The Last Call

The Panama Hotel was unreal. We gave our paperwork to the man behind the safety glass, and we were each assigned a room. The rooms were very small, and smelled like ammonia, urine and feces. The stench in the community bathroom down the hall was even more overwhelming. That first night, we decided to share a room for safety reasons. I woke up during the night to take a leak, and as I was approaching the bathroom, I saw what I thought was a huge, nearly naked black chick wearing a pink wig running toward me. It was a chick with a dick. He had huge fake tits and was wearing a teeny thong that only halfway covered his substantial piece. He blew right by me, and a couple of seconds later another tranny playfully trotted after him. They were apparently playing hide-and-seek. I didn’t know what they were hiding or what they were seeking, and I really didn’t want to know.
The next morning Ziggy and I walked over to the soup kitchen with our meal tickets, just in time for breakfast. We wanted to get a little nutrition before we started panhandling. We'd decided that after breakfast we'd go up to Broadway and panhandle from the people on their way to work. We were going to ask for spare change and cigarettes until we had enough money to drink for the rest of the day.
The food line was a block long, so I imagined they were serving some pretty good grub. As we stood in the doorway of the Pioneer Kitchen waiting to use our tickets, a mountain of a black man standing directly behind us bellowed, “Last night, I had a dream that all black men and white men were created equal.” That’s all he said, and the whole place erupted with laughter. Everyone roared--except for us. I wasn't able to make any sense of it.
The big dude stuck out a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt and said, “My name’s Shoefly. How you boys doin'?”
I cautiously replied, “Good, sir, how about you?”
“Lot better than you, lots better than you," he said. "For real! Whatchu boys doin' here? Ya'll don't belong down here.”
“I’m not quite sure, sir," I said. "I’m really not sure what we’re doing here.”
Ziggy didn't say anything, and Shoefly smiled and just shook his head.
When I looked at my breakfast, I honestly couldn't figure out what the hell was on my plate. After making a sincere effort to stomach the food, I surrendered and gave the rest of the food tickets to Shoefly. He loved the Pioneer Kitchen food, especially neck bones, pig's feet, collard greens, chitlins, grits, and other unidentifiable slop. I told him that if he looked out for us and made sure no one tried to hurt us, I’d give him my hotel vouchers too. He liked that idea, and from that point on we had a tour guide, a bodyguard, and free entertainment. It was a great tradeoff, since I didn't plan to use that hotel voucher anyway.
Everything was going fine until Ziggy had to screw things up and damn near get us killed. We were getting comfortable and acclimating fairly well to our new surroundings, doing the same thing every day. After we panhandled all morning, we'd settle in on a street corner with Shoefly and drink bottle after bottle of rotgut wine, smoke menthol cigarettes, and swap lies.
One day while we were drinking with Shoefly on our corner, from out of the blue, Ziggy said, “Hey, Shoefly, you wanna know who David’s dad is?”
“Who his daddy, Ziggy?”
Ziggy shot back, “His name’s Joseph Wambuh. He wrote The Onion Field and all sorts of other things. He makes famous movies and everything!”
I assumed that the derelicts on skid row would have no idea who my dad was, until Shoefly turned, looked at Ziggy, and said, “Whatchu say, Ziggy?”
Ziggy blurted it out again, “David’s dad is Joseph Wambuh, The famous writer!”
Shoefly turned to me, looked me straight in they eye, and slowly said, “Big D, is dat da trufe?”
I felt like strangling Ziggy. I turned to Shoefly and said, “Hell, no! Ziggy’s crazy.”
Ziggy looked at Shoefly and said, “Check his ID. He pro'ly still has an expired driver's license. You’ll see, Shoefly. Check it out!”
Shoefly gently said to me, “Let me see your license, big 'D'. Dat can’t be true. Is your daddy really Joseph Wambaugh?”
I looked at Ziggy who had a goofy expression on his face, and it made me realize just how crazy, stupid and retarded he really was. I finally answered, “Yeah Shoefly, he’s my dad. It’s true.”
I could see his wheels spinning like mad, and I guessed that whatever he was thinking, it couldn’t be good. For the rest of the day, Shoefly talked about all the different books my dad had written and the movies he'd made. He said he was a big fan, and that his brother, Wofeek, was even a bigger fan. He said that Wofeek had just done a stretch in prison, and all they do is read books, true crime being a favorite. The brother had been in prison for several years, so Shoefly was sure his brother must have read most of my dad’s books by the time he got out.
Not much else happened that day, but Shoefly said that he wanted us to go with him to his brother’s crib the next day so he could introduce us. I sort of went on high alert, because Shoefly seemed to have changed somehow; he was more sober and thoughtful. I didn't understand why the sense of urgency for us to meet his brother, but nonetheless, I had bad feelings about what might take place in the next day or so.