Who was Mr. Murdock?

If my memory serves me correctly - his full name was Henry Murdock He was the manager
desk clerk and housekeeper at the now defunct Digby hotel once bordering Little Tokyo in Los Angeles, California. We, tenants, addressed him as Mr. Murdock. He comes to mind because he was an unforgettable character. One would think he never changed clothes because he wore the same attire every day: a black suit, white shirt, black tie and spit-shinned shoes. It wasn't until I saw the movie The Fly that made me realize that Mr. Murdock had at least ten suits, all the same and many white dress shirts. He had the second largest room at the hotel. Though paid well, his side hustle was to rent out the larger room to a gentleman who would bring in a different woman, sometimes twice a week. Mr. Murdock was a five foot four portly individual with a bald head; a man of few words. He was seriously friendly, but reserved. His sense of humor was manifested in his laconic quips or retorts, accompanied by a quick wiry smile and a glint in his eyes. The Digby was a three story building, the second and third floors consisting of living units, community bathrooms and showers; the first floor, a lobby and office where business was conducted: receiving and sorting mail into the mail boxes, collecting rent and checking in new tenants. The owner would come once a month, sometimes twice.
The Digby was owned by a black family. They were able to make the purchase due to the internment of the Japanese during the Second World War.
Mr. Murdock's assistant, I don't remember his name, was rarely around except for nights when he'd arrived from some other job or the racetrack. Otherwise, Mr. Murdock handled all the functions at the hotel. He was charged with changing linen in the rooms, keeping the showers and bathrooms clean, sweeping, mopping the lobby area and keeping all windows free of smudges. He had the habit of talking to himself. Rumors circulated that he was once a mortician in Cleveland, Ohio at the House of Wills, a prestigious funeral home. When asked, he would merely smile and mumble something indistinguishable. Mr. Murdock, as far as I know ate once a day, and that was at the Atomic Cafe, a block away, on first and Alameda streets, a punk venue where artists frequented after leaving the infamous Al's bar in the arts district. Atomic Nancy, once a member of the music group, Nirvana was the gracious host; the jukebox had a varied mix of oldies, jazz, blues and Japanese classics. Usually, opening during early day, the Atomic Cafe depended on its after hours business. However, Mr. Murdock would buy whatever and bring it back to the hotel. Now, the rest of the story: Under the guise of renovation, the owner of the Digby decided to get rid of as many of his tenants as possible to make rooms available
for visitors expected to need housing during the upcoming 1984 Olympic games. The hotel, mainly, depended on the Department of Public and Social Services vouchers to keep his units filled. The first order of the owner was to let the DPSS know that rooms were no longer available.

To be continued in my upcoming book. Within every story is another story!!!

Little Tokyo

The following is a chapter from the book, What ever happened, written by Tim Reynolds, a good friend of mine:

When I had finished peeing and shaken off and tucked away and zipped up and was leaving the Ginbasha mensroom this Japanese tourist gentleman fiercely commanded Washu handzo! I told Dori, the bartender at Eigiku, a joke where you're an alien and seize and pump his hand cordially and interminably while you run on about how you're looking forward to a pleasant visit on this planet and how similar everything here is to where you come from except for the mode of sexual congress, your species has its sexual organs in its hand. He tore his hand away and plunged it in dishwater, he was kind of distraught all evening.

One of the invisible people in the hotel came onto the the back fire escape one evening with a full moon over the San Gabriels, and I said to him a word I'd learned from haiku, mansuki, full moon. He looked at me in stupefaction for a moment and then understood and said sternly MANtsuki. MANtsuki. As though if an animal were to talk it should at least talk right.

A couple of years ago a lady friend of Doctor Mongo's tried to kill me, it was loud and furniture and so on got busted up. Richard the manager said I had to go. I went into the kitchen where he and his wife and daughter were eating and apologized very formally in Japanese in front of them, it gave him face, nothing more was ever said.

Lawrence Robinson

Lawrence Robinson isn't a household name. And he won't be after this blog, but I want to honor him just the same. He also had the moniker, "Square Biz". Lawrence was born in Marshal, Texas, on August 19, 1926, to Hayes Robinson, Sr., and Annie Caroline Bush. He was one of four children. He attended Central High School there. Lawrence's life became joyful after overcoming a great many personal challenges: petty theft, alcoholism and repeated incarceration. He served honorably in the U.S Merchant Marines aboard a ship in the South Pacific in the 1940s. After his honorable discharge in 1945, he began a fifty-year sojourn that included travels to San Francisco, Minnesota, North Carolina, Los Angeles, St Louis and San Diego. During that period, he married Rosaland Scott of Newbern, N.C., in 1980. They traveled across country as crafts merchants.
Following the dissolution of their fiery relationship, he made Las Vegas his permanent home. He began what he referred to as his age of appreciation, spending his last years writing his insights, photographing people and scenery, observing world politics, and listening to his favorite music -jazz. He was most known for his kindness and ability to make people laugh and see the world with a more positive outlook. I met him while he stayed in Los Angeles; introduced him to the Los Angeles-based International Black Writers and Artist group where we performed under the president, Edna Crutchfield at various middle schools and universities. I was overwhelmed by Square Biz's volume and wealth of jazz; needless to say, he was an avid jazz lover; he was a historian and former performing jazz musician and singer and a consummate poet, spoken word banging artist. Needless to say, when thoughts came to him, he would write his thoughts on whatever paper was available, scraps of toilet paper, napkins, casino tickets or scraps of paper picked off the streets. His prized and signature poem, Intelligence is among the collection catalogued in the Lyndon B. Johnson Presidential Library, Ripley's Believe It or Not, and has been displayed across the country. His final years were spent with his true soul mate, writing partner and biographer, "CoCo", Parker Philpot of Las Vegas, Nv. In closing, I will post Square Biz's signature poem Intelligence, a poem he said no other poet had ever attempted to write; I believe him because I've researched it. His truth/observation is intact.



INTELLIGENCE

The nuance that is seen
from a blank line between
any two lines of eloquence;

be it ever so small,
if it rings true at all,
what else is INTELLIGENCE?

Cerebral seasoning; the power of
reasoning from logical evidence;
correcting confusion, and knowing
illusion; - is not this INTELLIGENCE?

Meandering visions, affecting
decisions, - man's VERY FIRST
LINE OF DEFENSE?

The only REAL TRACTION FOR WISDOM
IN ACTION is also INTELLIGENCE.

Copyright 1972 - Lawrence Robinson