Just My Luck

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 cards for five oil companies and four Los Angeles-area department-store chains. Not a single card had expired. What more could anybody wish for?

(continued on page 156) Just my luck (continued from page 105) 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 up 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 three A.M. I saw car lights coming and I lay on the seat. The car passed me and then stopped, 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 a year before, a pet boa constrictor had escaped and, unluckily for me, had slithered into my unlocked garage, and while people were searching for it, they came across my collection of 97 hubcaps 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 vegetable 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 but poor boy for over a year and that I deserved a few nice things.

Besides, this was a Saturday and God knew that William L. Wilson couldn't report his lost cards till the banks and credit departments were open again on Monday, which gave me 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: "Great big expensive dinner in 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'd 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 a 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'd 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 and along a road I sometimes used as a short cut. Luckily, the car was still there. It was up on blocks next to an old shack and was overgrown 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 those 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 finally got the tags off with a razor blade and went down to put them onto 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 new 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 booze and a case of expensive wines and a case of French champagne at $8.75 a bottle, with, of course, ten 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 was over $450 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 dead-beat who hadn't settled his account for months! But all was fine. God was still sitting on my shoulder.

Then I drove to Music City and bought $123 worth of stereo tapes. Again they checked my card and again 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 (continued on page 174) Just my luck (continued from page 156) 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 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 being that I'd just gotten a huge check from my insurance and wanted to buy a complete new wardrobe. He was thrilled for me and envious. I gave him the credit card and asked him please to 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 his card! I plotted my escape 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 11 expensive suits and bought eight. I also bought ten pairs of slacks, five sports 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 pigskin 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 me carry all my stuff across the street to my car. Since my trunk was full of booze, we had to pile 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 and down stairs to unload my car.

Then I shaved and polished my teeth and showered and sloshed 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 the almost unbelievable truth 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 have 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 other's ears and then kissing and giggling.

We had drinks. Doreen and I studied the menu, which was written by hand, You'd have thought they could afford to have it 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 trusty 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 and 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 full 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 aftertaste 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!" Marcia shouted proudly. "Do they go into action once they get a loss report! Click, clack, bibbity goes the telex! Whirrr, clank, clunk goes the 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, and then handed it to me along with a mountain of 20s and 10s. "Including half of a thirty-dollar tip," he said.

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 known 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 100-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 I wrote down the tip as well as I could with my trembling hands and totaled the bill and signed.

But then the headwaiter walked up, beaming, and picked up the slips and tore them in half and said, "These we won't be needing. Mr. Wilson, we've just calculated that you are our ten thousandth patron! And so 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 to 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 huge wad 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 so we got up and left.

There were two police officers waiting for me in the foyer--one by the registration desk and the other by the door. They were in 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 up and handed my torn charge slips to the sergeant. "I'm very sorry about this," he said to me.

"That's OK. It was a really great way to hold me till 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 ever 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'd 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 could be a little clearer about what He wants from me. While I'm not a profound thinker. I personally believe 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.