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he told me, “when your greatgrandmother was still alive, a long time ago. It was a different place then—really just a musician’s town, and I rode out there with a musician in fact, a fellow by the name of Timothy Q. Dorothy, a Dixie style drummer. He had some summer employment with a nightclub band out there, and when I saw a poster tacked to the cork board in the mailbox room of this very building that read something like ‘Looking for trip companion to Los Angeles to share driving and gasoline expenses. See Timothy Dorothy in apartment 12G ASAP if interested,’ I went knocking on his door right away, and we made arrangements to leave three days hence. We drove non-stop, switching shifts at the wheel every ten hours, and all we had for food was a great big pail full of sweet corn and several pounds of raisins. I spent that whole summer in Los Angeles, living in a bungalow off Pico Boulevard somewhere in the middle of town. I believe I saw Charlie Chaplin washing his car with a tremendous purple blanket once, and he wasn’t wearing any shirt. I tried to break into the nightclub scene there myself, as a comic, but it didn’t work out and come September I was on the train back to New York City. Why, are you thinking of going?” He must have forgotten I ventured there in April—he’s gotten quite senile with certain things.
