Mercy Me

Damn it's stuffy in here. Smells like rejuvenation with a hint of melancholy and a touch of urine wafting in from outside. It's coming from the back door just beyond Hemingway. I get up to close it in a mindful manner as I don't want to wake Hemingway. He looks so peaceful there, spread eagle and snoring away on the fiberglass bench, his face purple and cherub like.

What am I doing here? Oh yes, writers block. I’m thinking this laundromat might break the ice with its revolving door of colorful nomads who network and gossip while their threadbare regalia soak in dime store detergent. Surely I will be able to pick and choose the cast of characters for my next opus when this nightly cattle call of the temporarily disenfranchised commences. But when? It’s already after 10 p.m. and all I have is sleeping Hemingway and Nigel the neck cracker. Nigel is the young man sitting on a tiny three legged stool. His fists are clenched as he watches his clothing dry with a peculiar agitation. He wears that dark hoodie which has been all the rage for far too long, and he cracks his neck......a lot! First, he turns his head to one side, and with each hand steadies the chin and back of the neck just so, this is followed by a swift jerk and a hollow crack. Then it’s back to the intensity of his clothes drying. Wish I could be as focused as Nigel. It doesn't look like the circus will be coming to town tonight so I’ll have to chip through this block the old fashioned way, sheer force of will.

"Nigel Hemming was not one to wash his dirty laundry in public but......”

She burst through the back door as if being carried in by a monsoon swell. Late twenties probably. Retro. Real retro. Like Betty Boop retro down to the flapper bob and beauty mark placed perfectly below the left cheekbone. Her hair was parted in the middle, one side blonde the other brunette. Even though it was summer she was wearing ear muffs. The leather vest atop a frilly linen blouse and the oxford shoes below her denim skirt told me this one likes to play with contrasts. The clacking from the shoes was enough to stir Hemingway a bit but it didn’t even register with Nigel, who could not be distracted from the excitement of his clothes drying. She plopped down on one of the stools next to me and heaved a sigh of relief. I minimized the page on my tablet, set it down and tried to think of something to say. She beat me to it.

“You a writer?”

"Yes. How did you know?"

She takes off the ear muffs, puts them around her neck.

“Woman's intuition."

"Oh c'mon. I'm not buying that one."

"Good. You see, you just proved you're a writer. That line wasn't good enough for you was it? Okay, how about this, you're dressed semi normal so that tells me you are not an actor or a musician.”

Her eyes move down to my shoes.

"And the loafers, classic writer footwear! PLUS, you just don't have the, shall I say chutzpah, of one of the regulars."

She gives a subtle nod toward Hemingway and Nigel, then turns to face me with her hand out.

"Name is Mercy. Mercy Hoon."

I greet her hand with mine and we shake.

"Charles."

"Charles? I think I like it. Whatcha writing about Charles?

This question always gives me pause. I get it all the time and have many stock answers.

"Well that's just it. I'm kinda stuck. So I came here."

Mercy smiles big.

“Well you ain’t stuck no more Chuck.”

“I‘m not.”

"No! You got me now.”

My mind wanders here a bit. Why didn’t she bring in any laundry? I consider my attire. White cotton shirt, navy blue khaki pants and a baseball cap back to front. She's right, semi- normal.

"What brings you here Mercy? I don't see any laundry."

"Oh don't be so sure Chuck. I got dirty laundry alright, just ain't mine.

I usually didn't like the nickname "Chuck" but with Mercy I made an exception.

"Okay Mercy, what ya got?"

It turns out Mercy is an actress. She's married to a man named Robert, who is also an actor. They met while she was auditioning for a small role in "The Constant Wife." A year into their marriage she found out he had a son from a previous marriage that was yet to be annulled. This, of course, was a constant cause of friction between them and that is what brought her here. They had just had a huge argument.

"Not buying it." I said.

"A-h-h-h-h-h. Why not?

"Too pedestrian. Plausible but......"

"Well it did happen ya know......."

Mercy slumps a bit and stares at the floor.

"Just not to me. It happened to my friend Peg. Peg Entwistle. She's an actress too."

This is when the fact that I was in an all night, 24/7 laundromat on San Vicente boulevard came crashing down on me. This woman is onto me and is playing some sort of game. She knows I'm a writer. Yes. I'm also a huge movie buff who still collects action figures. I'm also enough of a geek to know that Peg Entwistle was the woman who committed suicide jumping off the Hollywood sign in 1932. Only then it was the Hollywoodland sign. I let things percolate for a moment.

"Oh I've heard of Peg Entwistle."

"I'm sure you have. You're a writer, probably like the theater, so chances are you've been to the Palace downtown.

"Sure."

This was true. I was there a few month ago for a special screening of "From Russia, with Love."

"Then you saw her in The Mad Hopes with Billie Burke. It's the talk of the town."

Whoever Mercy was, she was selling it. And she had done her research. Peg Entwistle and Billie Burke, who became famous as Glinda the good witch in The Wizard of Oz, could have been contemporaries. I was tempted to check The Mad Hopes on my tablet, but I refrained. I played along.

"Your friend Peg, she's going places. She was really good in that play."

"Yeah. But she won't be happy until she gets in pictures."

Referring to movies as "pictures" was a nice touch.

"Enough about your friend Peg. Tell me about yourself Mercy. Whats your story?

She turned to me and super sized those saucer shaped brown eyes. Before she even spoke I knew the truth was coming. She pulled a cigarette from her vest pocket and lit it with a wooden match. Her body language became more compelling. Whoever this woman was, as an actress, she was going places too.

"The doctor told my mother I would be a risky pregnancy but she went ahead and did it anyway. Well the doctor was right, it was touch and go for a while but I finally pulled through. The first person mom saw when she came to was the nurse staring at her and smiling. When the nurse told her about my healthy eight pound seven ounce ass she was giddy with excitement. She asked the nurse her name and the nurse said "Mercy."

Mercy takes a strong drag from her smoke. Then she throws her head back, exhales and continues with a detached nostalgia.

"Mom said when she first looked into my eyes she saw an old soul. Not in the sense where, like, that I'm mature, or more grounded beyond my years."

She laughs at herself. I try to keep her focused.

"Did she mean more in the spiritual sense?" I ask.

"Yes. Like, there is this endless cycle of death and rebirth. And I, being the old soul that I am, I am in the final stage which culminates in.........Whatchamacallit?

"Nirvana."

"Yes! Yes, mister writer man, nirvana.

In this moment, Mercy becomes even more detached and seems to speak almost rhetorically. She drops her cigarette and snuffs it out with her oversized oxford.

"I just wish I could have gone out with more of a bang, instead of just getting swept away in my sleep when the flood gates opened."

With this Mercy gets up quickly and heads towards the back door from which she came. I stand up and try to say something but nothing comes out.

"And don't forget to get my story straight Chuck. How I had to go to the Saugus Depot and take the train every time I had to audition. How I worked at the citrus packing plant in Lankershim to support my acting habit. Tell them about how I helped mother off the laudanum when dad left. I packed a lot into those years. "

Above us the fluorescent tube lights began to flicker as if on cue. Belligerent gusts from outside muscled the back door open again and it seemed as though the San Andreas below us may have quivered a bit. Her exit was as abrupt as her entrance. All the worlds a stage indeed.

Now Hemingway is folding his clothes. He looks more pink than purple and there is a quiet glow to him. Nigel is folding his clothes too. His hoodie is now wrapped around his waist and he is smiling peacefully to himself. He looks like a guy whose girlfriends name is Buffy. The makeover is stunning.

As the early morning sun peeks through the mildewed accordion blinds of Sal's Laundromat on San Vicente, the writing tablet on my lap beckons me to look down and start reading.........

When the dam finally burst at 11:58 p.m. on March 12th 1928, both east and west abutments were swept away leaving only the center portion of the dam standing as a very appropriate tombstone. Most of the souls that were swept away that night were sleeping in the San Francisquito valley below. As of today there are 306 victims that we know by name.

Another 125 are missing or unidentified. One of them was Mercy Hoon.

This is her story.........................