4-4-01 W 5:15 PM

I’m at the Redwood House. My great uncle, Bill Eaton, used to run this place. Back then, its walls were adorned with boxing memorabilia—he was a big fight fan—and LA Times covers—the Times building being right across the street. He must have taken the boxing pictures when he lost the place. Back then, it was Eaton’s Redwood House. Everyone in here is drunk. I’m going up to see the Dodgers after this. Me dear ma drove up here to mind the baby. Frank sings “Devil Moon.” Not everything has changed about this place. Wood, brass, mirrors. Brass elephant heads hold the rail in their trunks. In the booth behind me, we used to drink Shirley Temples and Roy Rogers when my brother and sister and I were kids. The Braves and Mets are o the tube. I ordered a Monte Christo. The vibe thrums weird in here. I’ve walked into something. All the old drunks in here know each other already.  A big Armenian says to a black guy down the bar, “Kiss me, Bitch.”  “Shut up, Frankenstein,” says the black guy who sounds gay. The phone rings. “Phone call for Squeaky,” calls the bartender, and everybody laughs. The woman on the corner says, “Fuck off,” and walks to the Armenian and scratches his hand. He laughs and runs away. Meanwhile, the guy next to me is going on and on and ON about eating a raw potato to keep from getting drunk. He has a bowl of diced raw potato in front of him. He eats them and drinks shots. I don’t ask why he wants to drink and not get drunk. Squeaky returns, out of breath. I don’t see the Armenian. Maybe he’s lying in the alley with his eyes clawed out. An old multiple-chinned woman starts to complain about Dodger slugger Gary Sheffield. “He seems like such an asshole,” she says. I wouldn’t argue. I finish my sandwich. Squeaky asks if I’m “documenting all this.” “Only what I can see, hear, and smell,” I say.  She puts on her coat. “It’s like group therapy,” she says. “It ain’t nice, though.  The waiter brings the potato man a sandwich. “This is a fucking butter knife!” potato man screams. “Let me do it,” says the waiter. “No. Bring me another knife, you fucking Philippino.”  “He’s Vietnamese,” says the bartender.  A new guy walks in. “Is Sharky here?”  “Somewhere.” The Armenian walks back in. He, as it turns out, is Sharky. “Now we got trouble,” he says. I guy with a crutch gets up and leaves.