“Over there!” she called out cheerily. “There are towels in the bathroom. Take your time, forget the drought. While you’re in the shower, I’ll leave you some fresh clothes outside the door. You’re a little taller than my husband, but I think the stuff will work.”
“Thanks,” he replied. “You’re great!” And then he pulled out one of his brother’s old phrases, “This will be life-changing!”
Her laugh was relieved, she was glad to be helpful, this good hearted woman who knew how lucky she was, why else take a bum in off the street, let him use her shower, give him some clothes, even if she was dead wrong about who he really was…
She lived in a fancy townhouse in West LA. And this was the first floor, an office, it looked like, hers? And this was probably the guest bathroom. In former times, on his once a month dinner with his twin brother, they used to go eat noodles near here at one of those noodle joints on Sawtelle where you could eat for ten bucks. Probably those restaurants were gone now too. After the shower, he might walk over and see.
Photo: Joel Goodman
On the ride here, it was obvious, the neighborhood had changed. Santa Monica had changed radically in the past ten years or so. And now it was happening here. Down with the little bungalows, up with the three-story town homes with plate-glass windows and the BMW’s parked in front. He was currently living in an old van, pan handling, and so far, so good. No one suspected who he really was, why should they?
Like his twin, he was tall, he was thin, he was still handsome. His straight hair was silver and he wore it in a ponytail at the base of his neck. His shirt, one of his brother’s, was pretty dirty today. But it was obvious it had once been respectable. The half glasses on the end of his nose, the soft voice, all copied from his brother and all good. Unlike his brother, who had always held a respectable job, he’d always been a druggie, a bad ass, a cheat: the list went on and on. Though they looked almost exactly alike, they were as different as night is from day, good from evil, or jail was from this fancy joint with the thick towels, and the tile floor with its nice soft mat.
He stepped out of his clothes, and even to himself who was used to his stench, they smelled bad. How could she have let him in her car? He took the plastic bag out of the trashcan, and stuffed everything in. Even his thongs fit in. This trash bin was large for all the stuff they had to throw away. The king size of everything. He had to steal sample sizes because they fit in a pocket or stuffed easily down his jeans.
When the big bookstore where his brother had worked for years, closed a few months ago, he had gotten the idea. His brother moved to San Francisco to live with some chick he knew, and got another job. That’s when he started standing in front of the big empty bookstore panhandling. People would come up to him, people who knew his brother, “My God!” they’d say. “It’s the end of the world!” “Fucking Amazon!” –and hand him a twenty. Once a fifty. They didn’t stay too long. It worried them enough to make them far more generous than they’d normally be with just a bum. She, the angel today, he figured out right away, must once have had a thing with the bro. Her stricken face, her hand on his shoulder… the soft way she said his brother’s name.
Yes, he could hold it together long enough to look humble, to look grateful, to look like his brother always was, gentle, a bookworm, always working on some book himself, he’d never finish, but never behind on his rent, or his card with its modest credit line. The nearest his bro had ever gotten to jail was visiting him!
The hot water rushing down felt great; he could see the grime leaving his arms and legs, swirling down the drain, the skin becoming an all-new color. How kind this woman was to let him have the gift of hot water and soap. He didn’t want to hurt her, he wanted to thank her. To tell her how good she was. She was Jesus. She was Mary. She was Joseph and all the Saints. Clean clothes. Soft towels. People were good, people were kind, people knew on some level, they were just a few steps away from where he was, naked in a strange shower in a house he’d never see again; at the mercy of strangers completely alone in the world.
When he quit the shower stall, the mirror was fogged; he opened the small window above the toilet, to let the steam out. Then he cracked open the door and grabbed the new pile of clothes, put them on. Dressed, holding the bag of dirty, he called out to her.
She came down the stairs smiling, holding a brown paper bag, no doubt, filled with good things to eat.
She beamed at him.
“Ready? Great! Here, I’ll let you out.” And she turned.
He had his eyes on her back, a nice back, narrow in the shoulders, her shoulder blades just discernible under the thin athletic shirt she wore.
He stepped forward softly, not breathing and sprung on her, hands on her neck. She was one of the ones when surprised, do not cry out. But he could imagine her face, the terror on it. He liked the terror but felt sorry for both of them. He always felt sorry for a bit before it passed.
He left her in the front hall in a heap. He was mad at himself for killing her, so he kicked her.
He called his brother that night. There were still a few pay phones left.
“I bumped into someone the other day who thought I was you.”
by 
