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Novels | Home ACT THREE THE VANILLA KID The Vanilla Kid was the only name anyone knew for him; and probably,
at that time, the only name he knew for himself. He always carried a bottle of Vanilla
Extract in his pocket. He wore Vanilla. He drank Vanilla. He was one of dozens of street people, the
regulars, who habituate Santa Monica Boulevard, from Plummer Park at the east
end of town, to West Hollywood Park at the west end. They are the people who
sleep in those parks, or in alleys or doorways, under bushes, behind trash
bins, in hidden places; they are the people who wear discarded clothing; the
people who bum cigarettes; people who live off the spare change they beg from
sympathetic strangers; people who get beat up for what little they were able
to collect that day; people who sometimes get murdered; people who have disappeared
from some other life and will disappear from this one as well; people in
limbo; people who are lost. As though by tradition or some grand
design, each presents a distinguishing characteristic, a mannerism or look
that says individuality. A gimmick. Red tennis shoes, maybe. A poncho. A
repeated monologue, shouted anew for each group of passersby. A special
blanket. A gesture. In addition to his distinctive aroma, The
Vanilla Kid presented his uniqueness with an on-going mime: He held his left
arm aloft and rested his right hand inside the crook of his elbow, three
fingers waving frantically as though he were giving life to a glove puppet. The first time anyone saw this apparition
of multicolored and multilayered clothing was the day after Halloween. A gas
station attendant at the eastern end of West Hollywood was opening for the
day when the Kid appeared from nowhere, tipped his cap, and said: “Do you know anyone who could loan me a
quarter?” The fellow was so taken aback by this
approach that he gave him a dollar. By the end of the day, just about everyone
who worked or walked on the east half of the Boulevard had been asked if
they knew anyone who had some spare change to loan. Some did, some didn’t. A checker at a midtown market recalled
selling an economy-sized bottle of Vanilla Extract to a strange man. His
outfit, she said, didn’t seem any more outrageous than the rest of her
customers, but she noticed the Kid because Vanilla was all he bought. “Do you know anyone who could give me a cigarette?” “Do you know anyone who has a spare hotdog?” “Do you know anyone who could loan me some socks?” “Do you know anyone who would give me coffee?” “Do you know anyone who has an extra blanket?” Within a few days, his shtick and his smell made him slightly infamous. Some of his regular donors called him “Anyone,” but most knew him as “The Vanilla Kid,” or “Kid” for short. Also within a few days, he became acutely
aware of the disadvantages of being homeless. He itched. It started with his toes,
scarcely one day into his state of homelessness. Then his crotch and ass
joined in, and got worse than his toes ever were. Armpits followed soon
after. He scratched. But some innate social sense
told him not to scratch in front of the people he was asking to give him
things. He’d wait until he could be alone in some secluded spot, then scratch
everything at once, often for fifteen or twenty minutes at a time. His hair got stiff and more unmanageable
than ever. He developed a metallic odor if he went for more than a couple
hours without applying fresh Vanilla. He learned how physically hard the real
world is. Wood is hard, metal is hard, concrete is hard, plastic is hard, even
lawns are hard. Out there—outside—there are no beds, no upholstered furniture,
no pillows. Everything one leans on, sits on, or lies down on, is hard. He learned how physically cold it is out
there. Everything that’s hard is also cold. The air is also cold. Moving air,
as in breezes and winds, is colder than still air. Wet anything is colder
still. To-the-bone cold. The first few nights, he curled up behind the hot
water heater at a car wash, but even that couldn’t keep the cold away in the
early morning hours. He began walking most of the night, then sleeping in the
afternoon sun, when there was sun. He found that the sheriffs deputies were
less likely to disturb an afternoon napper, as compared to when they found a
“bum” hiding in a doorway or hanging around a car wash at three in the
morning. He did well enough to survive those
first few days, but the novelty of him wore out quickly. The donations
dwindled from dollars to dimes, which left him with barely enough, and
sometimes not quite enough, money to buy food—which meant he ran out of Vanilla. |