Day Thirty-One (Tuesday, July 27, 1971)

Otto was gone before I got up. His stuff was there, with Kelly Cooper’s phone number and address scribbled on a paper bag. Immediately I decided to do some venturing myself. I would hitchhike
back through Los Angeles. It was something he and I missed and I hadn’t felt good bypassing it.

“To hell with Otto!”

Thumbing was a snap. I got a quick ride to Buena Park. The driver was a guy from the East who bitched, “Jesus H. Christ, when I see a sign for Norwalk, I think Connecticut—not California. This place borrows everything from everywhere else. Nothing is original.” Two more rides and I was sitting below the ‘HOLLYWOOD’ sign on Sunset Boulevard. The sign was dowdy and in need of repair. That didn’t stop the tourists. Plenty of them handed me their cameras and asked me to snap pictures of them (I dumbly left my own camera behind).

I scanned sights on foot. A screenwriter and voice imitator named Jim Sills picked me up. He was elated when I told him my method of getting to California. He asked all about my trip. His generosity toward me turned boundless. The more questions I answered, the more attentive he became. He decided to bring me to his place of employment –- the Warner Brothers / Burbank studio, and the adjoining Columbia Ranch, “to show you around, get a feel for the place, the lay of the studio.”

“That would be huge.”

“Most guys I pick up aren’t seeking the yin and the yang, like you. They’re nothing but a bunch of punks, really. But you earned your way out here with your thumb. You deserve to see this place. Sound good? It’s nirvana for artists like me. It ought to be for you, too, with your creative bent.”

He gave me the “insider’s view,” the kind of look-see you’d never get on the regular Universal Studios tour (which I already brushed off when I saw endless lines and its astounding $4.25 admission).

“Just act like you work here or something. You’re dressed perfectly, teeshirt and cutoffs. That’s what they all wear out here anyway.” He flashed his gate pass at several check points and said hello to everyone by name.

We walked through the set of a movie in production, The Getaway, starring Steve McQueen and Ali McGraw, though the stars themselves weren’t shooting until nighttime. The street was built to resemble a small town whose bank gets robbed. Jim explained the research that goes into building a set. Behind the realistic store facade was scrap lumber and sand bags—hah-hah.

We drove past a props building and costume design studio where the TV show Love, American Style was taping. We walked onto a grassy mound that doubled as a make-believe island. Walking past the red light, we saw a scene filmed with Ricardo Monabon and his midget sidekick Herve Villechaize. Behind the set, off camera, actors in Hawaiian shirts were being dabbed with makeup. Hula dancers were sunning themselves on cots.

“Now you know what actors do most of the time,” Jim said. “They wait around doing nothing.”

As a final favor, Jim dropped me off in the middle of Beverly Hills, arming me with a “Map of the Stars.” On my suggestion we parted ways in front of the heavy wooden gate that belonged to actress Elizabeth Montgomery. It was cool just to stand there; I loved Bewitched.

“Elizabeth’s the foxiest woman on television. I’ve known her and her husband Bill for ten years.” He waved goodbye.

From there I hiked to Smokey Robinson’s house on North Oakhurst. His mansion was painted milk chocolate and had no fence or gate. For “BH”—whose every lush home had a massive flower garden, palm trees, a swimming pool, and an alarm system—his was relatively unshielded.

“Come on out, Smokey! Let’s play frisbee on your front lawn!”

Walking down the middle of the pavement (there weren’t any sidewalks), a cop stopped.

“What’s your business, son?”

“Walking around.”

“Doing what?”

“Admiring real estate.”

He smirked. “By yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mind if I look through your bag?” It contained cheese tidbits, a half-empty quart of Coke, a banana peel, and napkins.

After he left I shouted, “I don’t own a car and I’m proud of it, dum dum!”

Mistake—trying to thumb a ride out of Beverly Hills back to Huntington Beach. I got weird looks from chauffeurs in Bentleys and towel-headed servants in Rolls Royces. I jogged out of there. That was my only escape, to get out by running. I got to Wilshire Boulevard and hailed down a guitarist in an old Rambler, but in the process he screwed me up. He brought me to a tight, curving ramp on the Glendale Freeway, which was the wrong freeway.

I fought my way onto the Long Beach Freeway, but before I knew it I was on the Santa Monica Freeway and headed in the wrong direction again. My spirit faded and it was getting late. I thumbed in vain for about an hour. The sun was heading down. Suddenly I changed gears and hopped on a RTD bus. I was brought to the main Greyhound terminal in downtown L.A., where I transferred to a Huntington Beach bus. For 85 cents, it slow but worth it. My survival skills saved me.

All our stuff was intact. Night had fallen. I had to track down Otto. I found him up on the municipal pier in the cold and mist, about half- way out. He didn’t seem happy. I was careful how I approached him.

“Evening.”

He looked over sharply.

“I figured you might be here,” I said. “Greetings.”

No response.

“How was your sojourn to Whittier?”

Nothing.

“Aren’t you communicating?”

“Where were you all day, Winans?”

“Passing time. It’s not important. I’ll tell you later. How about you? How was your date with Kelly? Did it meet your expectations?”

He scowled and looked down.

“What was that for, man? All I did was ask.”

“Kelly was busy today. I stayed here in town.”

“Euu.”

“Fuck you, Winans.”

“Sorry.”

“Fuck you and your mother.”

“I mean it, Otto! That’s bummy.”

He dropped an O-Bomb. “We set up somethin’ for tomorrow. I’m still goin’ to Whittier. I wanna see her. That’s that. I don’t care what you do, asswipe. Go croak. Jump in the ocean and die for all I care.”

I slipped my hands into my pockets. The pier could’ve split in half; that’s how wide a gulf opened up between us. I walked around in little circles, shaking my head.

“Oh no, George. That’s not in the stars. We’re clearing out of here. That’s been determined. We’re going to start back home like we planned.”

“No way, Winans. Bullshit! We’re stayin’ long enough to visit Kelly and Bristol. It’s all arranged. I got a special invitation and I ain’t gonna let it pass.”

“Oh yes you are.”

“Oh no I ain’t.”

I pointed in his face. “You go, and you’ll be hitchhiking home alone, too! I’m not going to fritter away my time feeding your fool ego! You should have done your romancing today! You’re just too lazy to get off your duff and pursue.”

“The hell I am. How do you know?” Rage filled his skin. “You always think you know everything and you don’t know shit.”

“Maybe I’m an asshole.”

“You are an asshole.”

“Then that’s your tough luck you’ve been stuck with me all these
weeks, isn’t it?”

“Mergatroid, Winans. What the hell you bein’ so stern about? Be flexible, for cryin’ out loud.”

“What do you think I’ve been all today? Your time is up. The buzzer sounded. The game is over. The ballboys collected all the equipment. I already told you I’m not going to hold your hand while you drag me to some bumfuck town to satisfy your juvenile fantasy. I thought you were bigger than that.”

“I’m bigger than you!”

Otto cocked his arm. I deflected his wrist an instant before he slapped me. Never before had he used his physical size against me.

“Ah, go play with your dinky.” He backed off.

“To hell with it!”

Three minutes of silence. “You mean to tell me someone you met for five minutes is more important than our history together? Thanks for the affirmation, palsie.”

“I guess you ain’t heard of love at first sight.”

“This is frivolous, man! Don’t you get that? I know about puppy love, but the point is you’re jerking your partner around. On purpose. You had plenty of time to court that girl. You could have been a hell of a lot more enterprising, but all you did was dance your tiring softstep.”

“Put your cock in your mouth and suck hard, Winans. Dance with that.”

“Stop the rhetoric.”

“Wiggle it around your ass while you’re at it.”

“If you’re so selfish, then I’ll be, too. How ’bout this, George: I refuse to go to Whittier. You understand? I refuse.”

Otto stormed off the municipal pier, walking wildly, and pounced down on the curb of Highway One. He sat defiantly with his arms strung around his hairy knees.

He and I sat on opposite curbs of the street, stewing. A good twenty minutes passed. Waves nettled and crashed against the coast.

“Are you ready for some rest?”

Dead silence, at least a minute’s worth.

“Where’s my pack?”

“Right where you left it. At the water tank.”

“Go ahead. I’ll be there when I feel like it.”