SEVEN.

    The old man who lives on the floor below me sits downstairs on the patio every morning, reading newspapers, without fail, despite circumstance. His eyes are atramentous; he wears pastel collared shirts and polyester pants with a pleat down the front.

    I usually bring him a cup of coffee when I go down to get my mail. I adore old men and I want him to be my friend; I suspect he has fascinating stories to tell about Hollywood's golden age, but unfortunately he is quiet and only smiles at me kindly, saying not much at all. The newspapers he reads aren't really delivered to him - they belong someone else in the building but Al goes through them first. I wonder if this is proper, but I admire his pluck. He smokes at 7am, tapping his ashes in a neat pile on a tray on a table in the foyer.

    When I say good morning he smiles at me, his face unsettling, and I wonder if I'm being taken advantage of. I'm like a secretary in an office run by brusque men, scampering around desks fetching memos while tugging up my disagreeable pantyhose. He's my neighbor though; if he were a woman I'd call him Abuela and bring him tea with milk.

    "Oh, Pennie," he says, "oh". Steam rises up from his cup, billows around us, storm clouds gathering. Release me. I point out my injured knee, my battered conscience. Distract him from the day's news, guide him towards my trivial longings, meager anguish. He settles his paper into his lap and takes up the coffee cup, momentarily distracted. "The neighbor? Where they're putting up the new house? They make a lot of noise," he says, rattling the cup on the table.

    I am offended for a moment. Everything has to make noise sometimes. Silence is unattainable, especially here, right off Hollywood Blvd. with the neon and tourists and movie premiers. Only the most atmospheric, tranquil spot is nearly silent: Hollywood Forever, where the stars of yesteryear gaze out on the Hollywood sign for all eternity. To the static beat of ravens in the palm trees. It's a little early in the morning to talk about death. "It's always too early," Al says.

    It's never too late. "I see you going into the Magic Castle sometimes," I say.

    "I go to the club to drink. It's quiet there. The piano only plays when you ask it to."

    "Can you teach me a card trick?" I ask him. "I love card tricks." His face hardens suddenly, growing grim. He hardly resembles the kind old man who evoked pity in me earlier. There is something strange and criminal in his eyes. "No, no! I'm done with all that - I've forgotten it. I'm only a spectator now.”

    "It's alright," I say, striding off. "I wasn't really interested anyhow."