I’m walking down Seventh Street towards Figueroa when he approaches me.
“Hello, young lady, hello?” He’s shorter than me and much older, with thick rimmed glasses that obscure his eyes. He seems harmless and I drop my brisk walk to a slow meander.
“Hi.”
“What’s your name? My name is Anthony.”
“Devon. How are you Anthony?”
“I’m good, I’m good. I got no complaints today, thank the Lord. No complaints.” He lifts his paper bag up. “I got some Diet Coke and Jack Daniels in here.”
It seems pointed. It seems fated. This man is drinking my drink of choice.
Whiskey-Diet Coke is one of my “things”. Like dinosaurs and dark-haired cinephiles and switchblades marketed towards women, it is something I am known for loving.
He pauses, then repeats again, “I got no complaints.”
We walk along in silence for a bit, passing the Bottega Louie.
“You look cool, like them girls from the 60’s. Do you smoke? Do you smoke weed? I got some.” He pats the side pocket of his navy windbreaker.
“Oh, no thank you Anthony, I’ve got work today. I can’t smoke.”
“What kinda work you do?”
“I’m a writer.”
He laughs, looking me up and down. “A writer! That’s incredible. What do you write about? You write any books?”
“Just one.”
“What’s it about?”
“Murder.”
He bursts out laughing at that. “Look at all the size of you! She says, ‘murder.’” He says, as if he’s repeating the story later to friends.
“Well, murder and demons and mythology.” I clarify.
“Oh, mythology. Are you superstitious?”
“Oh, yes, very. In fact I think you’re a sign.”
He stops at this, pushing his glasses up his face. “Me?”
“Yeah, see I’m Irish Catholic. And my Granny used to tell me to pray to Saint Anthony when you’ve lost something and I’ve been praying pretty hard lately.”
“Oh really? What for?”
“Saint Anthony is the patron Saint of lost items and lost people.”
“You lose somebody?” His voice drops low, losing the easy going lilt it had before.
“A lot of people, Anthony.”
“I lost people too, but they never stay gone for long. Even the dead.” He starts to say something else but stops, giggling. “Saint Anthony, maybe I am. What are you supposed to do when he answers your prayer?”
“My granny used to say you had to leave him a half a crown at mass.”
“Now, what the fuck is a half a crown?”
“Hell if I know, but I’d like to buy you lunch.” I say, pulling $15 from my wallet as we pass a California Pizza Kitchen.
As I put my hand out he grabs it, covering it with his own wrinkled fingers.
“You Catholic, huh?”
“Mostly.”
“Let me tell you a secret. We been here before. Over and over again. Can you believe that?”
“I can believe a lot of things.”
He squeezes my hand, “You’ve been here looking for the same thing over and over. I hope your lost people come back to you.”
He starts to walk away before turning back around, patting his pocket.
“But I’m always here if you want to smoke and talk about it.”
When I look back, he’s gone.
