To Live and Love In L.A. by Peller Ben

Author:Peller, Ben [Peller, Ben]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781621113911
Published: 2012-04-29T05:00:00+00:00

How To Trap A Cougar

Vs.

How To Trap A Cub

The Venetian Villa, an assisted living home, occupies a full block along Santa Monica Boulevard, just about ten blocks from the beach. Its pleasant looking terraces and a sparkling fountain in the shape of a swan lends it the impression of a nice hotel flirting with a four diamond rating rather than a place where senior citizens come in acknowledgment that this could very well be the final permanent residence they’ll have in this life.

May Weathers is the person I’ve come to find. Who could she be in this home? A receptionist? A resident? A janitor?

I walk through the doors and right off the bat am surprised by laughter. Two men, probably mid-sixties, are stalking around in a semicircle side by side, trapped in hilarity.

“She loved it!” the one on the right hollers. He’s thin, wearing a horribly mismatched outfit of striped trousers, black shirt, and a pair of cowboy boots. “I’m telling you, she was begging me for more!”

“You’re more full of shit than a crock of shit is!” his companion cackles. His white suit jacket seems to be perfectly pressed, and matches his white pants and white shoes. “She’s so old her you-know-what couldn’t get wet if it got caught in a tidal wave.”

“She managed to stain my sheets!”

“The only thing stained is your memory. You’re living in a dream world!”

“She took me to IHOP the next day!” the fantastically dressed man declares. “What do you think of that?”

“I think she was probably starving from being awake all night listening to you snore and almost shit yourself as you farted away. She’s eighty-eight years old, you idiot! She’s old enough to be your mother.”

“You know, just thinking about this makes me hungry. I could do for some breakfast. What do you say to IHOP?”

The man in white stops rotating in a circle and cocks his head. “As long as you’re buying.”

“Withered Balls,” the refugee from a thrift store declares. “You’re buying”

This very odd pair walks past me ranting nonstop at each other about sex, love, and the rooty-tooty-fresh and fruity breakfast at the International House of Pancakes on their way out the door I just came through.

I approach the front desk. A woman whose cheeks carry slight wrinkles offset by a wonderful smile peers up at me. Her hair is a brilliant crimson that matches her fingernails. “May I help you, young man?” she asks.

“I was wondering if a May Weathers lives here.” I say.

She purses her lips. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “She checked out two weeks ago.”

“Oh,” I say. “Might you have an idea as to her current whereabouts?”

The woman looks puzzled, and agitation takes over her face. “I don’t know,” she says. “She died.”

“Oh,” I say. “Sorry for…” For what? For not being familiar with the term ‘checking out’ as a… What? Allegory? Reference? Perfunctory manner of referring to an inevitable death sentence? Sorry for being alive when someone else has taken the next step in whatever walk we’re on?

She takes a deep breath.

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