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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Lonely Visitor” Down in the Dirt v209 (7/23)  Order the paperback book: 
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Night Shift
Kirk Alex
3rd up on the Beverly-Wilshire. Doc says: “Got one on Walden. Wanna go?”
“I’ll go.”
“Honk three times.”
“Check.”
I make it to the three hundred block of Walden. Honk three times. No response. I honk three more times and don’t feel all that comfortable doing it. Honking your horn in Beverly Hills at 10:00 p.m. (or any time, for that matter) is like honking your horn in a cemetery. Dead. Dead. Multi-million dollar mansions. No people. Some lights.
I press a button inside the housing at the gate.
“Who is it?” a female voice asks.
“Taxi.”
The gate opens.
I make it up the winding driveway, past the guest house. The guest house alone is probably worth half a mil, but so what? I’ve got my $250.00 per month furnished room; I’m happy I guess. The main house is big. Three cars in the driveway. I see a German shepherd strolling the grounds looking to kick ass. I roll my window up.
A 14-year old chick with lots of makeup, wearing the tightest red sweatsuit appears.
“What happens if we don’t want a cab?”
“What?” I don’t understand what she’s trying to say. “You mean you changed your mind? You don’t want a cab now?”
She nods. Giggles. “Right.”
“That’s two bucks.”
“What for?”
“Service charge,” I say.
She goes back in. Returns with a $20. I break the bill, cut a U, make it back down the driveway. Beverly Hills, baby. How do you like the way they throw it away? No, they’re not spoiled. Got rocks for brains.
Doc’s holding one up on Roscomare.
“Call me approaching.”
We do it this way to prevent guzzling. I call him approaching. It’s way up there on Roscomare. Two women, and a guy. The guy is stone drunk. He so drunk he can barely walk. They’re trying to convince him to get in the cab. He won’t hear it. Finally, one of the women says:
“Jerry, will you please get in the fucking cab?”
He gets in the back. I don’t like drunks sitting in the back. I like ‘em where I can keep a good eye on ‘em. I tell him to sit in the front. He staggers out. The woman’s got to assist the stupid bastard.
“Why don’t you be a gentleman and get in the goddamn cab?” I tell him.
He’s in.
Guy’s got gray hair. Premature gray. Glasses. Ninety feet later, he says:
“Can you please pull over to the right?”
Okay. I don’t want him puking in my cab, at least this is what i think is the reason behind this request. I pull over.
“In front of that car,” he says.
I park in front of the Datsun.
“What if I give you five bucks and you follow me in your cab down to Sunset?”
The guy is nuts. He’s slurring his words, can’t talk, and he’s talking about wanting to drive his car to Santa Monica (the City of––that’s where he lives.)
I’m trying to talk him out of it, and I don’t know why. The guy’s a jerk. And maybe I do know why.
“What if you kill somebody, man? Don’t you know there’s a new law? They’re really cracking down?”
“How old are you?”
“30,” I tell him.
“I’m 33,” he says.
There’s no hope for the son of bitch. “You’ll never grow up,” I tell him.
“I know: the big asshole. Please, do me this one favor, okay?”
Fuck it. He gives me ten. I give him all the singles I’ve got on me: four. He takes the bills. Gets out. Staggers to his car, slides in. Takes it down the hill. I stay with him for about a mile. There’s no traffic around. Maybe luck’s on his side.
Doc’s got one on Oak Pass, and Oak Pass is a good four mile haul. I shoot up Roscomare to Mulholland, take Mulholland to Benedict, Benedict to Hutton, Hutton to Oak Pass.
Another multi-million dollar mansion. There’s a hustler standing in front of the gate. I know he’s a hustler, I’ve seen enough of them: worn jeans, the lumberjack shirt, the short hair, the mustache; lumberjack boots. Standard West Hollywood street hustler attire.
He gets in. Looks macho, but when he opens his mouth to speak the voice does not match the appearance. Soft-voiced. Too soft. And he says:
“Do you know who lives in that house?”
“No, I don’t,” I answer. Well, not true. Because I used to know. He was a major star of the silver screen at one time, then became popular on TV. Died of AIDS a while back.
He names a top, very in, very in, physical fitness guru. Got his own cable workout show, has a bestseller out on “how to shed those ugly pounds.” Owns a fitness salon in Beverly Hills.
My passenger tells me the mansion is equipped with security cameras. That it’s an incredible place, really incredible.
“You think the guy is happy?” I ask.
“No, no, I don’t. He lives all by his lonesome in that huge house. All by himself. All he does is work work work, no time for a relationship, just quickies.”
The guy wants me to go to Santa Monica and Highland, later on changes his mind and makes it Gardner and Fountain.
“Where I started,” he says.
“Right,” I say.
We were both working the might shift.
3:15 a.m. A Coldwater Canyon call. I took it up there, way way up there. Greenback Land. Pull into the driveway. The prostitute comes out. Tall blond in white blouse, tight black skirt and black stiletto heels. Gets in the front seat.
“Cheap motherfuckers,” she says. Then asks for a cigarette. I didn’t have any.
“The motherfucker only gave me a hundred,” she says. “Wanted me to go down on his old lady. Ain’t that some shit?”
I couldn’t place the accent at first. It was kind of cute the way she went on. I thought maybe she was from France, some place like that. She says she’s from New Orleans.
“Wanted me to suck his wife,” she says. “Perverted motherfucker. I told him no way, so he gave me a hundred dollars to suck him off. Isn’t that some shit? Fucking people are sick. His wife sat there in the chair and never said a word. I don’t think it was her idea. He’s the one who wanted it. Lot of sick people in this world. A lousy hundred bucks. I shouldn’t have left the Strip. I lost a lot of money by leaving the Strip like that. Should have asked for it up front. Cheap motherfuckers.”
She was a good looking woman, a lot prettier than most prostitutes I see out here. She had me drive her to a low-rent motel on Vine in Hollywood. It was highly unlikely that I would ever see her again, but as she got out I reached for one of my cab company cards and quickly jotted my cab number down. I held the card out to her.
“What’s this?”
“In case you ever need a cab.”
“Oh,” she says, taking the card, and walks away.
On that, I back it out of the motel driveway, stealing a final glance at all that golden hair, the long legs, as she climbs the staircase to the second floor. There’s no denying the bit of sadness that I feel in the pit of my belly because I wish she was in love with me (and knowing really there’s no chance of that happening).
