Left Coastin’

(Some LA Scenes)

Jeff Glovsky
Jeff Glovsky
Published in
4 min readMay 25, 2014


The park breaks Piggett Drive at Bentley. Who says you can’t walk out here?

Officially annoying now, though: Traipsing — sad, soft calves aflame — down endless, palm-framed, block-long miles. Buses floating past me as I drift…An island in this stream of traffic noise and children screaming.

* * *

Loud and blonde and Japanese, she reams the piled heap upon the floor of her gold auto…and in doing so, intrigues me with the workout suit she’s sporting: Black, fish shorts laced tight to thighs, brown, round and muscled where they ought to be.

El Mirador apartments blink, night, later. She is blowing me.

“Hey, how about a lay?” I say.

“Okay! A ‘lay’…”

We bang away.

She’s only staying, it turns out, El Mirador apartments…She’s not from LA. Nor interesting…Her workout suit was. Peeled now, she’s disappeared…

I reel back down to Sunset, catch a taxi someplace, anywhere.

* * *

I’ve shot my load. Still fairly early…

Watching, slumped in quiet corners…Seeing Rosa dancing with two cats not me, hair full of sex: She pumps two hands up through it, lets it plump about her face and neck. She clumps it, pumps, it plumps again…

I watch, slumped ‘lone in quiet corners. Wish I’d never spoken to her…Met her…

Shot my load already.

“Can I take her from you?” Friend had asked. “I’ll bring her back.”

He didn’t. Wait still, slumped in quiet corners…

Staring lucky cats not me.

* * *

The moon, full-blown, shines bright over El Mirador Apartments…In the trumpet player’s car, I feel kidnapped through West Hollywood.

He drives down Fountain, forcing me to focus on his vocalists…My first time in a car here, and I’m trapped! It’s Ripsy’s breakfast hour. “Listen, listen, listen,” shouts he, rippling like a ten year-old. “He lost here! Pained look on his face…

“’Just play the bridge and get out, man!’ Cat wouldn’t listen…Wouldn’t listen.

“Messed up my recording!”

* * *

West on Sunset to the sea…

“Hey, turn that jungle music down, man!”

Taxi Driver turns to me. “You don’t like Persian music? This, a superstar…Here’s Persian pop.

“Madonna. Elvis Presley. Michael Jackson…Here is all of them. One time! This artist singer…She have three different, all-at-same-time lovers. Each one cut its neck for her. Right this…,” he emphasizes, finger slicing just below one ear. And laughing, like a proud, strange dad, “Died, all! For love…The love of this sensation Persian singing artist!”

Humming now, sighs softly to himself, “It is relaxing, voice…Is beautiful, and lovely.”

* * *

LA wonders in its naive youngness, how New York gets by each day. They’re going there…Shawnay and Dylan.

Heading to New York next week.

This thrills them…They shrill giddily. “It just has such an energy!”

“I think the energy’s here…”

“I disagree!”

“It’s where you look for it! Want it to be…You, you’re just unhappy here.”

“My God! When we were there last time? My friend from college, Shane, and I? We ate at Boca Lupo…?”


“Four hundred and fifty bucks for lunch!”


“There were like, prob’ly six of us? Me, Shane, his boyfriend Duncan, Caitlin, Trevor…You remember Reese. We had like, appetizers…?”

“…Twenty-third Street…”

“Quality of life…”

“…mass guys!”

(“Well, he was drunk…gets frisky?”

“…know! I know!”

“…just so much energy…”)

* * *

“Do you know where the strip clubs are? The guy’s strip clubs…?”

…Unfortunate assed. She asks again…I cannot give an answer (she’s unfortunate assed!). Ignore her and her friend.

They disappear round La Cienega.

At Cadillac and Venice, I stand waiting for a bus or taxi…Car pulls up, rolls down its window. Upper middle-aged guy with a crew cut leans and says to me, “Hey, what are they? A couple of whores?”

He sits there, waiting for an answer. Light turns green, he’s leaning ‘cross his seat still, out the window toward me.

“I dunno,” I shrug and look away.

Not far, loud gunshots wound…

I whirl back toward the Moral Compass…Slumped now, ‘cross his front seat, pooling blood, splashed, plush interiors…

I dash toward La Cienega as sirens hurl the night around.

* * *

Some women just have killer hair. The more it piles there atop their heads, the lustier I rare to go…To share, to get to know which piles up there, sheening, top and…


…I’ve shot my load already. There’s no reason left to stay out here…

“I’m waiting for my lunch so long,” the Czech girl shrugs and smiles at me, “I’m eating my dessert first. Life’s uncertain!” Shrugs and smiles at me…And picks a piece of pie from her plate, plucks it in her pucker. On the airplane, hear my flight attendant laugh about the Lifers…

“We dance naked…Prison sits outside the window where we stay here. And we dance, in case they see us. Hold up signs: ‘Call me!


previously published, ©Jeff Glovsky, All Rights Reserved.



Jeff Glovsky
Jeff Glovsky

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