Ask the Dust Page #3

Did you read the story?

- Sure.

- So?

It's very good.

Hey, listen. You want a beer?

I can get you some.

You don't have to pay.

What did you like about it?

- Camilla.

- I have to go.

You still haven't told me

what you thought.

I told you. I liked it. I like dog stories.

- You like dog stories.

- I like dogs a lot...

- There's no dog in the story.

- There's no dog...

There's no dog in the story!

Okay. I heard you.

Then why did you call it

"The Little Dog Laughter"?

Why did you lie to me? Why did you

just say you read it when you didn't?

Listen, kid. Please, drink your beer.

It's tough enough just to have

a good time, okay?

Sir! Sir!

Forgot your hat.

- Something else you wanted to say?

- Camilla can't read.

Not Rnglish, anyway.

And another thing, Mr. Mencken,

I have no understanding of women.

How can I write about

what I don't understand?

How can I write about experiences

I haven't had?

When I first came here,

I was so sure of myself.

So sure I wasn't like the others.

The others came to the land of sunshine

with just enough money to live

until the sun killed them.

Take Hellfrick, across the hall,

from Minnesota.

Gassed in the Great war

and gassed ever since.

Most of the time,

he has no idea where he is.

So, I guess here is as good

as anywhere else.

Heilman's a bank teller

from South Bend.

But his health is bad and he was told

he had to stay here or die.

He hates the sun and the fog

and the SC Trojans.

My landlady's from Back East.

She tries to make the hotel lobby

look like Bridgeport, Connecticut.

No Mexicans and lots of doilies.

- Will there be anything else, ma'am?

- No, thank you.

Then there's the Filipino houseboy

from Hawaii

and the redhead from St. Louis.

- Hello.

- Hello.

- How are you?

- Better now.

She's come to feel he's terribly brave

in the face of so much prejudice.

The other day when I was going

to San Pedro,

looking for work at the canneries,

I saw them.

Even with high leather heels,

he was a foot shorter than she was.

I don't know where the girl

in the red fox fur is from,

but you can find her in Bernstein's Fish

Grotto with a fresh one every week.

On the other hand,

there's the Japanese man

who grows his vegetables

down on Jefferson, near the sloughs.

Bullet-faced and always smiling,

he keeps me alive for a nickel.

You like plums? Good. Good for you.

Of course there are others too poor

and too unlucky

to be allowed to call

any place their own.

Even for a while.

All right, amigos.

In the end, we're all strangers here.

Maybe the only thing that makes you

a Californian is a pair of sunglasses

and a four-bit polo shirt.

Suddenly, you belong.

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