for over an hour at two o’clock in the morning to choke down a foot long Polish sausage smothered in chili and onions. But this was a weeknight, and there was virtually no wait.
“This is great. I love these things,” Morgan mumbled, almost incoherent, as she cocked her head to one side and bit off the end of a bratwurst. I watched her in her black dress and coat as she bounced and twirled around absent-mindedly on the wide sidewalk. The lights of La Brea extended away to the south behind her, slowly coming together in the distance, forming an elongated electric V that seemed to point to the heart of an infinite swarm of neon and night.
I handed the man behind the counter a twenty and took my change and my dog. I stood for a second, watching her drift south toward Melrose. The images of her movements came through like a series of snapshots of some other night, with some other people. It was hard for me to believe I was there, standing at the curb with my jacket flailing, one arm clutching a Coney dog and the other raised and waving at the passing cabs. Morgan leaned against me, bouncing from foot to foot, off balance and laughing at the dot of mustard on my nose.
Morgan lived in Beverly Hills, just off Pico and east of Beverly Drive where two story, four unit buildings, old growth palm trees, and decorative streetlights line the blocks. The cab stopped. We both got out with no discussion, no coy comments, no entendres, almost without thought of any kind. We went inside and up the narrow stairs to her second floor doorway.
“I’m subletting a place from a law student at USC who’s in San Francisco for the summer.” She tried three times before getting the key in the lock. “Oh, that won’t do.” She laughed and glanced up at me. “You’ve got to get it in the hole.” When she finally got the door open she walked in and flipped on the light, snorting as she laughed again. “Fuckin’ chick has no taste.” She spun around in the center of the room, slowly, with her arms out. “There’s no place like home!” She doubled over, laughing silently. “If I only had some red slippers!”
The room was done in a farmhouse motif. It was filled with kitschy painted ducks and cows, old tea kettles and glass bottles sat on shelves, and on the wall beside the entrance to the kitchen was a series of wooden hearts connected with bailing wire from which hung a sign in the shape of a sheep that read “Bless this Country Home.”
“Isn’t this just hideous?” She asked, after regaining her composure.
“It’s a bit of a shock. I thought I’d stumbled into a Willa Cather novel all of a sudden.”
Morgan went into the kitchen. I could hear the fridge open and bottles clinking together. She returned with two open Heinekens and handed one to me. We sat on the couch and there was silence for the first time that night — no music, no voices in the background, no conversation, no static from a car radio, no rushing noise of fries hitting a deep fryer, no lonely traffic on the wide midnight streets of a sleeping Hollywood. The beer felt good in my mouth and I filled my cheeks and swallowed it slowly, wondering what to do with the awkward quiet. My movements were impaired and exaggerated. I turned and smiled at her. She smiled back and moved toward me, whispering loudly.
“Hey! Guess what?” She was chuckling, her eyes narrow, almost closed. With one knee on the couch and one foot one the floor, she crawled toward me. “I liked that Pink’s place.”
“Good. I wasn’t sure you would.” I held my breath, afraid that any sudden movement or poor choice of words might kill the moment. I felt numb; my body tingled at its extremities.
“Why?” She brought her face close to mine, our noses nearly touching. “You don’t think a girl like me likes sausage?” I could feel her hand on the couch, between my legs and pressing up against me. I couldn’t believe she’d said it. And it was only at that moment that I knew it was really going to happen. I slouched down beneath her. The alcohol on her breath mixed with the perfume and the smell of the bars and cabs and streets. She was rubbing me. My hands slid down her back and