5/12/23
Newsletter #334
The Crack of Dawn
Back in 1986 I was living in the bungalow on McCadden St. in Hollywood with Scott Spiegel and another guy. This is the place where Quentin Tarantino used to hang out. This was long before the internet and online dating. In the two free newspapers in town – The LA Weekly and The LA Reader – there were extensive sections of personal ads. Personal ads never had photos. I often read them, but I had never tried it. One ad caught my attention: it said that she was intelligent, slim, attractive, “ravishing,” and had “beautiful red hair.” I was immediately put in mind of young Maureen O’Hara. I wrote a short, rather generic, response, mailed it off to the The LA Weekly, then promptly forgot about it.
A few weeks later, Scott, who didn’t have a car at the time, borrowed mine. I was sitting all alone in the bungalow, which was a rare occurrence, and the phone rang. On the other end an unfamiliar female voice speaking in a breathy, Marilyn Monroe-esque way, asked, “Is Josh there?” I said, “Speaking.” She said, “Hi, this is Jeannie,” which meant nothing to me, so she clarified, “You wrote to me through The LA Weekly.” I remembered and said, “Right. With the red hair.” She said, “Right. Exactly. Wanna get together?” I said, “Sure. When?” She said, “Right now.” I was slightly taken aback. I thought, “Aren’t we supposed to have a conversation on the phone first and see if we can actually converse?” Oh well, it’s the modern world; things move fast; get with the program. I said, “Sure,” then immediately remembered that Scott had my car. “Shit, my roommate has my car.” She asked suspiciously, “Roommate?” I said, “It’s a guy. Can we do this another night?” Jeannie said, “It’s now or never. Take a cab.” I had almost no money, but what the hell? Beautiful red hair like Maureen O’Hara; I’m there. I said, “OK, where are you?” She said, “El Coyote. I’m the girl with the red hair.” I said, “Gimme a minute, I’ll be right there.”
I hastily changed and cleaned up. I arrived at El Coyote, a place I liked, within an hour. The cab ride was $8.00 and I gave the driver a ten. What the hell, I was a sport out on a hot date.
“How many?” asked the hostess. I said, “I’m meeting someone.” I slowly walked into the bar. As I came around the corner I saw, seated in the first booth with her back to me, an anorexically thin girl with henna red hair that was pulled up with hair ties into five or six sprouts, which my sister used to call, “Whales.” As I slowly walked past, I glanced at her, and she was ridiculously ugly. Comically ugly. She had such a protruding underbite that, given the addition of a corncob pipe, would be a dead ringer for Popeye. I nearly gasped and recoiled. I thought, “She doesn’t know who I am, I can just keep going.” She said, “Josh?” I stopped, which was a dead giveaway. I turned and said, “Jeannie?” She smiled, revealing her yellowed teeth, and grew uglier. “That’s me. With the red hair.” I thought, “OK, sure, what the hell. I’m here. We’ll have a drink, then I’ll split.”
So, Jeannie and I had Margaritas. She’d consumed at least three before I got there and was already fairly drunk. Fate is cruel. Not only was Jeannie butt ugly, and not really a redhead, but she was also stupid and boring. A winning combination. We finished our enormous Margaritas, and I said, “Well, it was a great pleasure meeting you, Jeannie, but I’m going to go,” and started to stand up. She said, “You don’t have a car.” I thought, “Oh, fuck, I don’t have a car.” I said, “I’ll call a cab.” She said, “I’ll drive you home, it's the least I can do. You paid for a cab to get here.” She was right, I had. And after paying for the two Margaritas, I was damn near broke. I shrugged and sighed, “Sure.”
We got in her beat-up Toyota, and she pulled up to the exit leading to Melrose Ave. I pointed to the right and said, “That way.” Jeannie hit the gas and went left. I said, “What are you doing? I live back that way.” Looking straight ahead she said, “I live this way.” Being the reasonable guy I am, I said, “Are you out of your fucking mind? Turn this car around!” Jeannie immediately pulled a U-ee across Melrose and headed back toward Hollywood. We drove in silence.
I said, “Turn here on Fountain.” We turned on Fountain, which led to McCadden. Suddenly, she veered to the curb, slammed it into park, and leapt on top of me. Trying to force her tongue into my mouth, she grabbed my hand, put it on her flat breast, and said, “Just come on, just fuck me. What’s the difference?” The difference was that I outweighed her by at least 50-pounds, and I was a man. I grabbed by her bony shoulders, lifted her off of me, and gently placed her back in her seat. I said, “You can drive me the rest of the way, or I’ll walk.” Jeannie put in gear, and we silently drove the last couple of blocks.
We pulled up in front of the house that was in front of the bungalow, and she stopped. After a long moment of uncomfortable silence, I said, “Well, it was really nice meeting you, but—" and she leapt on me again. With her tongue snaking all over my face, she now tried to shove my hand down her pants, and repeated, “Just fuck me. What’s the difference?” Once again, I grabbed her, but this time hard, and I slammed her into her seat. I got out of the car and went inside, but I was shook. It didn’t matter that she was a 98-pound girl; she had just sexually assaulted me, and I felt abused. Defiled. But luckily for me, I was stronger than her.
A week later, I received a small manila envelope in the mail. Inside were five one- dollar bills, and a piece of note-sized paper, torn out of a spiral pad. It said, “Sorry about El Coyote. Here’s the money for your cab fare. Jeannie.”
I just raised the shade and the blue gels have arrived. Soon, it will be the Crack of Dawn.