Car Accident Scarred my Face for Life

There was a first-run theater around the corner from our downtown Alameda apartment, and when I couldn't afford to actually go see a movie I would enjoy hanging around looking at the colorful posters that decorated its entrance.

I wasn't aware of it at the time, but would later learn that the lettering on most of these posters was done by hand (as were the titles and credits you'd see at the beginning and end of movies in those days).

Later, when I became a working sign-painter, I would meet a number of the fellows who had done this lettering and who had been laid off when mechanical and photo typesetting methods came into use.

They were now looking for work as regular sign-painters.

But getting back to the theater around the corner—there was one particular poster that still sticks in my mind. It was for a comedy-mystery of some kind. But before I saw the poster, I saw the red letters on the theater's marquee reading:

"Hmmm," I remember thinking. "Sounds like an exciting movie—something about a red skeleton who whistles in the dark."

But I was amazed that nobody had noticed the misspelling of the word "Skeleton" on the marquee.

Automobile Accident that Scarred my Face for Life

The other thing I remember about Alameda is being involved in an automobile accident that left the scars I have on the right side of my face.

My mother and I had gone to church with a friend who was a Christian Scientist. Going home after church, my mother was driving through an intersection when another car came skidding past a stop sign and hit us broadside.

The other driver was a dentist who told us he was running late for 12:00 mass, and that he just hadn't noticed the stop sign till the last moment. He did slam on his brakes—so the impact was not enough to cause major injuries—just enough to bang up our car and send shattered glass into the right side of my face.

I don't remember feeling any pain, but when I saw blood on my shirt I knew I had been cut somewhere. That's when my mother and her friend got a look at my face and the friend started shrieking hysterically.

My mother tried to calm her down, saying the cuts didn't look all that serious. And when an ambulance showed up, my mom told the woman to go along with me to the hospital while she stayed to talk to the police and the other driver.

Christian Scientist Faux Pas

But the woman never really calmed down. During the ambulance ride—and then when we arrived at the hospital—she kept screaming, "just because he went to a Christian Science church doesn't mean you can't take care of him."

Well, at the time I had no idea what one thing had to do with the other.

But apparently everyone else did. As soon as they heard "Christian Science" no one would touch me. I heard them telling the woman, who was now getting even more hysterical, "if they're Christian Scientists we can't do anything without his mother's permission."

And the fact that she was screaming we were not Christian Scientists, but had just gone to church with her this one time, didn't dissuade anybody.

So they just left me bleeding on a cot, waiting for my mother to arrive. And when she did get there—nearly an hour later—she started getting hysterical when she found out that nobody had done anything for me this whole time.

Lucky I Didn't Bleed to Death

Well, after she signed a bunch of papers, they took me into the OR, gave me some ether, and stitched up my face. I still have the scars. But we were told later that I probably wouldn't have had any scars (or, at least, the ones I have would have been much less noticeable) if they had started to work on me right away.

I don't believe my mother ever forgave that woman for mentioning Christian Science to the medics.

As for the "seriousness" of the cuts, the glass missed hitting my right eye and my right jugular vein by just a fraction of an inch on each one. Had it hit the jugular, I conceivably could have bled to death before my mom got there. Who knows? I'm just glad it was no worse than it was.

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The MC looked at me for a long moment, and then asked, "Is that it?"

When I said yes, he gave me a condescending smile, patted me on the head and nudged me toward the steps. "Run along, sonny," he said, "Your mom's probably looking for you".

My Favorite Place

But the place in downtown LA I remember most warmly was Clifton's Cafeteria. This was a large restaurant exotically decorated in a Polynesian motif that included live palm trees, cascading waterfalls, and aquariums full of tropical fish, as well as continuous live organ music.

The food was good and the atmosphere was enchanting. (Noticeably absent from the décor were any of my stepdad's serigraphs—although, over the years, I would occasionally see them in motel rooms and furnished apartments.)

Polynesian Paradise

Anyway, one would think that a place with this kind of atmosphere must be a very expensive place to eat—but quite the opposite was true. My favorite thing about Clifton's was the live organist who played in a balcony overlooking the beehive of activity below.

There were comfortable theater seats behind the organ, where anyone was welcome to sit and watch the constantly moving tableau below, or to just close one's eyes and enjoy the melodic strains of the Hammond. And the organist was always willing to play requests.

I spent many happy afternoons sitting in the balcony, bombarding him with requests for all my favorite songs. (And I had dozens of favorite songs.)

But my parents' favorite thing about Clifton's was the small sign that greeted everyone at the cafeteria's entrance. It said that the prices of all the dishes would be plainly marked and that you'd pay the cashier at the end of the line—but—that you didn't have to pay any more than you could afford.

Well, they never told me if they ever actually took advantage of this generous offer, or if they always paid full price—but I knew they appreciated knowing of a restaurant that would charge no more than one could afford to pay in case times got tough (which for us they usually were).

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