Hollywood, a sliver of the observatory, lights from the mansions in the canyon.
“There,” I said, pointing through the window. “Houses.”
“No, let’s look at houses to buy.”
I covered my eyes with my arm. “Lovebird,” I said, “where will we find a house we can afford?”
“We can start this weekend,” she said.
That night after dinner she read aloud from the real estate section. “Santa Monica,” she read. “Two bedrooms, yard, half-mile to beach.”
“How much?”
She looked closer at the paper. “We can look other places.”
She read to herself for a while. Then she said that prices seemed lower in some areas near the Los Angeles airport.
“How much?”
“A two-bedroom for $160,000.”
I glanced at her.
“Just because we look doesn’t mean we have to buy it,” she said.
“There’s a real estate agent involved.”
“She won’t mind.”
“It’s not honest,” I said.
She closed the paper and went to the window. I watched a muscle in her neck move from side to side. “You know what it’s like?” she said, looking into the street.
“I just don’t want to waste the woman’s time,” I answered.
“It’s like being married to a priest.”
I knew why she said that. I’m nothing like a priest. I’m a physical education teacher in the Hollywood schools and an assistant coach—basketball and baseball. The other night I’d had a couple of other coaches over to the house. We aren’t all that much alike—I’ll read a biography on the weekend, listen to classical music maybe a third of the time—but I still like to have them over. We were sitting in the living room, drinking beer and talking about the future. One of the coaches has a two-year-old son at home. He didn’t have a lot of money, he said, so he thought it was important to teach his kid morality. I wasn’t sure he was serious, but when he finished I told a story anyway about an incident that had happened a few weeks before at school. I’d found out that a kid in a gym class I was teaching, a quiet boy and a decent student, had stolen a hat from a men’s store. So I made him return it and write a letter of apology to the owner. When I told the part about how the man was so impressed with the letter that he offered the boy a job, Jodi remarked that I was lucky it hadn’t turned out the other way.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“He could have called the police,” she said. “He could have thanked you for bringing the boy in and then called the police.”
“I just don’t think so.”
“Why not? The boy could have ended up in jail.”
“I just don’t think so,” I said. “I think most people will respond to honesty. I think that’s where people like us have to lead the way.”
It’s an important point, I said, and took a drink of beer to take the edge off what I was saying. Too much money makes you lose sight of things, I told them. I stopped talking then, but I could have said more. All you have to do is look around: in Beverly Hills there’s a restaurant where a piece of veal costs thirty dollars. I don’t mind being an assistant coach at a high school, even though you hear now about the fellow who earns a hundred thousand dollars with the fitness truck that comes right to people’s homes. The truck has Nautilus, and a sound system you wouldn’t expect. He keeps the stars in shape that way—Kirk Douglas, the movie executives. The man with the truck doesn’t live in Hollywood. He probably lives out at the beach, in Santa Monica or Malibu.
But Hollywood’s fine if people don’t compare it with the ideas they have. Once in a while, at a party, someone from out of town will ask me whether any children of movie stars are in my classes. Sometimes Jodi says the answer is yes but that it would violate confidentiality to reveal their names. Other times I explain that movie stars don’t live in Hollywood these days, that most of them don’t even work here, that Hollywood is just car
“There,” I said, pointing through the window. “Houses.”
“No, let’s look at houses to buy.”
I covered my eyes with my arm. “Lovebird,” I said, “where will we find a house we can afford?”
“We can start this weekend,” she said.
That night after dinner she read aloud from the real estate section. “Santa Monica,” she read. “Two bedrooms, yard, half-mile to beach.”
“How much?”
She looked closer at the paper. “We can look other places.”
She read to herself for a while. Then she said that prices seemed lower in some areas near the Los Angeles airport.
“How much?”
“A two-bedroom for $160,000.”
I glanced at her.
“Just because we look doesn’t mean we have to buy it,” she said.
“There’s a real estate agent involved.”
“She won’t mind.”
“It’s not honest,” I said.
She closed the paper and went to the window. I watched a muscle in her neck move from side to side. “You know what it’s like?” she said, looking into the street.
“I just don’t want to waste the woman’s time,” I answered.
“It’s like being married to a priest.”
I knew why she said that. I’m nothing like a priest. I’m a physical education teacher in the Hollywood schools and an assistant coach—basketball and baseball. The other night I’d had a couple of other coaches over to the house. We aren’t all that much alike—I’ll read a biography on the weekend, listen to classical music maybe a third of the time—but I still like to have them over. We were sitting in the living room, drinking beer and talking about the future. One of the coaches has a two-year-old son at home. He didn’t have a lot of money, he said, so he thought it was important to teach his kid morality. I wasn’t sure he was serious, but when he finished I told a story anyway about an incident that had happened a few weeks before at school. I’d found out that a kid in a gym class I was teaching, a quiet boy and a decent student, had stolen a hat from a men’s store. So I made him return it and write a letter of apology to the owner. When I told the part about how the man was so impressed with the letter that he offered the boy a job, Jodi remarked that I was lucky it hadn’t turned out the other way.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“He could have called the police,” she said. “He could have thanked you for bringing the boy in and then called the police.”
“I just don’t think so.”
“Why not? The boy could have ended up in jail.”
“I just don’t think so,” I said. “I think most people will respond to honesty. I think that’s where people like us have to lead the way.”
It’s an important point, I said, and took a drink of beer to take the edge off what I was saying. Too much money makes you lose sight of things, I told them. I stopped talking then, but I could have said more. All you have to do is look around: in Beverly Hills there’s a restaurant where a piece of veal costs thirty dollars. I don’t mind being an assistant coach at a high school, even though you hear now about the fellow who earns a hundred thousand dollars with the fitness truck that comes right to people’s homes. The truck has Nautilus, and a sound system you wouldn’t expect. He keeps the stars in shape that way—Kirk Douglas, the movie executives. The man with the truck doesn’t live in Hollywood. He probably lives out at the beach, in Santa Monica or Malibu.
But Hollywood’s fine if people don’t compare it with the ideas they have. Once in a while, at a party, someone from out of town will ask me whether any children of movie stars are in my classes. Sometimes Jodi says the answer is yes but that it would violate confidentiality to reveal their names. Other times I explain that movie stars don’t live in Hollywood these days, that most of them don’t even work here, that Hollywood is just car
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