Night of the Cat

Magic nights in L.A. Warm winds blow through the city. Rustling palms whisper like lovers after dark. Lights gleam in the moving air, assuming qualities of glitter that cast us in the unsettling half-light of fairy tales. Cats prowl the back alleys at midnight; traffic floats dream-like down Sunset.

A friend used to say spirits walked the Earth when hot winds blew. “There’s mischief afoot,” he’d say, looking down at the lighted streets from the city room. His name was Nick. We worked nights in those days, and the nights taunted us with mystery. “Someone somewhere is up to no good.”

Sunday. It’s a restless night for me. I sleep little enough, and artificial time changes don’t make it easier. The rhythm breaks; the eyes pop open. I prowl with the cats, listening to the wind. I’m not alone. The night crowd sips black coffee, thumbs through magazines, shops for food and launders at the 24-hour places. Some walk dogs. A few bound through the darkness in obsessive commitment to cardiovascular fitness.

I drive down La Cienega, thinking of Nick. He said to me once, “You know, if Jesus hadn’t gotten into all that trouble, he might’ve had a nice life as a general contractor.” And he said to me once, “Smart animals eat, sleep and fornicate. None of them write. Writing is not a natural function of nature.”

I’m thinking about Nick this night because I’ve just seen a show based on the acerbic nature of Oscar Levant. It’s called “At Wit’s End,’ and it’s at the Coronet Theatre. Stan Freeman plays Levant, a tortured genius who used humor to ward off hell and the piano to define heaven.

The show is full of music and full of Levant’s quotable comments. You’ve heard most of them. “When I was young I looked like Al Capone, but I lacked his compassion.” “I don’t drink. It makes me feel good.” “I knew Doris Day before she became a virgin.” “I was once thrown out of a mental hospital for depressing the other patients.”

Levant died in 1972 in Beverly Hills. He was 66. Nick died in 1987 in Pasadena. He was 57. They were alike in a lot of ways. Nick’s piano was his typewriter and his stinging wit a reprisal against what seemed the mind-wrenching vicissitudes of life.

Both took drugs to control their dementia, Nick in modest amounts, Levant in raging excess. Ten years of his life were a Nembutal blur. “The day I embraced Judy Garland,” Levant once said, “may have been the greatest moment in pharmaceutical history.” Humor, like murder, is born in dark places of the soul. “There is a thin line between genius and insanity,” Levant said. “I have erased this line.”

Nick used to talk about luck, but he never really believed in it. “Luck comes in last,” he told me once. We argued. We always argued. “Sometimes it comes in first,” I said. “Sometimes it wins. What about the guy from Baltimore who beat you for the Pulitzer? Did he beat you on talent?” Nick shrugged, unwilling to admit that. “Talent wins,” he said, “but exceptions to the rule occasionally finish strong.”

Levant, by Freeman’s interpretation, talked about luck but couldn’t define it. “Luck,” he would say and let that one word hang in the smoky air. Luck . . . Then he’d think about it and play some Gershwin music and say, “The worst part of being in a mental institution is when you come out of the bathroom and the nurse says, ‘Any luck?’ ” The laughter fades. “Luck,” he says again.

Midnight. I drive west on Sunset and then into Beverly Hills. Despite the hour, there’s a man in designer sweats running along Beverly Boulevard, the king of fitness by moonlight. He looks a little like one of our editors, and I remember what Nick used to say about a body-conscious assistant on the city desk who managed to weight-lift himself into Mr. America contention. “An editor on anabolic steroids,” Nick would comment as he passed, “is an awesome sight.”

I pull into the driveway. Our cat stands on the roof, yowling. She was given to us as neutered. She isn’t. “Love is what causes your palms to itch,” Nick used to say. The hot wind is stronger now. Pollen from the oak trees lays ribbons of gold on the driveway. Leaves whirl through the air. Oscar Levant said, “I would throw myself into the orchestra pit, but I’m afraid of mingling with strangers.”

The wind blows and the cat yowls.