Part III: 1978

Let me be reverent in the ways of right, Lowly the paths I journey on; Let all my words and actions keep The laws of the pure universe From highest Heaven handed down. For Heaven is their bright nurse, Those generations of the realms of light; Ah, never of mortal kind they begot, Nor are they slaves of memory, lost in sleep; Their Father is greater than Time, and ages not. --Sophocles, Oedipus Rex, strophe 1, as translated by Fitts and Fitzgerald (1939).

The more I know, the less I understand. --Some guy who sounded like Freddie Coleman who was sitting in for Colin Coweherd on The Herd With Colin Cowherd on Christmas Eve, 2011.

Chapter 47: Welcome to Pasadena So there I was in Pasadena. It was hot. Id checked into a Best Western on Colorado Boulevard and it was a lot further away from school than Id expected. I was wandering around town kind of aimlessly, with an unfocused intention of finding a place to live. This was new to me. One thing about Pasadena is that there are lots of college students there. There are several colleges, and several kinds of colleges, so theres lots of student housing, even if its not called that. I had been to my schools housing center, I had walked around taking phone numbers off of Xeroxed notices stapled to telephone poles seeking roommates, I had done what I could figure out to do, but I hadnt come up with anything, and school started the next day. I had worked at it for just two days but was already discouraged. This problem had not seemed like it would be so difficult to solve. I was sitting on a bench next to a water display on campus, although I still hadnt taken a class there, when I felt a presence nearby and an old man sat down next to me on the bench. Hola, he said. He was wearing a black cloak over a white robe of some sort, which looked to me to be miserable attire for a hot summer day. He had what appeared to be the worlds longest strand of Rosary beads knotted about his middle as a belt. He was wearing sandals. The old kind, not the new kind. Youre Thomas, I said. I remembered him from Hixson Lanes. Si, he answered. I dont speak Spanish, I said. Se, he said. Jack Benny used to do this routine with Mel Blanc, I said. I need you to speak English. Si, he said. But I like that Jack Benny routine. Why do you keep popping up? I asked. Que? he asked. I just stared at him. What do you mean? he asked. I remember seeing you at the Hixson Lanes with Ford. Day-drinking on an excuse. Then I remember seeing you at Rotiers, but it seemed like Beatriz had known you for years. Is there some place where we could get a drink? he asked. So all thats true? I asked.

True, I dont know, but accurate, si, he said. So are you stalking, me, or something? Why do you keep showing up? He thought for a few seconds. No, I am not stalking you. He handed me a small piece of paper with a phone number written on it. It looked to be one of those phone numbers you tear off of the bottom of a Xeroxed ad stapled to a telephone pole in a college town. You are looking for a place to stay? he asked. Sure. This house is right down the street. We can walk over to look at it. Then rather than call about it we can walk around the corner to talk to the landlord, he said. We. Si. You also need a car. I know a guy. But lets go look at the house. So we walked over to a house on South Mentor Avenue, just south of California. Less than a block from where we were. The house was a little overgrown and in need of s few repairs, but it was a nice house and it was less than a block from school. Mentor deadended into California, and not far from the intersection of Mentor and California Id noticed a diner called Pie n Burger that looked like my kind of place. How much? I asked. $650 per month, he said. Okay, I said. To be peering through the windows of a vacant house with someone who appeared to be a Dominican friar seemed a little odd. The landlord is the laundry in the rear, he said. Excuse me? The French Laundry, which is on Lake Street, owns the property. They bought it wanting to knock the house down to create parking and a rear entrance for their laundry. The city wouldnt allow it so the laundry has left the property vacant for years in protest. The city recently ordered them to clean it up and put a tenant in, so it is suddenly available. How do you know this? I asked. This is in my nature. Wheres the landlord? I asked. He walked me around the corner to the French Laundry.

The woman behind the counter is the landlord, ore or less. Her name is Susan, he said, as we approached the store. Susan what? Susan Manigal, he answered. We walked in. It smelled of chlorinated solvents. There were no ther customers in the store but a woman behind the counter. Ms. Manigal? I asked. Yeah, sure, she said. You picking up? she said. No maam, I said. I want to ask about renting the house on South Mentor. Yeah, okay, she said. Se wasnt happy. She confirmed the rent, I agreed, she told me to come by tomorrow and sign a lease,, and then kind of threw a small manila envelope with keys at me. It needs work, she said. Si, said Thomas. You bringing this reprobate along? she asked me, gesturing at Thomas. Si, said Thomas. Okay. You know you still owe me for that cassock you brought in over Christmas three years ago, she said to Thomas. Si, he answered. How much does he owe you? I asked. $6.87, she answered, after looking at something in a drawer. Here you go, I said. I gave her seven dollars. Thanks pallie, she said. Come back tomorrow and Ill have a lease. We walked back around the corner to the house. I bounced the little manila envelope in my hand. We seemed to be walking back to the house to look inside. After a few steps I asked him Why am I going along with this? I will cook. The house needs much work. Many negotiations with the landlord. I can drive. I am immortal. I can teach you to be a religious man. Very little of that interests me, I said. But youre suggesting we be roommates? Si, he said. We had arrived at the house. I opened the manila envelope and found two brass keys inside. I unlocked the front door. The house was old and musty

inside. The floorboards werent in good shape. The kitchen was a mess. The power was turned off. Is it air-conditioned? I asked. After a fashion, he said. I can work with this landlord. Im guessing that youre not proposing to contribute to the rent, I said. Sadly, this is true, he said. I have taken a vow of poverty. Why am I going along with this? I asked. You are a man of great faith, he answered. I dont think you know me very well, I said. This is always possible, he said. I thought this over for a few minutes. Youll cook? Do laundry? I asked. Si. And Im guessing you dont have a place to stay tonight, I said. This is true, he said. Yeah, so I do have an extra bed at the Quality Inn, I said. Gracias, he said. And we will pass The Colorado Bar o on the way, he said. I dont drink, I said. Si, he said, but I do. And you will need dinner. We left the house to walk back to the hotel. I locked the front door and walked around the side of the house to look at the back yard. Needed work. Not far from the back door there was a small picnic table. On the picnic table was a small opened jar of bright red maraschino cherries. As I watched, a skunk climbed up onto the picnic table, sniffed around bit, then reached into the jar of cherries and pulled one out. I heard Thomas cough in the background. The bar is this way, he said. The skunk ate his cherry and then scuttled away. Here we go, I said.