An Appeal to Absent-Mindedness Almost Doesn’t Wash

Being housebound, I sometimes go out to lunch at some small restaurant in the neighborhood. I like to eat alone and read the paper.

Sometimes I venture as far west as Langer’s, at MacArthur-Westlake Park, or Musso & Frank, on Hollywood Boulevard. But usually I make a short run to someplace nearby, such as Gus’s rib house on Fair Oaks in South Pasadena.

What I really seek, I suspect, is social contact with the waitresses (or waiters, at Musso), however fleeting it may be.

As I become more and more absent-minded, I try to have a system for remembering to take my billfold with me on these sorties.

Since the universal acceptance of credit cards, finding oneself without cash in such circumstances is no longer a calamity. But if one has no billfold, one has no credit cards. One is destitute.

And some houses don’t even accept credit cards. I have fallen into that trap several times. It happened years ago when we took our younger son and his wife to a French restaurant in West Hollywood. While we were sipping our wine, I noticed a note at the bottom of the menu: “No checks or credit cards accepted.”

One simply is not prepared for such a Neanderthal practice. It was too late to get up and leave. Fortunately, my wife remembered that we had passed a Boys Market nearby. She took my keys and drove to the market and got $100 cash on her Boys credit card. She was back in 15 minutes. The night was saved.

On another occasion, I had invited my wife’s sister and her family, and our family, to dinner at a seafood restaurant on Pacific Coast Highway.

There were nine of us. My wife’s family had gathered on a vigil for her brother-in-law, who was in UCLA Medical Center, fatally ill. I was being the gracious host. After we had taken our seats and ordered our drinks, I noticed that deadly line at the bottom of the menu: “No checks or credit cards accepted.”

I had less than $20 cash. I knew the bill would be at least $200. I spent the entire meal in acute anxiety.

Finally, I went round the table, asking each of the men if they had any money. I got some from my two sons, but most of it came from Mike, a nephew who was in the Army. He had flown out from his post on the East Coast to be with his family. I promised to pay him back the next day, and he lent me his emergency furlough money. We made it.

Years later, I took my wife and two friends to Chasen’s for dinner. I knew Chasen’s would be expensive, but I had plenty of credit cards. I was astounded, after dinner, to find that they did not take credit cards or checks. One must have established credit, and one merely signed the bill, which one paid later by mail.

Thank God, the restaurant granted me instant credit; I signed the check, and indeed, we later received a bill, which we paid. The result of that narrow escape is that I am now among the elite who have charge accounts with Chasen’s. (I have read that the restaurant now accepts credit cards.) I don’t know. Now that I’m in, I don’t think we should let just anybody in.

Not long ago I did it again. I decided to go down to Gus’s for lunch. It is only about 10 minutes away. I eat there now and then but not often enough to be recognized by the help or the management. A man with a large mustache was at the cash register. I sat at my usual table, by the front window.

The waitress came and I ordered a club sandwich. I really shouldn’t order a three-decker sandwich because my mouth isn’t that big.

The waitress brought it and I attacked it, getting three-quarters of it down before giving up. The waitress brought the check. I reached for my billfold. It wasn’t there. My blood drained out. I patted all my pockets. Nothing. Sometimes I carelessly stuff loose bills into my side pockets. No such luck.

Meanwhile the man who had been at the cash register had taken a seat in the booth ahead of mine. He was sitting across from a pleasant-looking woman. I decided to face the music. I got up and walked up to him and said, “I just had a club sandwich and I find out that I forgot my billfold.”

He looked up at me. Coldly. A look of pure skepticism. His eyes fell to my clothes. I was wearing a threadbare shirt, black Levi’s that looked as if I had slept in them a week and a tattered old favorite green ultra suede coat that my wife keeps urging me to discard. “My God,” I thought. “He thinks I’m homeless.”

“I’m Jack Smith,” I blurted desperately, not expecting that the name would mean anything to him. “I work for The Times.” Even if he hadn’t heard of me, he’d know that I was employed.

“I read you regularly,” the woman said, smiling.

Thank God for her. The man let me sign my check and then let me go. I was back in 25 minutes with the money.

Someday, though, I’m going to have to wash dishes.