My friends all think their apartments used to be brothels. I don't think any of them ever were, but it's a fitting mythology for an eerie, rundown place with the original mahoganies, hex tiles, and claw-foots. Sex is a place for ghosts.
I stop outside the Castle Rose. It is pale pink, mint, and soft-edged like a cake. The neon sign is off, and there's a tall black gate now with a key-card sensor. The roses are still there. I'm glad to see the roses are still there.
I'd heard a rumor that Hollywood Vintage had closed down and am relieved to find it cluttered, peeling, dilapidated, just how I remembered, closed for the Fourth but not forever.
In a moment of reflection, I say, can I help you carry that beer? He says no. I say, that's insane you're carrying so much beer. He says no, I say yes.
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