you’ll forfeit and I’ll still get lunch for a week.”
“No you don’t,” I said confidently. “Tomorrow morning I’ll be starting my seven day adventure and eight days from now you’ll be buying me lunch.”
Hugh pulled a small plastic bag from his pocket and laid it on my desk.
“What’s that?” I said.
“It’s dirt,” Hugh said. “Honest to goodness playground dirt from that school down the street.”
“I can see that it’s dirt,” I said, “but what’s it doing on my desk?”
“Well,” Hugh said, “you can’t go out in those rags with a clean face and hands. You’d stick out like basketball player in a tribe of Pygmies.”
“And how do you plan to monitor me all that time?” I said. “How do you know I won’t leave here with money in my pocket?”
Hugh smiled. “Do we both feel confident within the confines of the honor system?” he said.
“Sure,” I told him.
“Just to be sure,” Hugh said, “I’ll be here tomorrow morning to see you off. I’ll also be checking your pockets.”
“So much for the honor system,” I said.
“See you in the morning, you bum,” Hugh said and left my office, laughing all the way to the elevator.
The following morning at eight o’clock Hugh came back up to my office to check my pockets and bring me downstairs. In the garage, Hugh opened the back door of his luxury sedan and motioned me to crawl in and stay low.
“So where are you planning to dump me?” I said.
“I’ve given this some thought,” Hugh said. “Hollywood would be your best bet. The city never sleeps and there would be plenty of opportunities for you to scrounge what you need to subside.”
“What if I get discovered and they put me in the movies and I end up not having to panhandle?” I said. “Then what?”
“Yeah, right,” Hugh said. “That’s how it works over there. You hit town, sit at the counter at Schwab’s and they make you a star. In your dreams.”
“All right,” I said. “So I won’t have my name on the marquee by nightfall. I can dream, can’t I?”
“You just dream about where your first meal is coming from,” Hugh reminded him. “It doesn’t take long to get hungry when you’re pounding the pavement.”
“I’ve already had breakfast, my good man,” I said, smiling. “So it looks like I have until lunchtime to come up with some money. Which brings up another point we hadn’t discussed. In real life, before homeless people become homeless, they may have had a job. A menial job, but a job nonetheless. Am I allowed to seek employment during my seven days?”
“Menial labor, yes,” Hugh said. “Investment banker, no,” Hugh said. “Remember, you’re supposed to be a down-on-his-luck bum, not a white-collar executive looking for lunch money. So yeah, knock yourself out. Get a paper route or panhandle or shine shoes if that’s what trips your trigger. But it has to be the kind of job those people would be suited for and considered for.”
“Got it,” I said. “Hey look,” I said, pointing out the window, “There’s Grauman’s Chinese Theater.”
“Actually it’s Mann’s Chinese Theater now. Has been for nearly forty years now, even though Warner Brothers and Paramount bought him out twelve years ago. Still, they kept his name on it.”
“Thank you Mr. Tour Guide,” I said. “Either way, this looks like a good place to put the bite on tourists. Let me out.”
Hugh pulled his car around the corner and drove north on Highland for a block and then turned right on the first side street he came to. It was Yucca Avenue and Hugh eased the car to a stop, reached over the seat and opened the back door.
“There ya go, pal,” Hugh said. “You’re on your own for the next week. See you in seven days in this very same parking space at this very same time.”
I instinctively turned my left wrist in to check the time before I remembered that I had no watch. “What time do you have?”
Hugh checked his watch. “Make that seven days from right now. It’s nine-fifteen and I’m writing it down in my daily planner to pick you up right here. Have fun, Mr. Cooper.”
I crawled out of the car and slammed the door. It sped away before I could even get to my feet and wave goodbye. I checked my surroundings and then looked myself over, almost not recognizing the man in the tattered suit who looked like me. I decided to walk back over to the Chinese Theater and see what it was that attracted so many tourists over the years.
I walked down Highland to Hollywood Boulevard and turned right. Halfway down the block I could see three dozen or more tourists milling around the outside of the theater. Many had cameras strung around their necks and some were taking pictures of the famous footprints and handprints that had been left in the cement for more than eighty years. I walked into the open courtyard in front of the th
eater and looked down at the cement. There were Red Skelton’s prints in the cement. Next to it Red had written, “We Dood It,” a reference to a movie he was in at the time.
I saw the prints of Shirley Temple, John Wayne, Roy Rogers and a host of other famous people I’d grown up watching on the silver screen. A machine in the courtyard offered molded plastic replicas of the Oscar statue for a dollar. I instinctively reached for my wallet but came up empty. Then I remembered why I was there in the first place. I needed to make enough money for lunch.
I’d had breakfast not more than two hours ago so the urgency to eat again just wasn’t there. I had approached several people in the courtyard but couldn’t summon up the courage to ask for money. It just didn’t seem right. I moved back out onto the boulevard and crossed the street at the corner, this time heading east on Hollywood. I passed a travel agency and a hair salon before coming up to the Masonic Temple steps.
The Masons had long ago ceased to occupy the historic building and it was eventually bough by Disney and turned into a studio to accommodate a late-night talk show host. Next to the steps, in between two of the columns there was a cement platform where I spotted a young man sitting there playing a guitar. The guitar player had his case open and I could see that the young man had managed to collect three or four dollars in change just for playing a few well-chosen tunes.
“Looks like you’ve had a pretty good day so far,” I said.
“Not bad for a hour’s worth of strumming,” the guitarist said, still playing the song he’d started.
“How much can you make doing this?” I asked.
“Oh, I suppose on a good day I can pull in twenty, twenty-five bucks,” he said. “It’s a living.”
“Wish I had something to give you,” I said. “You’re pretty good.”
The guitar player finished the song and set his guitar aside. He reached into the case and plucked three quarters from the bottom and held them out toward me. I looked down at the change and then back up at the kid.
“Go on,” the kid said. “Take it. You need it more than I do.”
I waved him off. “Thanks, but you keep it,” I said. “You earned it.” I turned to walk away and heard the kid start another familiar song on the guitar. The music faded as I walked further along Hollywood Boulevard.
Twenty-five minutes later I found myself several blocks east of Vine Street and noticed that the throngs of people thinned out down on this end of the boulevard. I decided to see what Sunset Boulevard had to offer and walked two blocks south. On Sunset I headed back west again, taking in the sights and sounds and smells on the street. I remembered as a boy watching a television show called 77 Sunset Strip and wondered where that address actually was. I looked at the street numbers on the buildings. In this block the building had numbers in the 6300 range. I remembered that the Chinese Theater was somewhere in the 6900 block of Hollywood Boulevard. I also knew that Sunset Strip was west of where I was standing so it would be reasonable to assume that the numbers would only get higher the further west I went. A number as small as 77 would be miles to the east, if it even existed at all, and the place of television fame would end up with an address of something like 8500 or 8600 Sunset Boulevard.
I walked for another thirty minutes, taking in all I could of my surroundings and trying to get into the character of a homeless man. It was difficult since I’d never actually experienced homelessness. Regardless, there were not enough people on Sunset to justify spending any more time there so I walked north and found Hollywood Boulevard again.
It was getting on to eleven and my stomach was beginning to rumble. I walked past a pizza place that offered pizza by the slice. My mouth began to water as the pizza aroma sifted through my nostrils. I stopped and looked into the window. I could see the man making the pizza right there before my eyes. The man kneaded the dough, stretched it out and twirled it in the air. Then he’d spread on the sauce, sprinkle on the shredded cheese and other ingredients and finally he’d shove it into the oven on the end of a long wooden paddle.
My hand shot for my pocket again before I remembered that I had no money on me. If I expected to eat, I’d have to beg. It was a foreign experience for me. I’d always had plenty of money for anything I wanted any time I wanted it. I looked up and down the boulevard for a likely candidate who might take pity on me and let loose with some spare change. I saw an older woman dressed to the teeth and she was carrying a small dog in one arm. I stepped alongside of her and walked along at the woman’s pace. I turned to the woman, somewhat embarrassed.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, “But I was wondering if you could spare a little bit of money for a guy who’s down on his luck.” I held my hand out, palm up.
The woman looked at me as if a cockroach had just crawled onto her dinner plate. She tried to ignore me and just kept walking.
I stopped and let her go on her way, but couldn’t resist calling after her, “So that would be a no, then?”
She kept staring straight ahead and picked up her pace somewhat. I saw a man about my own age coming from the other direction and fell into step with him.
“Sir,” I said with as much humility as he could muster, “Could you spare some money for lunch?”
“Get a job,” the man said without even breaking step.
This was going to be harder than I had imagined. I’d have to be a little subtler and try a new approach if I expected to eat that day. I stood in one spot, waiting for the perfect candidate to come along. I let several people pass whom I didn’t think would give me the time of day, let alone any money. Then I spotted a plump teenage girl in slacks and a loose-fitting blouse. She might soften to my pleas.
“Good morning,” I said, smiling at the girl. “Would you happen to have a quarter I could borrow? I need to make a call and I’m fresh out of change. It’s very important or I wouldn’t bother a lovely young lady like you. Oh, please.”
And the girl stopped right there on the sidewalk and looked at me. “All you need is a quarter?” She said, digging a hand into her purse.
“That would help me out a lot,” I said.
She produced a quarter from a small pocketbook in her purse and handed it to me. “There you are.” She closed the purse and continued on her way.
“Thank you so much,” I said to the back of the girl’s head as she walked away.
The girl just waved without looking back, but I noticed that she too had sped up her pace as she walked away. I looked down at the quarter and smiled. If I could score like this with every tenth person who came past me, by the end of the day I’d have enough for a meal and coffee, too.
Back in his real world, I wouldn’t have even stopped to pick up a quarter if it was lying on the sidewalk. Right now, it seemed like a lot of money. But there still wasn’t much I could buy with it and I knew I’d have to step up my game.
I thought up a new approach and knew just the kind of person it might work on. And there she was. The woman looked to be in her late twenties, well dressed with perfect hair. I straightened myself up as much as I could and stepped up to the woman, who’d stopped to look in a store window.
“Excuse me, young lady,” I said politely, “But not more than twenty minutes ago I was mugged and they got my wallet. I was wondering if I could trouble you for a dollar until I can get back home. And if you’ll give me your address I’ll be sure to send your dollar back to you right away.”
The woman turned to me. “You were mugged?” she said. “My goodness. Did you call the police?”
“I couldn’t even do that,” I said. “They took all my money, even my pocket change. I’m just glad they didn’t hurt me.”
The girl opened her purse and looked in her wallet. She didn’t have any single dollars but found nearly two dollars in change and handed that to me. “I’m sorry I don’t have any dollars, but will this help?” She watched as I counted the change. There was a dollar eighty-seven there.
“Oh yes,” I said gratefully. “Now at least I can
call for a ride home. Thank you so much, young lady. If you would just write down your name and address, I’ll return your money to you when I get home.”
The young woman closed her purse. “That won’t be necessary,” she said. “You just go on and make your call. I don’t need it back.” She didn’t mind helping out a fellow human being in need, but she surely was not going to let this stranger know where she lived. “Good luck,” she said, walking away.
I now had two dollars and twelve cents in my pocket. This could work out after all, I thought. Another few bucks and I’d be set for the rest of the day. As I walked further along Hollywood Boulevard, I saw a young man with an armful of papers neatly folded under his left arm. The man had one of the papers in his right hand and was waving it overhead at passing cars.
I watched as a car stopped and the passenger side window rolled down. A man reached over to the window and handed the man with the papers some money and the got a paper in return before continuing down the street. I watched as the paper selling man pocketed the money he’d just received and plucked another paper from under his arm. He held the new paper up again, waving at passing cars.
I approached the young man. “Which paper are you selling?” I said.
Without looking back the young man said, “The L.A. Free Press.”
I was puzzled. “If it’s the Free Press, why aren’t you giving it away?” I said.
“That’s just the name of the paper,” the man explained. “You still have to pay for it.”
“How much is it?” I asked.
“Fifty cents,” he said. “You want one?”
“No thanks,” I said. “I was just wondering what you do when you run out of papers.”
“I go and get some more,” the man explained.
“And what do they cost you?” I asked.
The man lowered his hand and turned toward Philip. “If I tell you, will you go away and leave me alone?”
“Sure,” I said.
