LOWLIFE HIGHLIGHTS
NOTHING BUT TROUBLE - Part One - Cash & the Scofflaw
Summertime is here and I need some time off so I’m running a rerun in four parts. It’s a favorite of mine and if you read it before maybe you’ll want to read it again. I’ve had a few new subscribers lately so I guess it will be new to them.
NOTHING BUT TROUBLE
1971 - It’s nine am which is way too early for me yet here I am, Hollywood, California, awake and semi functional. I drove up, from Costa Mesa, in my 1962 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia. I’d rather live here in LA, but lack of money and gumption, holds me captive in my little Orange County dump.
The Copper Penny Restaurant is on the south-east corner of Sunset and La Brea in Hollywood. It’s a Southern California Googie structure, long and low-slung and orange and yellow and looks like a 1950s beatnik cartoon. Los Angeles is a multihued fantasy world, everything a country boy on the cusp of adulthood could imagine. The night in 1967 when I first saw The Sunset Strip, all the bright lights and sex and drugs and rock & roll and crowds of wild and rebellious baby boomers, I became a city boy. It was a cultural zeitgeist designed just for me.
Inside the Copper Penny, the long countertop is covered with pennies which are covered with clear epoxy like a frozen wishing-well. Beyond the counter sits a rounded booth of bloated vinyl where five guys, around my age, sit looking lost. They and I are job applicants. Some have cups of coffee and one has pancakes. We are all here to answer a classified ad in the LA Times: Seeking photographers. Applicants apply and interview at the Copper Penny, 9:30 am. Blah blah blah.
A tall square-headed guy, a few years older than I, with a flattop and black horn-rim glasses is talking to two older guys in suits. He’s skinny in black slacks and a Madras sport coat. He sees me and asks if I’m here for the photography job and I say yes, I am.
He says his name is Cash McAlhaney and he breaks away from the older crew of two and offers a hand to shake. He walks with a slight limp. He tells me he’s in charge of the Orange County team, and I ask what’s he mean team. I thought this was a photography job. He says yeah, it is, sort of, and do I want to know why they call him Cash?
“Not really. I want to know about the job.”
“It’s because when they think about me, they think about money. I’m a cash machine.”
“Who is they” I ask, “and what are we talking about?”
“Everyone is they, Sport. Everyone calls me Cash.”
“Okay yeah, did you see the movie Cash McCall with James Garner?”
“Yeah, Sport, that’s where I got the name. Cash McAlhaney, at your service. Because I’m all about the money. What do you think?”
“What do I think about what?”
“Gee, Sport, pay attention. My name is Cash, I made it up because that’s what I want everybody to call me”
“How did you make it up, man? I thought you got it from the movie.”
“Yeah, that’s a fact, Sport. Take a seat, order whatever you want from the menu, but you need to pay for it yourself. Except for coffee, the coffee is free, my treat.”
I tell Cash, thanks for the confusion and generosity and I sit in a booth and peruse the menu. I have four quarters and a dime in my pocket and nothing anywhere else. The waitress comes and I order a Denver omelet with hashbrowns and coffee. The other five guys are wearing jackets and ties and bad haircuts like they’re on their way to Sunday School. I’m wearing my black leather fringed jacket and a Mighty Mouse tee shirt with Levi bellbottom jeans and black stovepipe boots. I figure I’m the coolest person for miles around.
I eat my breakfast and I’m on my second cup of coffee when one of the two older guys stands and dink-dinks his glass. Everything about the guy is boring, his suit is too large, and his face and demeanor makes me sleepy. His tells us, this is the opportunity of a lifetime and while it’s not exactly a photography job we can still be as creative as we want. It’s a sales job related to photography. Door to door selling leather photo albums along with film processing and pictures for the albums which become treasures of the memories of your life. There is also a script to memorize, a word-for-word sales pitch. I feel like I’m back in high school and need to do something disruptive. I can see about half of our group are not sure they want to be here. I know I don’t, but I don’t leave.
Now Cash has the floor, and he’s more kinetic and entertaining. He explains how one can rise to a higher level of pay—he casually mentions, no hourly wage, no salary; commission only—which will grow and grow. Cash is motivated. He tells us to look out the window to see his car in the lot, a brand-new Lincoln Continental, which is the car of a successful salesman. Cash says money money money, we are all going to be making money.
We’re going to sell sell sell until we won’t need to sell anymore because we will be in charge of our own group—just like Cash is—and this new crew will be making money for all of us. More more more money money money. Cash McAlhaney, the man with the 1971 Lincoln Continental is going to make us all rich just like him. We can be driving our own Lincolns. And, gosh darn-it, who knows, maybe one of us might want to buy a Corvette with all the money we’re going to be making.
Now Cash is running, lopsidedly, in place, calling the troops to get up and outside and we are going to take a run around the block to get our motors motivated. Everybody is up and on their way outside. I leave a fifty-cent tip for the waitress. I crumple the check, $1.90 and put it in my pocket and walk outside.
The smarter guys have gone off to look for other jobs and the remaining idiots are running around the block. I join Cash at the curb. I ask him how come he’s not leading the Hollywood marathon?
“Polio, Sport. I can’t run, I had polio when I was ten. Spent two years in isolation. No running for me, I’ve done my time. What about you, why aren’t you running, you don’t need the motivation? You’re going to let a great opportunity pass you by?”
“I don’t run unless somebody is chasing me and even then, I’m likely to stop and fight or maybe roll up in a ball and pretend I’m invisible.”
“Are you signing up for the job? Did you see my car? I live in Newport Beach, in a bachelor pad in a swinging complex. Got girls all over the place. You can do as good as me if you want to. All’s you got to do is memorize the script and knock on some doors.”
I flip open a flip-top box of Kools and take out a joint. I light it with my Zippo, take a long hit and offer it to Cash.
He calls me Sport, “You can’t be doing that here, Sport. That’s just looking for trouble.” He’s looking around for LAPD stormtroopers. He takes the joint and looks at it like it might bite.
I call him Man; I call everyone Man. “This is Los Angeles, Man, nobody gives a shit if I smoke a joint.”
The two older guys in suits are talking and walking into the parking lot. “Those are my bosses, I could get fired doing this. I just met you and you’re already a bad influence.” He takes a long hard hit.
“Yeah, well, that’s my life goal, spreading corruption one person at a time.”
He blows out a billow of smoke and puts a hand on his face checking to make sure it’s still there. “Darn, Sport, you got to come work for me and bring some more of this marijuana grass. Everything is kind of watery and funny.” He starts laughing for no apparent reason other than the pot. “Would you believe I’ve never done this before?”
“Yeah.” I say. “I can believe that.”
Cash holds up the joint and looks at it for a couple of beats and then he laughs and takes another hit.
***
Going to bed and going to sleep at 10pm is impossible. Waking up and getting out of bed before noon is difficult. My body doesn’t work that way. It was four am when I got to sleep. Now, nine am and I’m in my little VW trying to wake up and driving to Newport Beach. I’m meeting Cash McAlhaney in a Ralph’s parking lot.
I’m yawning and tuning the radio and watching a movie in my head. It’s all about me and I’m a famous writer and I’m being interviewed for Rolling Stone magazine and my answers are flippant and clever like a Bob Dylan interview. I drive past Ralph’s and don’t notice till I’m already past the parking lot where I see Cash’s Lincoln. Fuck. I make a U-turn, and someone honks at me and when I pull into the lot a cop is behind me with lights flashing.
I park in front of Cash’s Lincoln and turn off the ignition and wait while the cop and another cop get out of the car and approach me from both sides. I roll down my window.
The cop tells me he needs to see my license and registration.
I scratch my nose with my middle finger and tell him, yeah, sure, not a problem, Gestapo.
The cop opens my door and grabs me and pulls me out and slams me against the car. He bends my right arm behind me.
He says “You want to call me that again, scum fuck?”
I say, “Ouch, fuck, I didn’t do anything.”
Cop #2 asks #1 what was it I said?
Cop #1 tells me go ahead, Punk. Tell him what you said. He twists my arm a little more.
I tell cop #2 all I did was call him gazpacho. I called him cold tomato soup.
Cop #2, the elder of the two, laughs. He has grey in his hair and a beer belly.
Cop #1, a blond Aryan muscle-boy with a droopy mustache punches me in the kidneys and I go to my knees. He tells me again he needs to see my license and registration. He says, maybe I think I’m funny but I’m just another wise-ass piece of shit.
I want to tell him I’m not just another wise-ass, I’m a unique wise-ass, but I don’t tell him anything. I dig my license from my wallet and get the registration from the car. Cop #1 hands the paperwork to Cop #2 who goes to the black and white to check for warrants. In the meantime, Cash McAlhaney, along with two of the guys I recognize from the Copper Penny, have climbed out of the Lincoln to better watch me get ticketed and brutalized.
Cop #1 yells at Cash and crew and tells them they don’t need to be here and to my surprise Cash tells cop #1 yes, he does need to be here, he’s waiting for me. Cop #1 tells Cash go wait somewhere else. Cash tells him he wouldn’t say that if he knew who his father was. Cop #2 returns from checking my credentials and I’m clean. He walks over to Cash and tells him the smart thing to do, right now, is to get back in his fancy car and go someplace else while he still can. Cash and crew get in the Lincoln and drive away.
Cop #1 writes a ticket for driving on the wrong side of the street and making an illegal U-Turn. He smiles and tells me have a nice day. I don’t say anything. I light a cigarette, hoping it will somehow redeem me.
As they walk back to the black and white. Cop #2 elbows #1 in the ribs and tells him, let’s go get a coffee or maybe some soup, Gazpacho, I’m buying.
Cash pulls up with his crew of two in the back seat. I lock up my car and climb into the front passenger seat of the Continental. Cash asks did I get a ticket and I say yeah for a U-turn and driving on the wrong side of the street.
Guy in the backseat is impressed. He says wow can he see the ticket?
“What, you’ve never seen a ticket?”
“No way, I’ve never even talked to a policeman before.”
I know it’s not smart or a point in my favor but having a long string of altercations with the police makes me feel superior. I dig the ticket from my pocket and tell him he can keep it as a souvenir. He nods, but then asks, don’t I need to pay it? I say yeah, well, maybe, I don’t know, maybe not. Depends on if I make any money on this job. The guy tells me I could get in a lot of trouble if I don’t pay it, and I say yeah, well, trouble is my hobby.
Cash drives us to Santa Ana which is irritating because we go within a couple of blocks of my place which could have saved me the drive and the ticket. Cash recites the five-minute sales spiel we are all supposed to have learned, then the guys in the back seat give it a try.
I tell Cash I was going to memorize it but then I didn’t but it’s not a problem I’ll just read it to whomever opens their door. Cash shrugs it off and I don’t think he cares if I sell anything or not. He just wants to smoke some more of my dope and hang out with a bonified antiestablishment scofflaw.
In Santa Ana, we go to a lower-middle class neighborhood. It’s ten thirty which Cash says is the best time to ring doorbells because husbands are at work, and the lonely wives need a break from housecleaning. He says if you see a sign on the door that says no salesmen or solicitors that means they can’t turn down a bargain so definitely ring those doors. He says keep a lookout for tricycles and toys in the front yard which signifies young mothers who are the best customers as they love the idea of memories and that’s what we are selling, Memories.
I say oh gosh, oh golly. Sounds like those memories are made of motherfucking love. No one comments.
Both of the backseat guys have their three-ring binders with the spiel and accoutrements. One of the guys has a Nikon camera around his neck. Cash gives each of us a satchel which contains a bunch of pictures of babies and weddings and all the happy memories, along with a fake leather album with gold scrollwork.
I have a question. “So, if we make a sale, they get the album and we’re done for the day, right?”
“No, Sport, they don’t get the album now. It will be delivered in a week or so along with their coupons for their photographs and processing.”
“They’re going to give me money, cash or check and I’m not leaving anything for them, and they’re just going to trust me? I wouldn’t trust me for a fucking minute.”
Cash agrees, I don’t inspire trust. But a good salesman knows how to gain the trust of his customers. “That’s what makes a great salesman. You’ve got to take away any suspicion, you know. You need to get them to believe they are getting a great deal. That’s what the script is all about.” Cash gestures with his hands and punctuates with his fingers. “Look at me, look at my car and my suit, Sport. Just do the script. That’s all you’ve got to do.”
Cash drops the boys on a corner where he says he will pick them up at five. He drives to another corner and gives me all my stuff and wants to know do I happen to have another Mary-Jane cigarette like I had yesterday. He says he would be happy to pay me for it except he forgot and left his cash at home, in his swinging bachelor apartment. He says we can take it out of the sales at the end of the day. Rather than give him a joint, I smoke one with him. When he drives off, he looks way too stoned to be driving off.
I light a Kool and look around and decide I really don’t want to be here, but I’m stoned and happy and have nothing better to do. Southern California apartments are boxy like mud huts with squared corners, alleyways in the back with carports. The first door I knock on is opened by a Hispanic woman who speaks no English. I tell her buenos dias and have a nice day and then I go to the next door and ring the bell and no one answers.
At the next door a woman not much older than I opens it, and there is a baby crying in the background and the air from indoors wafts outdoors and smells like steamed broccoli. I tell her never mind and then cross to the other side of the street. At the first door I ring the bell and a hot teenage babe answers and says, “Hey, what’s happening?”
I tell her I’m supposed to be selling some crap, but you know, it’s not important and how is she doing? She says come on in and I do, and I don’t come back out for another fourteen hours.
Oh, yeah. I remember this one. It's a classic.
How did I know that was coming?