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copyright
1974
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 The
second I spotted the plastic credit card case lying helplessly on the
sidewalk in front of the Hollywood drugstore, I knew this was going to
be one of my lucky days. I casually kicked it up to the building, dropped
a pack of cigarettes on it and picked them up together.
Not until I was safely
back in my grubby little apartment did I examine my find. There was a
driver's license issued to William L. Wilson, who lived on Sunset way
out near the ocean. There was a Master Charge card with Wilson's signature
on its back. Also in the accordion-type holder were credit card for five
oil companies and four Los Angeles-area department-store chains. Not a
single card had expired. What more could anybody wish for?
I whistled happily
as I sat down and practiced the signature of William L. Wilson a few dozen
times. It was simple and easy to duplicate. My luck was holding.
I long ago realized
that everything that's happened to me in my 27 years, good or bad, has
been due to pure luck, good and bad. Or, put another way, it's all up
to the will of God. There are days when everything comes out asparagus
when it's selling for 90 cents a pound. And then there are days when you
can break your finger in a bowl of spinach.
An example of
a day when God was out to get me was one morning three years back when
I was ripping off an auto tape player in a car parked on a winding street
in Hollywood at 3 A.M. I saw car lights coming and I lay on the seat.
The car passed me, and I soon looked up to see a couple of uniformed cops
staring in at me.
As my luck would
have it, it turned out that the damn car had been stolen. Also, I had
the tape player half unscrewed, which was so difficult to explain that
I was taken to the Hollywood police station and held.
To make matters
worse, the manager went into my apartment that morning to spray for cockroaches
and saw my 25 other auto tape players and called the law. The value of
these was more than enough to move me into grand theft.
Even worse than
that, it was my misfortune to be on probation at the time, simply because
the year before, a pet boa constructor had d and, unluckily for
me, had slithered into my unlocked garage, and while people were searching
for it they came across my collection of 97 hub caps and turned me in.
This being my first arrest, the judge put me on probation for a year.
This time I felt
lucky, so I pleaded guilty to the auto tape-theft charge and threw myself
on the mercy of another judge, who unfortunately turned out to have the
same name as mine–Timothy Murdock–and he was so incensed and outraged
that I'd sullied his proud name that he sentenced me to three years in
Soledad State Prison, which is in the fertile Salinas Valley.
After 18 months
of growing the most beautiful vegetables you ever saw, I was let out.
My parole officer got me a job with a Los Angeles swimming pool construction
company, helping the guys who knew what they were doing. I didn't earn
much and barely managed to get by.
After Soledad,
I stayed as clean as a rain-washed eggplant; I didn't want to get caught
doing anything that would send me back to the clanger. It was while raising
vegetables in Soledad that I found God. What I mean, either a cabbage
is going to head or it isn't; either 1000 radishes will go to leaf or
they won't. It doesn't depend on how much you water or fertilize the damn
things; God in His infinite wisdom makes decisions even for vegetables.
So when I found the
credit cards, I knew at once that God had put them there for me to find
and He wouldn't have done so if he hadn't wanted me to make use of them.
I figured he knew I'd been a hard worker and a mighty good boy for over
a year and that I deserved a few nice things.
Besides, this
was on a Saturday and God knew that William L. Wilson couldn't report
his lost cards until banks and credit departments were open again on Monday,
which gave two days without any sweat. God always knows what he's doing.
I made a list of
things I really needed, like new tires and some clothes. Then I listed
things I wanted, like a supply of good booze and some cassettes for my
stereo. At the end of this list, I wrote: "A great big expensive dinner
in a really high class place!"
But I didn't
want to eat alone, so I called Doreen, a very luscious and desirable girl
who sometimes posed for nude photos and whom I'd dated a couple of times
but never made out with, mostly because she liked big spenders. I told
her I was an executive trainee who was slated to become sales manager
as soon as I'd learned all about swimming pools. Doreen suggested sweetly
that I call her after I made sales manager.
She didn't sound
too thrilled when I asked her out to dinner that night, but when I told
her I'd won $3100 on a daily double and wanted to get rid of some of it,
her voice went up an octave and she said that as a matter of fact, she'd
been hoping for a date tonight, because her friends Marcia and Harry had
just gotten engaged and they wanted to celebrate with another couple at
Chevalier's, a new and very expensive restaurant where all the movie and
TV stars went. I told her I could afford any restaurant in the world and
we made it date for seven.
Not being exactly
a lame-brain, I then called Chevalier's and made sure they honored Master
Charge cards.
Half an hour later,
wearing the only suit I had, I went down and got into my car. The battery
was so weak I barely got it started. "New battery!" went onto my list.
I decided to
find a gas station well out of my neighborhood but when I was halfway
to downtown L.A., God whispered in my ear, "You stupe! When you charge
at a gas station, they put your license number on the charge slip!"
Phew! I stopped
and cursed–without blaspheming–and pondered, and finally remembered something
and drove back to Hollywood and up into the hills along a road I sometimes
used as a shortcut. Luckily, the car was still there. It was up on blocks
next to an old shack and was over grown with vines. It still had its license
plates. No one was home and no one drove by while I removed them. Then
I drove to a dead end and switched plates.
I was almost
in downtown L.A. again when God told me, "You idiot! There are no '74
tags on the plates and it's nearly April! The cops could stop you and
the numbers won't match your registration card!"
I thanked God
and parked and with a screwdriver tried to peel the plastic '74 stickers
from my own plates but the damn things wouldn't come off. No wonder nobody
steals them. So I had to drive all the way home and boil water and pour
it over the plates. I finely got to tags off with a razor blade and went
down to put them on the other plates, but they wouldn't stick, so I had
to go up and get some rubber cement and this worked.
I checked my
watch: it was 2:30 already! With all this futzing around I'd wasted half
the day!
I finally found
a remote gas station and told the man about my daily double and said I
could now afford four really good steel radials and a battery and I wanted
gas and oil too, and also some windshield wipers. My bill came to $235.87.
Then I drove
back to Hollywood and to a liquor store and bought three cases of very
fine assorted hard liquor and a case of expensive wines and a case of
French champagne at $8.75 a bottle with, of course, 10 percent off for
the case, which saved me $10.50, which I spent on Macadamia nuts, which
I love but can never afford.
The bill came
to over $150 and the clerk who took my Master Charge said he had to call
in for any purchase over $25. While he was dialing, I suddenly got panicky.
Maybe this Wilson was a deadbeat who hadn't settled his account for months.
But all was fine. God was still sitting on my shoulder.
Then I drive
to Music City and bought $123 worth of stereo tapes. Again they checked
my card and all was OK.
I walked up Vine
Street to a jewelry store and spent $275 for some lovely 18 kt. gold and
aquamarine earrings to match Doreen's eyes. I knew what I was doing.
I'd saved the
best for last. If there's one thing I really like, it's buying clothes.
I even like trying on expensive things I couldn't possibly afford. I drove
up and parked across from the Broadway Hollywood, a big department store.
I'd heard they had a first-class men's clothing department and, anyway,
I figured that if William L. Wilson had a Broadway credit card, the place
was good enough for me.
Inside, I told
to the salesman that I had bad news and good news, the bad being that
a fire in my apartment had destroyed all my clothes and the good news
being that I'd just gotten a huge check from my insurance company and
wanted to buy a complete new wardrobe. He was thrilled for me and envious.
I gave him the credit card and asked him to please check my account here,
just in case Mrs. Wilson hadn't paid her Broadway bills.
While he was
dialing I suddenly realized that the Broadway credit department had to
be open today and that Wilson could have phoned them about this card!
I plotted my route through the aisles. But the salesman soon hung
up and beamed at me and said, "A-OK! Shoot the works. Mr. Wilson! The
sky's the limit!"
That was all
I needed. Boy, did I have fun at the Broadway! I tried on the eleven
expensive suits and bought eight. I also bought 10 pair pairs of slacks,
5 sport coats, six pairs of shoes, 24 shirts, 12 ties and 28 pairs of
socks. They had a big sale on undershorts, so I got two dozen. I also
bought some handkerchiefs. Then I selected a beautiful black gabardine
overcoat and a suede jacket and a cashmere-lined white buckskin car coat.
Luckily, everything fit me perfectly right off the rack. But I'd forgotten
about cuffing all the trousers which the salesman said would be ready
on Tuesday. Sweating a little, I told him I had to have one suit
for tonight and that I had a very good cheap tailor who could finish the
trousers.
While waiting for
the suit pants, I wandered around the floor and bought three pieces of
beautiful matching luggage in case I could ever afford to go anywhere,
six pipes and five pounds of tobacco, a silk dressing gown from London
and some mink-lined leather slippers and a quart of cologne. God,
but it's great to be rich!
When the trousers
were ready and I'd signed the slips–they totaled $3026, including $181.56
sales tax–the salesman and another clerk were kind enough to help the
carry all my stuff across the street to my car. Since my trunk was full
of booze I piled everything onto the seats.
A fat clown walked
by. "Well, I see you bought out the store! Whose credit card did you use,
Horace?" He walked to his car, chortling.
The salesman
clutched some of my clothes to his chest. His gullible eyes were worried.
I laughed. "Tired
old joke. I never saw the man before."
"Oh," said the
salesman, relieved. As he left, he said he hoped I'd been satisfied with
the service and that he hoped I'd come back soon. I felt kind of sad,
knowing that I could never set foot in his department again.
I looked at my
watch. It was five after six! I drove home, unable to see out my rear
window for all the clothes. It took me 20 minutes of running up in down
stairs to unload my car.
I shaved and polished
my teeth and showered and washed myself with cologne and put on new shorts
and new socks and a new shirt and the new dark suit and new black shoes
and tied a new tie in a half Windsor and combed my hair, and when I was
finished, I looked in the mirror and grinned at the most gorgeous dude
I'd ever seen in my life!
Doreen greeted
me at her door at 7:05 wearing a tight bare-midriffed dress that told
almost unbelievable truths and nothing but. When she saw my two bottles
of champagne, she kissed me. I told her to chill it, for later.
I gave her the
earrings, saying that I wanted to share my good fortune with someone I
really cared about. When she saw the 18-kt. marking, she screamed with
delight and ran to a mirror and put them on and shouted in glee. The kiss
she then gave me was the biggest down payment for later my lips had ever
enjoyed.
Chevalier's is in
Beverly Hills and its interior looks like a room in San Simeon. The waiters
were running around in white ties and tails and for a split second I thought
they'd all gone crazy and were trying to set fire to the drapes with torches,
but then I realized it was only flaming food on swords, which you never
see at McDonald's.
As the headwaiter
escorted us across the huge room, all the men bug-eyed Doreen and hated
well-dressed handsome lucky me. Marcia and Harry were already at a table.
He turned out to be an attorney and she worked in a bank and they were
an attractive couple, except that they kept going "Boo!" in each others'
ears and then kissing and snuggling.
We had drinks.
Doreen and I studied the menu, which was written by hand. You'd have thought
they could afford to have them printed, at those prices, which would have
sent J. Paul Getty running out screaming.
"Golly, this
place is expensive!" Doreen said joyfully. "I hope you brought
enough money."
"I didn't," I
said. "But I have my trustee old Master Charge card. Shoot the works!
The sky's the limit!"
Harry said he didn't
carry credit cards anymore because he kept losing his wallet and had spent
too many hours on the phone notifying everybody. Now he just carried a
money clip. He said he'd give me cash for his half and I could charge
the whole thing. This was glorious news; I didn't have enough to tip the
parking attendant.
The headwaiter came
to take our orders. Doreen got hers up to $40 with no trouble at all,
simply by ordering caviar and the smoked salmon then asparagus with hollandaise
sauce and then filet mignon flambé with side orders of onion
rings and souffléed potatoes, which last turned out to be a gyp,
because they were fill of nothing but air.
When it was my turn
to order, I thought, "Oh, well–easy come, easy go!" and asked for the
same as Doreen's.
Harry and Marcia
weren't about to pinch any pennies, either. Harry revealed that he was
a great wine lover and he picked for us a nice little white at $17.50
and a modest red, which he said was remarkably reasonable at $22.50.
Gee, but I enjoyed
that meal! I'd never tasted caviar before, and I loved it. The smoked
salmon was a very light pink and not salty. The beef was heaven. Harry
was right about the wines, which had no kerosene taste at all.
Between courses,
Doreen and I also did the boo-kiss-giggle bit, except that we didn't giggle
much, and Marcia and Harry told us to hold off till later.
All in all, it was
the happiest evening I've ever spent. It wasn't until we were having our
after-dinner coffee that Marcia started to torture me.
Her intentions were
good, but she said that she hoped I'd kept the phone numbers I'd received
along with my Master Charge card, in case my card was lost or stolen.
Being the assistant manager of a bank branch, she knew how many cards
fell into the hands of dirty crooks who forged signatures and charged
all kinds of things! So now there was a special 24-hour phone number to
call at night and on weekends, but a lot of cardholders were unaware of
this.
I sent up a prayer
that William L. Wilson was so hopelessly unaware that he went out wearing
unmatching shoes.
"But oh, boy!" Marsha
shouted proudly. "Do they go into action once they get a lost report!
Click, slack, bibbity goes to Telex! Whirrr, clank, clunk goes a computer!"
I was half expecting The Trolley Song. "And in a matter of minutes–literally
minutes–the account is frozen all over the whole United
States! And woe betide any dirty little creep who tries to use it!"
"Think of that!"
I said, and did. My palms began to sweat. My heart began to thump so loudly
I wondered why no one heard it. Water trickled down my chest. Goose bumps
erupted, while chills and fever set in simultaneously. All I wanted was
out of there.
Finally, the waiter
marched up like a summoner to the guillotine and handed the check to Harry.
He studied it, flinching only slightly, he handed it to me along with
a mountain of 20s and 10s. "Including half of a thirty-dollar tip."
The bill was $220.50.
I brought out my Master Charge card and whipped it past Doreen's eyes
to the waiter, who glanced at it and said, "Thank you Mr. Wilson," and
left.
"Wilson?" Doreen
asked me. "Wilson?"
I panicked. I thought.
I smiled. "Aka William Wilson."
"Aka?" Doreen
asked frowning.
"Also know as,"
Marcia volunteered.
"You see," I explained
earnestly, "my father died when I was just a little tyke and my mother
married a man named William Wilson, who later adopted me and changed my
legal name to his. After he died I went back to Tim Murdock, but
I'm still legally William Wilson."
While I sat there
drumming the table and waiting for the waiter to come back, Harry told
me how easy it was to go to court and change your name, but I wasn't listening
because I knew that at this very moment, a cashier was making a phone
call and reading Wilson's card number to someone who was probably shouting
back, "Arrest that man! He's not Wilson! He's a dirty crook! That card
was just reported lost, ten minutes ago! The account is frozen!"
The waiter was gone
for what seemed like seven hours. I began to hear a drum roll-the suspense-building
kind they play in the circus just before the nut dives off the hundred-foot
platform into a bucket of water. The drum roll kept getting louder and
louder and more insistent.
"Boo!" Doreen shouted
in my ear. I jumped eight inches.
"My, you're nervous,"
she said. "What are you so nervous about? Aren't you having fun?"
I kissed her. The
waiter walked up and put down a silver tray with my card and a pen and
the Master Charge slips on it and I nearly collapsed with relief. I picked
up the pen and dropped it into my coffee cup.
"What's the matter
with you?" Doreen asked. "Why are you panting?"
"Your kiss," I said
and wrote down the tip as well as I could with my trembling hands and
totaled the bill and signed.
But then the head
waiter walked up, beaming and picked up the slips and tore them in half
and said, "We won't be needing these, Mr. Wilson, we've just calculated
that you are our ten-thousandth patron! And you must honor us by being
our guests tonight." My mouth fell open and my eyes bulged.
"Really? Honest?
That's wonderful! That's–very nice of you!"
"It's our pleasure,"
he said, motioning a waiter who wheeled up a cart laden with clinking
liqueur bottles. "Please–sample some of our liqueurs." He left and Doreen
and Marcia and Harry bubbled with joy as they ordered liqueurs.
Harry smiled at me.
"Got some money for me old buddy?"
"Oh, sure. Heh, heh."
I was sorry to see the green leave my pocket, but then, God was really
working overtime for me already, and you can't have everything.
After we'd all had
three glasses of three different liqueurs, Harry suggested that maybe
we were being a little greedy, and we got up and left.
There were two officers
waiting for me in the foyer–one by the registration desk and the other
by the door. They were wearing plain clothes, but I knew who they were
even before the first one asked, "Mr. Wilson?"
"Yes?" I said.
He showed me his
badge. "Sergeant Seller, Beverly Hills police."
"Police?" Doreen
grabbed my arm. "Police!"
"What's the trouble,
Sergeant?" asked Harry the attorney.
I sighed. "I knew
they'd get me sooner or later."
"Get you for what?"
Doreen asked edging away.
"Traffic violations,"
I said. "About twenty-five parking tickets. I let them pile up and never
showed up in court."
"That wasn't very
bright, old buddy," Harry said.
Sergeant Seller frowned
at me and then glanced at Doreen and, like a decent man, kept his mouth
shut.
"But how did they
know you were here?" Doreen demanded.
I shrugged. "They
obviously spotted my license plate in the parking lot." To Harry, I said,
"this may take some time. Would you mind taking Doreen home?" I kissed
her fondly. "Night, sweetie, I'll call you when I can."
With "Good lucks"
and "Good nights" the three left.
"Thanks," I said
to the Sergeant.
He nodded. "Lovely
girl."
The headwaiter came
out and handed the torn charge slips to the sergeant. "I'm very sorry
about this," he said to me.
"That's okay. It
was really a great way to hold me until they got here."
"Shall we go?" the
sergeant said.
"Sure." To the headwaiter,
I said, "Will you tell the cook for me that it was the best damn meal
I have had in my life?"
"He'll be pleased
to hear it, sir."
On the way down to
the police station, I did some heavy thinking about God. Maybe He meant
for me to return the credit cards and get in good with William L. Wilson,
who was an eccentric multimillionaire with a beautiful daughter who would
fall for me. Or maybe it was just that some stupe was fouling up my vegetable
beds down at Soledad and I was badly needed there.
I do wish that God
would be a little clearer about what he wants from me. While I'm not a
profound thinker, I personally believed that His failure to communicate
with the average person is the main reason so few people go to church
these days and so many end up in the clanger.
###
Originally
published in Playboy Magazine
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