A Dead Cat Out of Pico

I was riding the Blue Line out of Pico, reading about the giddy anticipation of a new war, when the guy next to me says, “Look at that.”

There is nothing in the direction in which he is pointing except a deceased animal lying in the street.

“Look at what?” I say.

“The cat,” he says. “A dead cat is good luck.”

“I’ve never heard that before,” I say, trying to appear interested.

He is wearing a T-shirt that says “Tequila” across the front. His biceps are larger than my thighs and the backs of his hands are hairy. I take guys like that seriously.

“That tells me,” he says, “that everything is going to be OK in Iraq. The last time I saw a dead cat, my sister recovered from a female disease.”

“You must have been very pleased,” I say.

He nods contentedly and goes back to looking for dead cats.

I mention this not to discuss superstitions. There are too many of them and they can get crazy. For instance, a friend of mine believed for years that seeing a black man seated on a yellow fire hydrant was good luck.

I laughed until he won $2,500 in a poker game the very day he saw one. You never know.

But this is a column on the Blue Line, not on the vagaries of fortune. The commute is rich with characters and I intend to take several trips looking for them.

Why else would anyone go to Long Beach?

It was my first trip on the Blue Line. I got on at the Pico Station and rode to the Anaheim Street Station, which is on the outer edge of old L.B.

About 100,000 commuters have used the trolley-trains since the first of the month. So far, no one has been mugged, raped or otherwise subjected to anti-social indecencies, but the game is still young. Give it time.

My purpose in riding the 12:10 out of Pico was not primarily to look for interesting people or dead cats, but to test the safety and effectiveness of the trains. I figure if I am pleased, you will be pleased, because I am almost never pleased. But I was pleased.

The trains are air-conditioned and reasonably comfortable, though worlds removed from luxury accommodations on a sheik’s yacht. They zip along smoothly, when they are not waiting for an interminable number of traffic signals, and complete the full run in about an hour.

En route, one is treated to vistas of plumbing supply depots, 99-cent discount stores, automotive junkyards, barred windows, graffiti and examples of every major fast-food restaurant ever created.

Keep in mind this is L.A., not the south of France.

A live conductor, as opposed to an electronic voice, calls every station, the way they used to when I rode the trolleys through Oakland as a kid two wars ago, or was it three?

The cars clanged and swayed down East 14th Street. Sometimes you could steal a ride on the cow catchers. The Blue Line cars don’t have cow catchers and they don’t clang. They blast air horns that say Ralph, Ralph, Ralph-Ralph, but they do sway.

Do not, however, even think of stealing a ride. You’d get shot off the side of the train like a kittiwake from a kumquat tree. There are no free rides anymore.

You don’t smoke on the Blue Line trains either. You also don’t eat, drink, plays radios or hold unnecessary conversations with the train operator.

An elderly woman apparently got on at one stop but her husband didn’t. They radioed ahead. The conductor’s voice on the P.A. system said, “Shirley Weiss, get off at the next station.”

There was something ethereal about it, like it was coming from God. Shirley Weiss, your time has come. They wanted to get her together with her husband, Charlie Weiss.

She got off and, one assumes, lived happily ever after.

Across from me, a young couple necked and petted. Do they still call it that? They kissed and groped. It was OK as long as they didn’t eat, drink, play a radio or talk unnecessarily to the conductor.

Bug the conductor, Mac, and it’s zipper up and off you go.

The train was crowded both ways, but old ladies stood. Is that new etiquette? Let the old ladies stand? I offered my seat to one but she just looked terrified and moved away. A New Yorker, I guess.

I looked for something to eat at the Anaheim Station in Long Beach. I had a choice of Mr. Pizza, Marisco’s Tacos, the Donut Factory or the Beef Bowl. The place that featured beer and live nudes was closed.

I chose the Beef Bowl because of a sign on the door that said, “No Animals Allowed.” You can’t take chances. It’s a tough neighborhood.

I wasn’t worried, though. I kept thinking about the dead cat and knew everything would work out fine.