While I was drawing this, I looked up to see a young man standing just off to my right, staring down at my drawing, and smiling. I took off my headphones and smiled up at him. ‘Hi,’ the young man said, ‘I hope I didn’t frighten you, I just wanted to see what you were doing.” I told the young man about the Hundred Houses project, and the stories, alerting him to the fact that he would probably be today’s story. “Oh,’ he said, ‘in that case, my name is Fernando.” I told the young man my name, and he asked me where I was from. “I am from Australia, originally,’ I said to him, ‘but I was living in England for a long time.’ ‘Oh,’ said the young man, eagerness in his voice, ‘do you know Robert Smith?’ I told the young man no, that I don’t know Robert Smith, at the same time thinking that though England is a small place, it has a lot of Smiths. ‘I really like the Cure,’ the young man then said. ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘THAT Robert Smith.’ ‘I saw them play once,’ the young man told me, ‘and I’m going to see Paul McCartney soon.’ ‘Oh, wonderful!’ I replied. ‘Yeh,’ he said, ‘I just wanna go because I’ve never seen a Beatle.’
While I was drawing, this a bedraggled young woman walked up the street in front of me, pulling a large folded, multi-coloured beach umbrella behind her. “Do you want an umbrella?” she called out to me, “I am selling this umbrella.” Even thought I didn’t want the beach umbrella, I asked her how much she wanted for it. ‘Ummmmm,’ she said, stopping, frowning and thinking, ‘Only 15 dollars.’ And then, thinking she probably really needed 15 dollars, I almost opened my mouth to buy the umbrella that I didn’t want. But I didn’t. Instead I called out no thank you, but that I probably wouldn’t ever use it. ‘Everyone gives me things,’ the woman called back to me, ‘so if you think you need anything, you just let me know, okay?’ “Okay.” I called back to her, ‘I will.”
While I was drawing this, an older man, wearing a baseball cap, a pale blue shirt, shorts and trainers and pushing a fancy looking dark blue bicycle, and another man also with a bicycle, stopped in front of me and looked down at my drawing, then across at the house I was drawing, and then back at me again. “What’s happening here?” the man said, smiling and laughing. I told the man about the Hundred Houses project and asked him what he was doing with the bicycle. ‘We cycled from San Luis Obispo, the man told me, “were just walking the last few streets home.” ‘How far away is that?’ I asked the man, knowing that it’s far, but not how far. ‘About 450 miles,’ the man said. His cycling companion corrected him. ‘475 miles,’ said the companion, whose bicycle was one of those low rider style, like a reclining beach chair with a wheel at each end. ‘Jesus,’ I said, ‘that’s a long way. Are you too tired to cycle?’ ‘My butt hurts,’ said the man, reaching around to his bum and pretending to rub it. ‘I bet it does,’ I said, looking at his seat which looked like it would be as vicious as a plastic picnic knife on the backside and testicles. ‘Believe it or not,’ he said after I suggest he get a gel seat, ‘this is the most comfortable bike seat in the world. It’s a Brooks England,’ I told the man him I did not know what that meant, but I’d Google it. ‘I’ve worn out every other seat,” the man said, “and this one takes 6 months to break in.” Then the cyclists started looking over my bicycle. ‘A bit of oil to go with those cobwebs on your gears,’ said the cycling companion, pointing to the back wheel. We all laughed at this and I explained that my bicycle had been in storage for 4 months. Then, diverting the conversation away from the shameful state of my bicycle, I said to the man in the baseball cap-‘You look like a hardcore cyclist and that bicycle looks really lightweight,’ The man told me yes, and that all they have carried on this 475 mile trip is in their panniers; a change of clothes for eating dinner in and not much else. ‘And sore butt cream?’ I said. The man laughed and said yes. ‘Have you been cycling a long time?’ I asked the man. He told me yes, he had, since he was very young. ‘I’m 75 now,’ the man told me. My mouth fell open and I frowned. ‘Are you serious?’ I said, ‘you’re 75? You look about…I dunno, 54,’ The man laughed and touched me on the shoulder and said he was going to report that to his wife. ‘I’ve been married 51 years,’ he said, ‘and I’m going home to tell her I look too young for her and that she doesn’t cut the mustard anymore,’
While I was drawing this, a man with long slicked back gray hair, wearing an Hawaiian-style shirt, khaki shorts and pushing a shopping trolley full of black trash bag, stopped in front of me, and held up his finger. ‘We spoke yesterday, right?’ he asked me, and even though I told him no, I didn’t think so, he told me me that though I probably didn’t mean to, I had caused a problem in his thoughts. And then, despite never having met the man before, I apologised. ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I apologize.’ The man shook his head slowly, held up his left index finger, waved it side to side, and then told me not to worry. ‘You weren’t aware of what you were doing,’ he said, ‘I’m sure it wasn’t intentional.’ Then the man told me that there were cameras attached to all the FedEx buildings in the country.’You know there are cameras attached all over the FedEx buildings, and that way they know everything that’s going on,’ Then he told me it had something to do with the thoughts that we were thinking. Oh,” I said, “is that right?’ Then, the man told me a long story about a convenience store. ‘I’m Jewish, and my people bought me a convenience store but there were too many people outside, all around the…,’ But I didn’t hear the rest of the story because just then a line of cars went by, honking at what I did not know. So I just sat there watching the man’s mouth, nodding my head, trying yet failing to hear fully what he was saying. After a few moments, the man stopped talking. ‘My name is Richard,’ he said, ‘and I want to thank you for listening to me.’ I told the man my name, that it had been my pleasure, and that if we ran into each other again, I would happily listen to him again. Then Richard held up his left index finger, waved it side to side smiled, and said thank you.
While I was drawing this, a woman approached me and said- ‘You know, I saw you drawing near here last week and I just love your look.’ I looked down at the tattoos on my forearms, my lint-covered black velvet shorts, the 8-dollar slip-on shoes, and wondered how I could possibly have a look anyone could like when I hadn’t showered for 2 days. “I’ve just got a role on a new TV show,” the woman said, taking out her iPhone, “I play a prisoner, and your look is perfect for it. Can I take your photo for reference?’ I didn’t know what else to say so I said sure. After a few moments fiddling with her iPhone, and me wondering what time GAP opened, I stood up and moved into the full shade, where the woman had directed me. ‘Do you want me to look mean,’ I asked the woman, feeling awkwardly criminal, ‘and put my hands on my hips or anything?’ ‘Yes,’ said the woman, ‘that would be awesome.’ ‘Do you want me to do a snarl on my face?’ I said, putting my hands on my hips and leaning menacingly to the left, ‘I can look tough if you’d like,’ ‘No thanks,’ said the woman, ‘your natural expression is enough.’ Then, while I pondered just how vicious I must normally look, the woman stopped taking photos and told me how much she liked my haircut. ‘I love your haircut,’ she said, ‘it looks so good so short,’ I thanked the woman and she said that it was her pleasure and that she’d really like a short haircut like mine. ‘I got this cut at Fantastic Sam’s,’ I told the woman. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, recognizing the name of the chain of stores where cuts can be had cheaply. ’17 dollars,’ I told her, ‘I went in there and pointed to a picture of a man on the wall and asked the Armenian stylist to please cut it like that, but make it shorter on the sides and not quite so mannish.’ ‘Well, that stylist did a fantastic job,’ the woman said, smiling. ‘Well,’ I said with a big grin, to the woman who would soon be playing a prisoner based on my ‘look’, ‘that’s probably why it’s called Fantastic Sam’s.’
While I was drawing this, a man pulled up in a big black car, exited the car, and then stood on the sidewalk in front of me and said- ‘Wow, this is a really nice street.” I told him yes, it is, and then the man then said wow again. ‘Such beautiful trees, so quiet,’ said the man, who was very tall, dressed in a white shirt, black pants and shoes and carrying a large brown paper bag.’ ‘You should see some of the streets on the other side of Olympic,’ I told him, gorgeous trees and very quiet,’ ‘Uh huh,’ said the man, ‘where are you from, what’s that accent?’ I told him Australia and he told me he thought so, and that he had lived in Australia for a time. ‘I lived in Glen Waverly,’ he told me, ‘and Clayton,’ The man then went on to name a couple of other familiar places and I sat there in the dappled light, in the heat, listening to him, nodding my head, wilting in my jeans and tee shirt. ‘Where are you from?’ I asked him. ‘Beirut,’ he told me, ‘but we went to Australia for a while and then we came here,’ ‘Nice,’ I said. Then the man told me he works for an alarm company, as a salesman. Then he told me he had another business that he was trying to get off the ground. ‘I am a hypnotherapist,’ the man said. ‘Really?’ I said. ‘Yes,’ he said, going on to tell me about a man whom he had just cured of smoking. ‘I specialise in smoking,’ the man told me, ‘and I love when I have successes,’ Then I told the man something that I could see thrilled him. ‘I trained as a hypnotist,’ I said, ‘and I have some very good friends who are hypnotherapists.’ ‘Ooooohhhh,’ cried the man, holding his hand out toward me, ‘this is great. What is your name?’ I told him my name, and he told me he his, and we shook hands and smiled at each other, bonding over hypnosis. ‘Are you a hypnotherapist or a hypnotist?’ I asked him. ‘Hypnosis is for the stage,’ he told me, waving his hand, ‘but when you add some training it becomes therapy,’ Then he told me he had certification and told me who he had trained with in the United Kingdom. I told him who I had trained with and then he told me I should start working as a hypnotist. ‘They’re slow in the US for this, but last night I spent three hours on a smoking client and I love it,’ he said, ‘I love the connection with people,’ I told him this was the reason I trained, too, that I loved working with people and helping them out. Then he told me again that I should start working and I told him I love it but have trouble with confidence. ‘Maybe I should get some sessions from you,’ I told him, smiling up at him from where I sat, ‘to help me out with my low self-confidence,’ ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you my card,’ ‘You know, I was going to park down the street but I said to myself no, I will park here and now I’ve met you,’ said the man, handing me his card. ‘Yeh,’ I said, ‘it’s a lucky meeting,’ ‘Nothing happens for nothing.’ said the hypnotherapist, smiling and reaching out to shake my hand again, ‘Everything happens for something.’
While I was drawing this, a short bald man holding a large white envelope came running toward me. ‘OH MY GOD,’ shouted the man as he reached me, ‘YOU’VE GOT GREAT ENERGY!’ ‘Really?,’ I said, taking off my headphones and standing up, ‘do I?’ ‘YES,’ shouted the man again, raising his arms as if I had just performed a hold-up on him, ‘you sure DO!’ Then, suddenly, he put his right hand on my left shoulder, inhaled, held his breath for a moment or two, tilted his head forward, exhaled and quietly said – ‘I have AIDS.” Then he pursed his lips and nodded his head up and down. ‘Shit,’ I said, frowning, ‘That’s very, very bad luck,’ Then the man opened his eyes. ‘Yes, yes it is,’ he said, looking into my eyes, ‘But don’t worry, you can’t catch it like this,’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘I didn’t think I could,’ Then the man, who was wearing a pink polo shirt, blue slacks, and was missing the front teeth on both his upper and lower jaw, pulled up the sleeve of his polo shirt. I look up to see a bony shoulder on which grey hair was growing in tufts, like seaside grasses. ‘I need some medication,’ the man said, waving the white envelope in front of my face, ‘I need 36 dollars,’ ‘Um,’ I said, ‘okay.’ Then, like a magician performing a cup and balls trick, the man waved his hand and the envelope disappeared. ‘You see?’ he said, pointing to his abdomen, ‘I need suppositories.” ‘Oh,’ I said, bending forward slightly to look at his distended abdomen. ‘You see?’ the man said again. Then the man closed his eyes and went quiet. I stared at his face, at his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping on a river bank. And then there was a long quiet between us until I broke the silence by saying ‘I’m afraid I only have 5 dollars’, The man opened his eyes and poked his head forward like an emu. ‘Is that all?’ he cried as I held a 5-dollar note toward him. ‘Yes,’ I told the man who was now tsking me and fanning his face with the white envelope, ‘I’m afraid that really is all I have.’
While I was drawing this, a young man with a camera slung around his neck, approached me. “I’d like to shoot you.’ he said. ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘really? Are you a photographer?’ ‘Among other things, yeh.’ the young man said. Then he told me his name and I told him mine and he stuck his hand out and I reached up and shook it. ‘I have, like, 14 thousand followers on Instagram,’ he said, ‘You should follow me’. Then he asked me if I was free tomorrow for the photoshoot, and after I told him I am not sure, he continued to talk at me. ‘I’ve only been here for like a month,’ he said, tapping his chest and doing a subdued jig, ‘but things are really happening for me.’ ‘Oh,’ I said, leaning back on my arms, and looking up at him, ‘that sounds good,’ Then he told me he had just made a promotional video for a tattoo artist who was about to be a celebrity. ‘He’s folk right now,’ the young man told me, ‘but he’s, like, about go big,’ Then he held out up his iPhone to show me a video of the tattoo artist being interviewed on a red carpet by a long-haired pretty teenager. Then the young man, who was dressed in black track pants, a red tee shirt, and ochre Caterpillar boots, told me he had a manager who had gotten him some acting work, and that besides being a photographer, he also does stand-up. ‘Oh, yes?’ I said. ‘Yeh,’ he said, tapping his chest again, and frowning, ‘I’m, like, a pretty funny guy,’ Then he told me that even though he is only 21 years old, he has his own production company and that he is self-taught in everything that he does. Next, he told me that he was living in West Hollywood, but that his roommate had started to “act in a strange way”. ‘He’s bisexual,’ the young man revealed, ‘which is cool because my uncle is, like, bisexual, but this guy was acting, like, like I was his wife’ Then he looked at his iPhone again, scrolling up and down, presumably looking for things to show me. Firstly he showed me some images of him posing with his shirt off while 3 girls in very little clothing hung on to various of his limbs. ‘Here’s a video I made of an androgynous,’ he said, bending down, and for the next few moments, we looked at the screen of his iPhone where a person wearing a head scarf, walked along a street in high heels, singing. And then, apropos of nothing, he told me – ‘I’m, like, excellent at imitations. Like, after about half an hour with someone I can sound exactly, like, like them.’ Then he told me he has a friend whose uncle is a big Hollywood agent, and that the uncle has taken an interest in him. ‘Have you heard of him?’ he asked me, revealing the name of the uncle/agent. Before I could say I had not, the young man told me he was a good salesman. ‘I worked in car sales for like 4 years. And even though I’m, only 21, I was already the manager.” the said. I nodded my head, but the young man was looking down at his phone, scrolling. ‘Yep, things are happening for me out here,’ the young man said, as he scrolled, ‘things are, like, really happening.’
While I was drawing this, I looked up to see a woman dressed in an Hawaiian shirt, dark blue track pants and white rubber sandals staring down at me. “Hello,” I said to the woman, taking my headphones and smiling up at her. “Wait,” she said, holding up both of her arms, like she was a televangelist praising Jesus, “is that an Australian accent I hear in that hello?” ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but I lived in England for a long time so it’s not so extreme,’ ‘I lived in Bundaberg, mate,’ the woman shouts, and laughs. I laughed, too, asking her how she came to live in Bundaberg. ‘I married an Aussie,’ she told me, ‘We were married for 8 years. I gave him a hit of acid on a beach in Indonesia…and then I married him, my own fault really.’ We both laughed. “But he couldn’t keep his arm straight,’ the woman said. ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I see.’ The woman laughed and clapped and shouted -‘SEE! you know what I mean. I knew an Aussie would know what I mean.’ ‘Yes,’ I said, nodding my head, ‘I know exactly what you mean.” ‘I gave him an ultimatum,’ she said, frowning slightly, ‘Me and the kids or the booze,’ ‘Oh, dear,’ I said. ‘He gave it up for a while,’ she told me, ‘but he went back to it,’ ‘Shit,’ I said. ‘I didn’t want to lose everything,’ she told me, ‘I have a nice house in the Canyon.” I didn’t say anything, I just nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I had my dogs there but I can’t get anymore animals because I have vertigo and asthma.’ ‘Oh, dear,’ I said, ‘that’s not good.’ ‘No,’ she said shaking her head, ‘It is not good.”
A Hundred Houses 