Off Hollywood

Networking is a way of life for the newspaperman. One who is knowledgeable of the craft knows how to take a lead and turn it into paydirt. The word conjures images of filth and disgust or else the kind of thing Max Stowt was hoping to gain from Chazworth's gumshoe exploit. But the reporter was looking for something else, or at least something other than just that to make his work more meaningful.

The morning following, Mickey Chazworth sat on his bed thumbing through a phone book in search of one Dr. Julius Cohen. Being not a common name, it didn't take him long to find the listing. What became more difficult was finding a way to wedge himself into the man's schedule for a few minutes of his time. But the journalist was persistent, as he was taught to be, and even managed an audience with the psychiatrist at day's end. Getting through Dr. Cohen's medical secretary was akin to end-running a line backer, however, so his verbal skills had to be quick and articulate.

At five p.m., the reluctant secretary ushered Chazworth into Dr. Cohen's study where he was greeted with better courtesy. The psychiatrist's office was located in a medical office building on Melrose Avenue, just at the edge of Hollywood. It was posh, with a study room wall full of placards and diplomas, depicting a man of meritorious achievement.

Even as the two shook hands, Chazworth kept scanning the many framed documents to discover that Dr. Cohen was more than just a psychiatrist. He held degrees in endocrinology and neurology. Were it not for an honorary degree in sociology as well, the newspaperman may have been hard put to find a connection between glands and brains. But it would all make sense to him much later on. For now, he figured it was a safe bet to assume that it had something to do with sex.

'My secretary tells me you're a journalist for a paper in San Pedro,' Dr. Cohen began. 'Is it a medical journal?'

No,' the reporter grinned, 'it's a bi-weekly newspaper of area goings-on, held together by piecemeal jerry-rigging.'

'What?' the psychiatrist chuckled. 'What's the name of your paper?'

'The Freeport Press.'

The doctor shook his head. 'No, can't say that I've heard of it.'

'The subscribership is rather weak. It's been in business for some twenty years ... but apparently news of it's existence hasn't reached this far north yet,' Chazworth condescended.

'Oh? Oh!' he laughed, 'You're making a joke.' And the newspaperman began to wonder about the noted medical doctor.

'What is it I can do for you ... Mr. Chazworth, is it?' he then asked.

'I'm doing a series of articles on the street. You know, prostitution, sex for sale, that sort of thing.'

'I see.' Dr. Cohen sat behind his desk, offering his hand in motion for Chazworth to sit across from him. 'What do you expect to gain from me?' There was an amused expression on his face.

'Well. I'm not sure, really. Except that you come highly recommended.'

'As a professional courtesy, I hope,' the good doctor chuckled again.

Chazworth smiled in his own embarrassment. 'Uh. Yeah. That's what I meant. My understanding is that you have spent considerable time counseling with prostitutes.'

'They are some of my better patients.'

'Really? More interesting? Or more cooperative?' the reporter asked for clarification.

'Better at paying their bills on time,' Dr. Cohen grinned, and Chazworth laughed.

'I guess what I'm looking for are guidelines. Maybe a psychological profile. Something which I can better understand their behavior with. You know, so that when I go back on the street to research, I will be better equipped to investigate.'

'What exactly are you looking for, Mr. Chazworth?' He leaned back in his chair. 'What do you expect to find?'

'I'm open,' answered the journalist.

'Good. Then you are not operating from presupposition.'

'It's difficult not to stereotype, Dr. Cohen. But I've had some encounters this week already which have opened my eyes to the unexpected.'

The psychiatrist pushed himself forward over his desk and responded, 'That's a good attitude. We have something to work with.' He put his hand on his face, drumming the cheek with his fingers in thought.

'I'm not at liberty to go into case studies with you, Mr. Chazworth, but I think that I can provide you with some grassroots observations about behavioral generalizations and psychological makeup.'

'Shoot,' he answered, pulling out pen and pad.

'The question is where to begin,' the doctor raised his bushy eyebrows at the newspaperman.

'I think the first thing to do is unglamorize the Hollywood movie industry's perception of the 'Happy Hooker'.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'Basically, that we're not dealing with Shirley Maclaine, Irma La Douce, or Jane Fonda on the street. I have never understood a director's impression of prostitutes as some real-life animation of Fantasia. Not when the truth is right up under his nose.'

'You mean Hollywood Boulevard?'

'And Sunset and Vine and Melrose. It's just not as titillating as they make it out to be. In fact, there isn't much tantalizing about it at all. These are people living a hard and dangerous life. And the only thing which keeps their sanity is the fact of it's constant mundanity, which is interrupted only occasionally by sheer terror. The sin of greed outplays that of sex because the money is good. There is a false security about love and care because most of these people come away from bad homes or broken families. Half are unskilled at anything else, and the other half are lightly skilled in professions where inequality can be counted out at the bank. They simply make better money on the street.'

'Go on,' Chazworth prompted him, seeing that the psychiatrist was eager to talk.

'They all share one thing in common - disillusionment, which fosters drugs and alcohol and a hardening of the heart. Far too many are under age and when their biological clock stops ticking in their favor, they have grown old before their time. There is nothing for them afterwards, little for them now. They pass away forgotten, with liver disease, burnt-out minds, undernourished bodies, or at the hands of a murderer.'

'Only a few survive to write books about the glorious adventure of prostitution. And this, Mr. Chazworth, is what Hollywood chooses to depict in its movies.'

'Not much fun, is it?' the reporter added.

'What the cinema projects is not civilization as we know it, no. The plight of the prostitute is sacrificed for illusions of half-truths.'

'I gather from the thoroughness of your response, that this is a personal crusade!' Chazworth was keen to observe again the diplomas hanging on the wall opposite him, looking up at the honorary sociology degree.

'I do overdo it a bit at times, I guess,' Dr. Cohen sighed. 'It's just that I have seen the other side over and over. It's like running the movie reel backwards. The happy ending is at the beginning.'

He gazed at Chazworth with a sympathetic look and continued, 'I attended a funeral last week for a young adolescent whose sole means of support was prostitution. She was thirteen.' He looked down at his desk and then back to the reporter. 'Been coming to me off and on for over a year. She was interned several times at Oddessey House. Do you know Father McGuire? He was at the funeral, too. Delivered the eulogy.'