I knew it was only a matter of time before I left ‘crazy Jimmy.’ I had a mental plan of what I would grab when the time came, my hair blower first on the list.
The time did come early one L.A. Sunday morning. I awoke to Jimmy pouring ice water in my ear from a yellow Italian ceramic soup tureen I had purchased at a yard sale for 50¢. He started beating my head before I could react.
“That’ll teach you!” he raged, standing over me.
I strained to sit up. We slept on a mattress on the floor. It took considerable cajoling to calm down his raving. Repeatedly I reassured him that I was not screwing any of the customers or bartenders. While I mentally plotted my quick escape, I talked him into walking around the corner towards Las Palmas to pick up a quart of orange juice and the Sunday Times.
Once I heard the fire door slam, I grabbed that hair-blower, a handful of Palomino t-shirts, and a few pairs of jeans and panties. I stuffed them into a Ralph’s grocery bag and ran out of the apartment building. Running across the meager front grass, diagonally, to my car, I turned my ankle but continued my beeline. Fortunately, the car was parked away from the direction Jimmy had sauntered. Heading toward Franklin Avenue, I drove in circles for quite a while, until the shaking stopped—I can’t remember if I cried—eventually ending up at fellow Palomino waitress Beverly’s airy apartment on Highland. She had recently pronounced she was gay. It relieved me to be enveloped by her gaggle of lesbian friends. The thought of looking at a man that morning was nauseating.
My eyes were blackening from Jimmy’s pounding. Beverly, in her lilting Scottish brogue, invited me to stay on her couch as long as I needed. Head waitress Carmen, possibly the victim of a domestic dispute or two, gave me a great station for once.
Despite my swollen ankle, I made the best tips ever that night. While carrying a full tray of Coronas and Dos Equis, while the trumpet section of Jack Mack and the Heart Attack kept a steady beat, I wound my way through the hip Hollywood crowd. I thought about how in a few hours I, along with all of the other Palomino girls on duty, would be cleaning all of the dirty glasses in the two squalid sinks behind the bar at three a.m., while the male bartenders counted their tips and drank beer at one of the dilapidated red Naugahyde booths. Then and there, I resolved that the next fantasy I would play out would not involve a musician or a serving tray.
