Years ago, Bernie and I lived for a short time in Beverley Hills, the flat part, not the hilly part. We lived in a small compound with apartments around a center–can’t remember if there was any grass. In the single apartment next to us, a woman complained to me of the guy in the single apartment next to hers. He took interminable showers, she said. And that’s the sign of a heroin addict.
I’m sure my jaw was on my chest. A real-live heroin addict near us! I think this was the same guy who put on brief briefs and danced on the lawn outside our living room window over-looking the street on Thanksgiving day. We had two guests for dinner and, as we sat at a card table in the living room to enjoy our meal, one of my guests faced the window. She was speechless.