This is the Book of Man Johnson, a well-known inebriate who dwelt in the gutters of Beverly Hills where the exhaust fumes of Jaguars and Cadillac Convertibles were the heady stuff of existence. And existence it sure was, for during the sweltering evenings of August, it definitely wasn’t life.
It mattered not though, for Man Johnson was content with his existence. He lacked neither money nor a roof over his head. He ate from restaurant hand-outs and laid his weary body down wherever he happened upon a grass patch. Night and day were of no significance.
Thus it came to pass that a stranger in a double breasted pin-stripe suit approached him one day with some understandable hesitation and handed him a business card. That Man Johnson had forgotten how to read was not known to the man in the double breasted suit, so when he handed the card to Man Johnson, he was even more surprised to discover that Man Johnson was stuffing the card into his mouth. What the heck, sometimes a ‘burger, sometimes cardboard. As long as there was no poison in it, it was as good as food. Then he burped.
This was all just as well, because the card read “Ivor Lionel Grundman, Attorney-at-Law” and all the other stuff that people put on business cards. Lawyers write them even smaller than other people. And the reason why Ivor Lionel Grundman wanted to introduce himself to Man Johnson was to tell him that a Last Will and Testament had been deposited in favor of Man Johnson by his great-uncle Man Johnson. Uncle Man Johnson had left the tidy sum of fourteen million dollars to the only relative in his four hundred and twenty-one member extended family who had the identical name to his.
Ivor Lionel Grundman did not give the fourteen million dollar check in his pocket to Man Johnson. He took it out and, holding it in both his hands, showed it to Man Johnson. Reading, he had forgotten. But numbers had remained with him. Man Johnson beckoned to Ivor Lionel Grundman to come closer. He made sniffing sounds and pointed from the check to his nose, from the check to his nose.
Ivor Lionel Grundman held out the check, firmly between the thumb and forefinger of his hands, and with some trepidation brought it close to Man Johnson’s nose. Man Johnson sniffed in deep. Once, twice, three times.
“Well my man, it sure smells fine,” Man Johnson said. These were in fact the first words he had spoken in eleven years, ever since the day he had gotten laid at Milly’s Paint Store and Brothel on West Beverly Boulevard.
“It’s yours,” said Ivor Lionel Grundman, “if you can show me some sort of identification to prove that you are Man Johnson.”
Man Johnson looked at him blankly. Then, ever so slowly, he pulled from the inner pocket of his rumpled overcoat a passport, a driver’s license, his social security card, his American Express Gold card, his VISA card, his MASTERCARD, his membership card at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel Spa and Sports Club, and a card from the Howard Hughes Temple testifying to the fact that at the age of 44 he had undergone conversion to Judaism and was ritually circumcised by Dr. Ruth Wertheimer.
“I guess the money’s yours,” said Ivor Lionel Grundman and handed the check over to Man Johnson. Man Johnson took the check, sniffed it deeply thrice more, and ate it.
It mattered not though, for Man Johnson was content with his existence. He lacked neither money nor a roof over his head. He ate from restaurant hand-outs and laid his weary body down wherever he happened upon a grass patch. Night and day were of no significance.
Thus it came to pass that a stranger in a double breasted pin-stripe suit approached him one day with some understandable hesitation and handed him a business card. That Man Johnson had forgotten how to read was not known to the man in the double breasted suit, so when he handed the card to Man Johnson, he was even more surprised to discover that Man Johnson was stuffing the card into his mouth. What the heck, sometimes a ‘burger, sometimes cardboard. As long as there was no poison in it, it was as good as food. Then he burped.
This was all just as well, because the card read “Ivor Lionel Grundman, Attorney-at-Law” and all the other stuff that people put on business cards. Lawyers write them even smaller than other people. And the reason why Ivor Lionel Grundman wanted to introduce himself to Man Johnson was to tell him that a Last Will and Testament had been deposited in favor of Man Johnson by his great-uncle Man Johnson. Uncle Man Johnson had left the tidy sum of fourteen million dollars to the only relative in his four hundred and twenty-one member extended family who had the identical name to his.
Ivor Lionel Grundman did not give the fourteen million dollar check in his pocket to Man Johnson. He took it out and, holding it in both his hands, showed it to Man Johnson. Reading, he had forgotten. But numbers had remained with him. Man Johnson beckoned to Ivor Lionel Grundman to come closer. He made sniffing sounds and pointed from the check to his nose, from the check to his nose.
Ivor Lionel Grundman held out the check, firmly between the thumb and forefinger of his hands, and with some trepidation brought it close to Man Johnson’s nose. Man Johnson sniffed in deep. Once, twice, three times.
“Well my man, it sure smells fine,” Man Johnson said. These were in fact the first words he had spoken in eleven years, ever since the day he had gotten laid at Milly’s Paint Store and Brothel on West Beverly Boulevard.
“It’s yours,” said Ivor Lionel Grundman, “if you can show me some sort of identification to prove that you are Man Johnson.”
Man Johnson looked at him blankly. Then, ever so slowly, he pulled from the inner pocket of his rumpled overcoat a passport, a driver’s license, his social security card, his American Express Gold card, his VISA card, his MASTERCARD, his membership card at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel Spa and Sports Club, and a card from the Howard Hughes Temple testifying to the fact that at the age of 44 he had undergone conversion to Judaism and was ritually circumcised by Dr. Ruth Wertheimer.
“I guess the money’s yours,” said Ivor Lionel Grundman and handed the check over to Man Johnson. Man Johnson took the check, sniffed it deeply thrice more, and ate it.
