David Covey

A male figure, clad only in tennis shorts and Adidas, reached into the trunk, fished out some dark dress clothes, removed his shorts, and proceeded to don evening attire.

I first met Brandon in a phone booth. I stood outside glaring incredulously at a tanned, classically sybaritic face buried in chicken wings, barbecued hot dog slivers, cheese cubes, and assorted other hors d’oeuvres. His free hand held a telephone receiver and he feigned a phone call. It was quite a balancing act. Sometimes it missed.

In the lobby of the Little America Westgate Hotel, waiters were roiling around the traditional 4:30 p.m. pastry-and-coffee cart.

David Covey

I tapped on the booth to notify its occupant of my impatience and disapproval. He tapped back, spilling barbecue sauce on his stylish yellow shirt. I could hardly help but notice a monochromatic melange of melon and cucumber seeds, curried yellow dip droppings, and pale green guacamole spattered, a la Jackson Pollock, on the otherwise pure lap of his tailored pants.

He replaced the receiver on the hook, lifted it again, inserted a coin, and hung up. Seconds later, quarters poured from the coin-return slot like a mudslide in Malibu. He had hit the jackpot at Crystal T’s Emporium in Mission Valley.

Earnings pocketed, he emerged, belched vigorously, mumbled what sounded like “just calories, not cuisine,” and walked off leaving a palette of happy-hour residue behind him in the winning booth.'

“What? Who?” I laughed, realizing I was addressing myself aloud.

“Oh him?” a stranger volunteered. “Start hitting happy hours and you’ll run into him all the time. He once told me he was partial to Albie’s over at the Travelodge. They’ve got marinated steak chunks every day.”

“I think he eats in the phone booth to avoid being hassled by me,” said a cocktail waitress. “He’s here all the time and he never orders a drink.”

“Maybe he’s on the wagon,” I shrugged.

“Then what’s he doing in bars?” they demanded in unison.

An eavesdropper joined in. “I’ve seen him at parties,” he said. “He drinks like a fish. ”

“And eats like a horse,” added the cocktail waitress.

I waded through the debris and made my phone call.

Several nights later, four of us were driving down Ingraham Street in Pacific Beach when the driver started braking and pointed to the opened trunk of an ancient Mercedes parked in front of a sprawling apartment complex. A male figure, clad only in tennis shorts and Adidas, reached into the trunk, fished out some dark dress clothes, removed his shorts, and proceeded to don evening attire, ignoring pedestrian and motor traffic.

My friend honked his horn gently. After carefully pulling up the zipper on his pants, the big winner from the phone booth at Crystal T’s grinned and gave us (and the other curious onlookers) the Sicilian salute to the Pope.

The lobby of the Citizens Bank was crowded. When I finished my business with the teller, I walked to the lounge area to figure my finances privately.

“Cream and sugar?” asked a smooth, friendly Midwestern voice, handing me a cup of black coffee and a tray of doughnuts. It was Brandon.

“Not a bad breakfast,” I said, and accepted the coffee.

“Food fit for a chain gang, “he replied, turning to the last page of the Daily Transcript.

“For a minute I thought you were the official host,” I said.

“Nah. Just gotta keep informed. Forbes, Wall Street Journal, Barrons, Business Week — take your pick,” he offered.

I declined and turned to my bank book.

“Whaddya know! The Insurance Underwriters of America are in town this week. Dinner banquet in Mission Valley. Oughta be good for a steak and some good booze. I’m tired of cheap wine. Gives me a headache. Got a pen? I oughta make a note of this.”

I handed him a ballpoint pen and watched as he jotted down the information. He was trim and handsome, with nicely coiffed black hair and a cleanshaven face that didn't easily reveal his age. Perhaps mid-thirties; maybe older. My curiosity about him grew as I saw him casually clip my pen to the open front of his jogging suit. He looked at me over his cup of coffee and smiled.

I told him I had seen him changing clothes in the street and gobbling food at Crystal T’s. He silently grinned.

“Have you got a name?” I asked.

“Brandon,” he said, munching on another doughnut.

“Brandon, what do you do besides crash banquets, eat in phone booths, and use Ingraham Street for a dressing room?”

“Lots,” he replied earnestly. “For instance, when my bike works, I hang around Balboa Park. Tourists. European broads. Usually results in a trip . . . Mazatlan, Ensenada, Rosarito . . . what's the diff? Then I'm in fat city for a week or two.”

“You mean you get people to take you places? You pick up women and they take you?”

“Sure,” he said. “And more, too.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“There’s the adult apartment complexes. They’ve got nice health clubs — sauna, jacuzzi, pool, billiards. And I make myself available as a tennis partner; somebody’s always looking for someone to play tennis with. Or shoot pool. Afterwards it’s drinks, sometimes lunch ... at their place. Never fails.”

He must have read my mind. Before I could say a word he leaned close across the coffee table, smiled broadly, and asked, “You don’t believe me?”

I was slow to understand why this ageless sybarite had chosen to confide in me and why I had fallen into the role of interrogator, but there in the lounge of a crowded Pacific Beach bank he seemed comfortable enough with my questions, as though he enjoyed them. It was obvious, though, that he enjoyed his answers even more.

“Where do you actually live?” I asked him.

“All over,” he replied. “One night here, a couple of nights there — depending on where I am, who I meet. It’s damned exciting to wake up in a strange place not knowing where you’ll bunk that night (or even with whom). Oh, I’ve had a few desperate times where I've actually slept on the beach or in my car, but that doesn't happen too often. That rain last winter curbed my action a lot, but with this kind of weather, who cares?

“Y’know, this town lends itself to the California myth — loose and laid back. That suits me fine.”

He reached for another doughnut (his third by my count) and before I had time to consider, I found myself inviting him to a real breakfast at a restaurant.

“Love to,” he said. “You’re nice. But to tell you the truth. I'm flat broke right now.”

“Oh, don’t worry. It’ll be my treat,” I said, and suddenly realized I had fallen into the pattern of generosity he had just described. It didn’t bother me, though. I knew I was in the presence of an artist — what kind I wasn’t yet sure — and wanted to hear more.

We drove to La Jolla and sat down in a booth at Harry’s Coffee Shop on Girard (it was his choice). As he began his omelet and coffee, I informed him that he wasn’t unique.

“Henry Miller did this stuff, too. He did it for decades, and did it well. Even got a few novels out of it. In Paris and then in New York and California. He kept rotating mattresses to avoid boring people.”

“Yeah. Me too.“(He was pleased to be categorized with Miller, I think.) “There’s a knack to this, y’know. A certain style. It takes a little while to develop. If I stayed in one place too long. I'd get hung up, too. Especially when they try making me one of the family and expect me to carry out the trash.”

Brandon, it turned out, had been a family man, though those days were gone forever. Ten years ago he had divorced his wife and hasn’t seen her or his son since. He himself had come from a family of Italian immigrants. According to Brandon. it was a solemn, hard-working household. His eighty-two-year-old father, in fact, still holds down a job. All work and no play, he said.

He left the family in Ohio and headed to Arizona, where, he claims, he went to college and received a degree in business administration. It was there that he met his wife and began a career as a salesman. I could see that he must have been good at it. The same easy charm that moved me to spring for a meal must have sold plenty of cars.

Marriage and family life he found oppressive. “They expected me to perform — steady job, carry out the trash on Tuesdays.” It wasn’t long before he packed a few things and got out. He moved to San Diego and shared an apartment in Pacific Beach with a couple of other young men. After receiving a real estate license and selling a home or two in 1974, he left the apartment and has been bouncing about ever since. ‘ i haven’t paid rent in years, ’ ’ he said proudly.

Living out of the trunk of his battered Mercedes, Brandon assumed the role of anybody’s playmate and admirer, quick with the compliment, ready for anything.

He mastered those little tricks that now sustain him “between bunks. “Aside from filling up at happy hours and bank lobbies, he came to perfect such maneuvers as “the walkout,” an old routine in which one picks a likely restaurant (Brandon prefers the tourist spots with patios, like those in Old Town) and after eating a meal, simply disappears among the crowds.

When he felt like having a companion for dinner, he would hang out at a restaurant/bar (Shelter and Harbor islands have the best, he says) and look for a “duck.” A duck being a sitting duck, a woman who would unwittingly become his decoy for pleasant conversation and a delicious meal — gratis, of course. First, he would turn on the charm at the bar, then he would suggest dinner, an offer nearly always accepted. Between dessert and brandy, he would excuse himself to the restroom and be gone.

The other details of daily survival took care of themselves. After an evening as the flattering and witty guest, he would “just tell ’em I’m too tired to drive. They lap it up.” Gas for the Mercedes came a dollar at a time, usually in exchange for driving a friend somewhere. Dirty clothes? “If someone just happens to be doing their laundry, I casually throw in a couple of spares. Easy. Nobody minds.”

When breakfast finally turned into lunch, I left Harry's Coffee Shop without looking back. But Brandon was not to be shaken off that easily. I held a disquieting, existential, soul-probing conversation with myself that endured for about a month. It felt like I was swallowing one ice cube after another, the same sensation I had when I was reading Jerzy Kosinski’s Cockpit. Kosinski’s character, Tarden, was a Seventies man. too. All steel. A steel survivor, like Brandon. They could both destroy Walter Mitty with merely a glance.

Then I remembered Theodore Bikel’s definition of chutzpah: killing your mother and father and then throwing yourself at the mercy of the court on the grounds of being an orphan. That, too, was Brandon. Neutrality could not be maintained. His spirit needed to be exorcised ... or accepted. Brandon’s modus vivendi, I concluded, did have at least one obvious advantage — it meant never having to buy a bar of soap or a tube of toothpaste.

Serendipity struck on Sassafrass Street. I stopped at a red light and waved to a familiar-looking blue jogging suit on the sidewalk. By the time the light turned green, the blue jogging suit was sitting beside me in my moribund Vega asking, “What’s your act?”

“Picking up pedestrians on my way back from the airport. Where to, Brandon?” I was in a generous mood.

“That depends on you, sweetheart,” he grinned.

I was not feeling quite that generous. But I can be conned once in a while, especially when I want to be. The 218,000-mile Mercedes, I learned, had temporarily given up. Its owner had no idea when the revival would take place or by whom. That didn’t seem to concern him, though. He was relaxed as he accompanied me on my round of errands. While I wheeled a wagon through Safeway’s aisles, Brandon partook of lunch, a “supermarket smorgasbord” consisting of a handful each of grapes, dates, cherries, apricots, and pogens.

“What the hell do you do with the pits?” I asked.

“Pogens don’t have pits,” he said.

It was time for me to collect my children from various parts of San Diego and go home.

“My family won’t approve,” I explained to Brandon.

“You don’t strike me as the kind of person who needs approval. I thought you were secure,” he said. He knew how to get to me.

No human being is absolutely useless. I knew that Brandon would function well as a bad example, which is better than no example at all. I gave myself the A-plus for rationalization that I deserved.

Brandon found his way to the refrigerator quickly. In the interest of conserving my children’s protein for the week, I threw caution to the wind and brought Brandon with me to the bimonthly meeting of my writers’ group. He amazed me. Without being warned, he managed to can all the vulgar gutter talk and the “blow-my-cover,” “caper,” “fat city” car salesman crassness. He blended beautifully with the group, using a few well-chosen buzz words at appropriate moments — words like “succinct” and “tight.” He was charming and they were charmed. He also did justice to the imported Brie and the Zeller Schwartzkatz from Jurgensen’s. He praised the hostess’ interior decorating skills, fed the illusions of those who hadn't published in the U.S. in a decade or two, and told them of his travails in Morocco, insisting that La Jolla is more civilized . . . and cleaner. They insisted that I bring Brandon to the next meeting.

On the way back we stopped at a friend’s apartment in Clairemont where a “stress reduction workshop” was taking place. Once again, Brandon fell right in, decimated the dessert, spaced the jargon, and revved up the anxious crowd with promises of Tijuana bullfights and evenings at the Jai Alai Palace with someone who “knows his way around.” He left with lots of phone numbers and casual invitations. I left with a headache and an insight into Brandon’s style. It was his ability to sustain a superficial conversation with anybody on any subject, his willingness to blend in and become the common denominator. But the simplicity of it annoyed me. All this time I thought the secret of life was complex.

"Everyone in this damn town is so hung up on ‘honesty’ that no one is communicating any ‘niceness,’ ” he said when we returned to my house. “Frankly, honesty bores the hell outta me. No one really wants to hear it,” he lectured. “The secret, sweetheart, is to understand what people want, then give it to them. That’s so simple. It’s approval. Who doesn’t want approval? Now, why should I withhold approval? Their parents did, their mates did, and now their children do.

“I’m not a joiner; I can afford to be generous. Most people want praise, approval. They pay fortunes to shrinks who pretend to listen to them without making judgments. I do the same thing. And I go a step further: I listen; I agree with them. It’s no skin off my back. Someone invites me over to view their art collection. I know nothing about art, but I know enough about people to know that they want to be told that they’ve done the right thing. Who am I, who knows nothing about art, to tell anyone else that sad clowns painted on velvet aren’t chic? I say, ‘The clowns are terrific and the price was right.’ They’re happy. They whip out the booze and a few steaks, and then I’m happy. What’s the difference?”

“But what about you?” I asked. “Don’t you get swallowed up by pleasing everyone? Where’s your identity, your integrity?”

“In the trunk of my car,” he wisecracked, “along with my extra pair of socks.”

“Speaking of cars, where is yours?”

“Waiting in some alley for a buddy with a set of tools.”

“When?” I asked.

“Who knows? Hey, don’t worry about me; I manage. Most people have trouble because they expect certain things to happen, and when they don’t happen, they get pissed off. That’s your problem,” he told me. “I can tell. You wanna be happy, sweetheart? It’s so easy. Just lower your standards. Keep your standards low; that's the key.”

Brandon sunk into the sofa and slept like an infant sucking zwieback. The following morning I dropped him at an intersection where he could easily hitch over to Crown Point to hit the July Fourth picnics. He was still wearing his jogging suit. Everyone in San Diego admires joggers.

About eight hours later Brandon called to report the day’s events: an MG owners’ picnic, a Church of the Religious Science picnic, a paramedic picnic, volleyball, guitars, deviled eggs, beer, enchiladas, barbecued turkey legs, and strawberry chiffon pie. All that plus a dip in the bay and a short nap in the sun.

“Don’t wanna hang around for the fireworks, though,” he said. “I need some more balance in my life. I’ve already had the relaxation and recreation; now I need cultural stimulation. Pick me up on the corner of Mission and Grand in an hour and I’ll take you to see The Pirates of Penzance,” he offered.

It was an offer I could hardly refuse. At 9:30 p.m. we were outside the Fox Theatre waiting out the intermission so we could blend in with the crowd for the second act. The first act was superfluous. And costly. And not all that good. Brandon had the right idea.

After the show Brandon led me through Horton Plaza. Even though he didn’t smoke, he couldn't resist the opportunity to bum a couple of cigarettes from the characters who hung out there. Then it was over to the big Jack-in-the-Box on Broadway for coffee. Brandon showed me how it was done.

We walked into the restaurant and quickly found a seat at a table. There Brandon reached across the narrow aisle to the vacant table next to us and picked up an empty paper coffee cup. For a minute or so we sat at the table and talked, then he had me follow him to the serving counter, where he sweetly and innocently said to the clerk, “Good coffee, dear. How about a refill?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but we don’t give refills.”

Brandon looked stunned, hurt. “Gee, I’m surprised. Everybody else does.”

The manager, who was within earshot, turned around and saw Brandon with his pained look and extended cup. Immediately he strode over and, with a flourish, took the cup from Brandon’s hand. “I’m going to authorize a refill,” he said, and poured the coffee himself.

Back at the table, he offered me half of the coffee, but my appreciation for his little victory was not as great as my fear of drinking from a secondhand cup. I took a tiny sip.

For me, it had been quite an evening. Brandon had played the “Sportin’ Life” character to the hilt. For him, it had been routine. “Next time at the Starlight,” he promised. Then I opted for a little reality, so I dropped him off somewhere in Mission Valley and headed home all “capered” out.

A few weeks later our paths crossed again. This time in the lobby of the Little America Westgate Hotel. It was on a weekday and it was late in the afternoon. He wore borrowed burgundy leather and he wore it well. Waiters were roiling around the traditional 4:30 p.m. pastry-and-coffee cart. As Brandon balanced a cup and several exquisite-looking glazed fruit tarts on his lap, we nodded to each other wordlessly. I was waiting for a cousin from Chicago. Brandon, I knew, was sizing up the lobby crowd in search of a Persian potentate, possibly a prince, possibly a trip to Peru. Actually, any pinstriped regal newcomer who would take delight in being escorted around our city in haute monde would do . . . with Brandon at the helm.

My cousin arrived and we exited to the bar, leaving the lobby to the ubiquitous Brandon. Later I learned that he didn’t make out as well as I thought he might — only a dinner booking and a bunk-breakfast-bullfight potential for the weekend. Some Thursday afternoons are like that.

A month passed before I heard from him again. He called late one Saturday night and for the first time his voice lacked its usual cheerfulness. He sounded depressed.

“Where are you, Brandon?” I asked.

“Got a bunk. Don’t worry,” he said, and then broke into a coughing spell that lasted a full minute.

“You’re sick!” I said.

He had come down with the flu and for the last five days had been prone on an air mattress, confined to a corner in a friend’s crowded apartment. The long stay was trying his host’s generosity and Brandon’s ability to keep smiling. He was vulnerable and dependent, and though he did his best to convince me otherwise, I could tell he was asking me for help. I told him that I had visiting relatives camped in my own living room but that tomorrow I’d take him to a doctor.

“No sweat. Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he protested. “I’ll manage.”