Theatre Thursday: How to start an argument in L.A.

Here are eight surefire ways to start an instant argument among your L.A. friends, family, and co-workers.

I know the subject is Theatre Thursday, but this topic is appropriate here because every one of these things can lead to a lot of drama.

Now, L.A. is generally a pretty laid-back place, except during the occasional riots — although the legitimate protestors are never the rioters here, and vice versa.

But there are some things you can say or do in the City of Angeles that will immediately start disagreements. Here are some of them.

  1. Declare that (Establishment X) has the best (Food Y) in the city

You can fill in that Y however you want because that part doesn’t matter. It can be donuts, pizza, burger, chili, hot dogs, Chinese, Thai, Korean BBQ, comfort food, whatever. You can even extend it to cover bars, bakeries, food trucks, or anywhere else that people can stuff their faces.

No matter what you pick, there are strong partisans on all sides. You might get agreement with a statement like “Randy’s has the best donuts,” but you’re just as likely to get a range from, “They used to be good until the original owners sold it” to “They taste like stale oil and barf.”

And, of course, you’ll get plenty of people with their own preferences. This includes the very wrong, who insist that it’s either Krispy Kreme or Voodoo Doughnut (hint: It’s neither. The former are bland and mass-produced; the latter are way over-done and aimed squarely at foodie hipsters.), as well as those who have a very specific and independent hole-in-the-wall that they’re fond of.

Personally, I tend toward the latter, although not necessarily a specific place. Look for a tiny storefront donut place run by a Vietnamese or Cambodian family, and boom. Best donuts in the city, guaranteed.

When I was still commuting to work, I found one in North Hills called Uncle Joe’s Donuts that was amazing and cheap. Caveat: I never had any non-donut items from their menu, so I can’t speak to those, but in the morning, the donuts are fresh, hot, and amazing.

The most polarizing places in L.A. seem to be In-n-Out Burger, Pink’s Hot Dogs, and anything with “Gastro” in its name.

  1. Pronounce the city of “Los Feliz” in proper Spanish

Now, in some ways this is a shibboleth, meaning a word or phrase that only locals can say properly. A famous one in L.A. is “Cahuenga,” which most tourists either badly mangle or just give up and ask before they ever try to say it, with the most common mispronunciation being “Cahoo-enega.”

The proper way, at least to Angelenos, as “kuh-WANG-uh,” which isn’t how it would be pronounced in Spanish except that it’s just the Spanish version of the native Tongva name Kawengna, which means “place of the mountain.” Perfectly appropriate, since it denotes the mountain pass connecting the San Fernando Valley to Hollywood.

If you’re feeling lucky and don’t believe in curses, you can also look for the famous lost treasure of Diego Moreno up there.

Now there’s an Angelino pronunciation for “Los Feliz,” but also the Spanish one, and this has strong proponents on both sides. Generally, English speakers will say it as “Loze FEE-lis,” while Spanish speakers will say “Lows feh-LEASE.”

It can vary beyond this, though, and quite often native Angelenos who grew up bilingual will say it based on whichever language they’re speaking at the moment, or just default to the gabacho version.

Now, while places or streets like Sepulveda or Ventura or Alhambra or Alameda tend to get a pass on being mangled, rendered “incorrectly” as “Se-POLE-vay-duh,” “Vin-TYURE-uh,” “All-HAM-bra,” or “A-la-MEE-da,” Los Feliz is just different.

That’s probably because its origin is so much a part of city history. The area was named for a rancher named José Vicente Feliz, who was granted land called El Rancho de Los Feliz in the early 1800s. Eventually, after the land went to the city of Los Angeles, it kept the “Los Feliz” name.

However, a lot of people prefer the Spanish pronunciation simply because it refers to a family and not a word. Yes, it’s amazing how many people just think that the name means “the happy,” which it almost would in Spanish because “feliz” does mean happy. But… “feliz” is singular and “los” denotes plural.

So, if you’re referring to a generic group of happy people, then “los felices” is correct — or “las felices” if they’re all women. On the other hand, when you’re referring to an entire family named Feliz, then “Los Feliz” it is. This is the equivalent of Mr. Jones and his brood in English being known as “The Joneses.” We pluralize the name. Spanish doesn’t.

So, really, for those of us who insist on the Spanish pronunciation, it’s more out of respect for the family who gave their name to the place than anything else. Still — nothing funnier than being contradicted on this by someone who only speaks English.

  1. Mispronounce “Los Angeles” in the worst possible way

Oddly enough, this is one that even L.A. native Spanish speakers pronounce in the local way. it’s “Laws ANN-juh-luhs,” with a very short “s” sound at the end. At least it’s accented exactly the way it would be in Spanish.

But all the local desert gods help you if you come here and end it with a long E and drawn-out Z sound, giving something like “Lows anjuh-LEEZ.” You will be corrected and laughed out of the room if you pull this one.

Primarily, I find this to be a prominent sin of British tourists more than any other group, and it makes me want to ask them of they’ve ever been to “Lone-done.” Oddly enough, it used to be a lot more common in American English, apparently, and if you listen to old newscasts or movie news reels from the 30s through 50s, you’ll hear it a lot.

This may have been due to the use of the so-called “Mid-Atlantic” accent very common in this era, which was a blend of British Received Pronunciation and upper-class east coast American, and it mostly existed for two reasons: First, because early recording equipment sucked, and this over-emphasis was just easier to capture. Second, because it made it easier for Americans to understand British actors, and vice versa.

Cary Grant, British, and Katharine Hepburn, American, both had the accent, as you can hear in the 1940 film The Philadelphia Story. In fact, they probably epitomize it. In reality, Grant was born Archibald Leach, and grew up with quite the Cockney accent.

  1. Declare out-loud that you’re a Giants Fan

If you’re a diehard baseball fan, Los Angeles is Dodgers Country, period. However, people who moved here from elsewhere will get a pass if they root for the Yankees or the Red Sox — and no one else.

What they should definitely not do is be an open Giants fan, since that team, from San Francisco, is part of the enormous, sometimes joking and sometimes serious, rivalry between the two cities.

San Francisco is the much older city that became the hub of west coast life in the late 19th and early 20th century until the film industry came to Southern California and a little earthquake in 1906 wrecked the City by the Bay for long enough that it lost its prominence, rebuilding in the same time period that development in L.A. was exploding.

Wearing their gear in the wrong place can be dangerous. This one can actually start fights, or at least assaults, and it once did during a very unfortunate incident in the parking lot at Dodger Stadium on opening day just over a decade ago, in 2011.

This is the worst place on Earth to show your Giants pride.

San Francisco Giants fan Bryan Stow and several friends were heading to the car wearing Giants gear when they were viciously attacked. Stow wound up in a coma and it wasn’t sure he was going to survive. Fortunately, he recovered, and his experience turned into a positive, as he now tours schools teaching kids anti-bullying.

  1. Suggest the best route from Point A to Point B during rush hour

 You’ve no doubt seen the long-running SNL bit The Californians and thought, “Oh, that’s funny, but it’s not real.”

I can assure you that the discussions in this bit are 100% a documentary, and for every shortcut or best route one person suggests, someone else will have a better trick. And never, ever insist that the freeway is actually the best route no matter what (even when it is) because you will get slammed with five hundred alternate routes on side streets.

Really experienced drivers do know, though — just take the damn freeway or take public transit. The only reason surface streets seem better is because there’s more to look at, but while they create the illusion of making good time for short stretches, you’ll eat those time savings up stropped at every ill-timed red-light in the city.

Meanwhile, on the freeway, you may be moving slowly but, for the most part, it’s also steadily.

  1. Talk-up the “wrong part” of town in the wrong part of town

Largely because of the geography and traffic of Los Angeles, we may be one big city and one much bigger county, but the city and county themselves are sliced up into much smaller bits that are often separated by mountains, canyons, crappy urban planning, and more. The city also has plenty of carve-outs for smaller cities within it, like Malibu, Santa Monica, Culver City, West Hollywood, Burbank, and so on.

It’s really hard to make a nutshell version of this, but I’ll try. L.A. is divided up by borders both natural and manmade. The natural ones are our mountains, canyons, and coastline. The manmade ones are neighborhoods, roads, freeways, and mass transit.

This naturally created a few divisions — the Valley in the north; the Westside, which hugs the coast from the northern end of the county all the way down to south of LAX; Mid-City north, which includes some of the most affluent areas; Mid-City south, which includes a lot of the poorest communities; Hollywood, which is the tourist magnet slapped in the center and mostly avoided by locals; East Hollywood, which is the corridor leading to downtown (or DTLA) via Los Feliz and Silver Lake, home to many ethnic neighborhoods; DTLA, a strangely evolving clusterfucked mess that is both gentrified as hell and homeless central; and then, to the east and south of DTLA respectively, East L.A., still largely Hispanic and not gentrified; and South Central L.A., still largely Black and not gentrified.

The 405 Freeway creates one of the major divisions of the Valley as well as separates the Westside from everything else, while the Santa Monica Mountains keep the Valley from falling into L.A. and environs.

Connectors from the Valley to Mid-City include the Canyons — Beverly Glen, Coldwater Canyon, and Laurel Canyon — and the route from the Valley into Hollywood is through the Cahuenga pass or down the 101, although for the latter, the Metro is also perfectly acceptable. The Cahuenga pass is the last division in the Valley that separates the Mid-Valley from the East Valley. The 5 divides the City of Burbank from everything else.

On the other side of the hill, the 10 is pretty much the dividing line between “rich and white” and poor and black,” and yes, it was damn well planned that way as well way back in the day.

But the point is this: Go to Santa Monica and rave about the Valley (or vice versa), tell someone in Burbank that Culver City has much better nightlife, try to convince someone in Woodland Hills to take the Metro G and B line to DTLA with you, try to convince a designer on Robertson or Melrose that you’ve seen much better and cheaper stuff in the fashion district, and on and on.

You won’t be able to do it.

It’s a stupid and silly divisional argument that has been going on for no reason since forever. The point is that every part of this city is interesting and has its advantages and disadvantages. Plus, if you’ve been paying attention and are willing to take proper precautions (get vaxxed, wear a mask, get boosted, and wash your hands a lot) our current Metro system can get you to a lot more places more easily and cheaply than you’ve ever suspected.

Hell, it’s now even possible (and has been for a while) to take the train from the Mid-Valley right to Santa Monica. Sure, it takes about as long as the freeway, but you don’t have to look for (or pay for) parking, and you actually get to see a lot of the Mid-City on the way.

Win-win.

  1. Ever try to argue that (Thing X) from (Home State Y) was just better

To be honest, if it were really better, then we probably already have it here. Shit — you can find White Castle sliders in the freezer section of any grocery store, although I hate to tell you this but… overrated!

Likewise, most of your beloved IPA and craft beers are probably also being sold here, too. Chain restaurants? We either have the ones we want or never allowed franchises for or quickly ignored and let shut down the ones we didn’t.

Philly Cheesesteak? Yeah, we got it, and we won’t make adults talk like giant babies and demand “Wit wiz.” Chicago deep dish pizza? You might find it a couple of places here, but I’m sorry to disappoint you. Put this crap in front of most Angelenos and they’ll just look at you and go, “WTF is this, a tomato sauce casserole?”

The best New York style pizza, meanwhile, is at a little place in North Hollywood. And L.A. native pro-tip for tourists: If you come here, you must absolutely eat at Porto’s Bakery and Café three times: Once for breakfast, once for lunch or dinner, and once just for the desserts.

We have probably every conceivable kind of ethnic food and restaurant here and, more importantly, all of the good ones were founded and run by people actually from those countries. Well, the ones who arrived recently.

Yes, American “Chinese” food is just stuff made up by railroad workers from ingredients they happened to have access to, and it bore little resemblance to the real thing, but it’s still really amazing, and it was born here.

I’m also pretty sure that IKEA probably knows what it’s doing with its cafeteria and off-the-shelf Swedish food.

But, yeah… pick a food, give a home state example, and there’s an Angeleno ready to prove you dead wrong.

Even about your Grandmother’s blinis. Especially about your grandmother’s blinis.

  1. Write an article on “How to start an argument in L.A.”

Seriously — every item on this list will meet with either hearty nods of agreement or red-faced indignation, with no middle ground.  The only thing worse than accidentally starting one of these arguments in L.A. is intentionally point out that they happen.

Oh well…

So what are the big argument starters or local disagreements in your home town or city? Tell us in the comments below!

The Saturday Morning Post #50: The Rêves Part 28

Reunions

Brenda actually had no doubts at all that Ausmann had found them and killed Simon, but Joshua was covering that up for some reason. Maybe he was still under threat. She realized then how badly she and her family might have screwed things up if they actually had called the cops to report the intruder.

But what was the point? Ausmann was an old white man, probably well-off and with Federal connections. And Jonah had had his regular share of run-ins with cops, despite being a well-dressed professional in a clearly expensive yet family-oriented car, and in only the “good” neighborhoods.

But, of course, that was because a certain class of cop didn’t see the “well-dressed professional” part. They only saw a Black man. Well, in their minds, they didn’t use the “B” word, she was sure.

Then there was her father, gone for almost thirty years now, same reason, only one time turned violent, maybe because he’d finally had enough and tried to say “No.”

So they didn’t call the cops because they couldn’t trust them, even though they were upper-middle class, owned their own home, sent their kids to private school, and had the stability of three generations under one roof.

Because a certain class of cop wouldn’t see any of that. Hell, a certain class of people — but at least those people didn’t make it a habit to hang out in Brenda’s neighborhood. And their neighborhood was at least Black enough — and historically so — that the one indignity Jonah had avoided was being harassed on his own street, or in his own front yard.

She and Jonah had given Samuel The Speech multiple times, and still gave it to Malia, just in case. The Speech had nothing to do with sex; that was the white people version: “Here’s how to not knock her up/get knocked up.” No, their speech was all about not if some cop pulled them over for no apparent reason, but what to do when it inevitably happened, aka “Here’s how to not get shot.”

So she’d be keeping what was no doubt Joshua’s secret, because the timing of Simon’s death was way too coincidental, but she’d be doing it to protect her family, and was sure that Joshua was doing it to protect his.

Meanwhile, she flipped through her contacts until she found one, a family court and probate judge based out of the Superior Courthouse in Van Nuys, and she realized that this was the one who had handled Rita’s divorce case, and she knew she had her woman.

Rita’s divorce had been contentious, and Brenda had got to listen to her complaining about “That unfair bitch in the black robes” after nearly every single hearing. Of course, Rita didn’t know that Brenda had gone to college with Judge Bonita Valdez-Levi, nor that Brenda was regularly hearing things frrm Bonita of the, “I’m really not supposed to tell you this, but this crazy bitch in this divorce case is out of her mind.”

Bonita had no idea that Rita was Brenda’s boss, either.

Ultimately, Bonita found heavily in Rita’s ex’s favor, fined her for contempt twice, and even sanctioned her lawyer when he gave what he knew was a legally specious motion for mistrial.

“You don’t get to do that after I’ve rendered my verdict, sonny,” she reminded him. “What? Did you go to an online law school or something?”

“Yale,” he muttered.

“Ah. Harvard. Sorry.”

Although that was really just icing on the cake, and she’d only bring up the little detail about Joshua and Simon telling Rita to go fuck herself if Bonita were reluctant to help. But why would she be? They were old friends, she heard cases in family court, this was a family matter, and, most importantly, her wife happened to be a deputy coroner assigned to the North Valley, i.e. exactly where Simon’s corpse was currently pretending to be a 6’4” naked popsicle in a drawer.

If anyone is wondering — no, Brenda did not go to Harvard. Bonita only went there for her law degree. Undergrad, they both spent at Cal State University Northridge, aka CSUN, or was they loved to call it “Berkeley for Valley Kids.” They’d even been roommates for junior and senior years, and Bonita had bitched more loudly about it when Brenda was not cast as Mama Morton in Chicago.

So Brenda dialed the number and when Bonita answered, launched into it. “Hey, girl!” she gushed. “Long time no hear. What’s up?”

“Girl, we are all over each other’s shit on the social medias all the damn time, so what’s so important that it’s voice?”

“Perceptive as ever Okay. I need a really big favor.”

“Figured,” Bonita replied. “As long as it’s legal, I can probably do it. So… shoot.”

Brenda launched into her explanation and, about ten minutes later, after Bonita did some hmming and thinking out loud, she finally replied, “You know, I think that Miriam can manage that ASAP. I mean, as long as it wasn’t a homicide, but you already said — ”

“Tragic accident,” Brenda reminded her.

“Hm. I wonder if housing needs to take a look at the safety of the balconies in that — ”

“No, my friend told me that his husband had this stupid habit of sitting on the railing that he’d warned him about a hundred times,” she improvised on the spot, “Even though he was very tall and sometimes clumsy.”

“Got it. Operator error. Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you so much, Bonita.”

“Don’t mention it. But you owe me one now.”

“Well, duh, of course,” Brenda replied. “Hey — are you going to the class reunion?”

“Me?” Bonita said. “Oh, hell no. You?”

“Of course not!” Brenda told her, then they both laughed, said “Bye” and disconnected.

“Um… oh, hey…” Pearl was startled to see a regular Rêve up here, but he was looking at them like he knew them. They assumed, since he was a Rêve up here, that he was the one that Preston and Danny had told her about.

“Hello,” they said. “Do I know you?”

“No,” he replied. “But oh my god, I was at your last concert. Harvard Stadium. 1970. Six months after my 16th birthday, so I was able to drive up from Baltimore with some friends. Hell, the ticket was two bucks — what I made in my gas station job in about an hour and twenty minutes, but it was worth every second… what are you doing out here?”

“Living the life, baby,” They said. “And I guess that you’re kind of new to this whole being a Rêve thing?”

“Is that what I am?” he asked. “I thought I was just a ghost — ”

“We don’t like the ‘G’ word,” they warned him. “That’s a different thing, mostly because it doesn’t exist.”

“Wait. They don’t, and we do?”

“Bingo.”

“Oh… did I mention, I’m Jerry,” he announced, extending his hand, “And I am a huge fan, Ms. Joplin. ‘Lord won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz, my friends all drive Porsches — ’”

“Stop!” Pearl shouted at him. “God, I hate the song.”

“But it was — ”

“I know,” they admonished him. “But that was so very long ago and very far away.”

“But I’ve remembered that concert since forever. Ms. Joplin. Janis?”

“Yeah, we did it and then died,” they snapped back. “I’ve kind of expanded things since then. Personas, genders, whatever. It turns out that we’re very flexible once we’re dead. But… you saw what you call my last show?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jerry said. “I mean, is it rude to mention that you died just under two months after that amazing concert?”

“What did I just tell you? And what was the last concert you saw?”

“Um… god, I have no idea,” Jerry replied, then took a couple more moments and said, “Ah… it was a Bee Gees tribute band thing out in NoHo, and we liked it.”

Pearl just laughed. “I think I heard of them. I don’t really remember, but they were crap.”

“Were they?” Jerry asked.

“Are you in any position to argue?”

“You know, I really don’t know…”

Of course, what Jerry really didn’t know was that Pearl — no, actually the Janis part of Peart who had actually met young Jerry — was not engaging his adult self. Rather, she’d and/or they had been talking to the 16-year-old Jerry who had attended that last concert at Harvard Stadium.

And had not taken his young ass at all seriously.

So a vital clue about Ausmann was not passed on to the Hadas.

Meanwhile, another vital clue was passed on almost by accident, when an oral surgeon and his realtor wife went for their early morning power walk through their Simi Valley neighborhood, only to run into an old neighbor, except that she looked… different.

“Um… Coraline?” the wife, Becca, asked.

“Oh, hi!” Coraline replied. “Do you know where my husband is?”

“Do you know where you are?” Ralph, Becca’s husband, replied.

“Well, at what’s left of our home, duh,” she said. “But is he alive?”

Becca and Ralph just stared at her. They’d been watching the news, and Coraline looked just like what they’d seen, except that she wasn’t an old Hollywood actor.

“Dear,” Becca asked gently, “Are you possibly aware of the fact that you might be… well… dead?”

“What?” Coraline snapped.

“Oh, you haven’t been watching the news, have you?” Ralph inquired.

“No, I’ve been rather busy dealing with the ruins of my house and wondering where my husband is, thank you. And have you seen him?”

Becca and Ralph shook their heads. “No, dear,” Becca replied, “But we’ve seen the news, and even if you’re not famous, well… hang on.”

Becca tapped around on her phone, then showed Coraline news footage from earlier, with all the celebrity hosts popping up all over Hollywood.

“What makes you think I’m one of them?” Coraline demands.

“Well, two things, actually,” Ralph offers, demurely, looking to Becca.

What?” Coraline hisses.

“Um…. sorry to tell you this, dear, but we watched the county coroner take your body out of the basement of your house after the storm.”

“Apparently quite dead,” Ralph added. “Right into the body bag. Boom, zip.”

“You are liars!” Coraline insisted.

“Well, there’s that one other bit,” Becca explained.

“What?”

“Um… you know that footage about the ghosts in Hollywood?” Ralph offered.

“Yeah, and I’m not one of them there,” Coraline insisted.

“No, but you might as well be,” Becca said, turning her phone to Coraline again. Apparently, she’d been recording her during the conversation, and when Coraline saw the footage, her blood ran cold. Well, actually, it was the moment that she realized that she had no blood to run cold.

“I have to find Ausmann,” she said. “I do remember he studied these ghosts. I wonder if he’s in Hollywood. I have to go there!”

As soon as she said it, she found herself flying, heading southeast out of Simi Valley and into the San Fernando Valley. She didn’t get out this way often, but she was always amazed at how much bigger it was than her own valley, and how straight all of the streets were that ran between the two freeways — the 118 in the north and the 101 in the south.

That all changed at about the 5, a state highway that ran into the city diagonally from the mountains below Santa Clarita, aimed south by southwest splitting into the short 170 on its right fork and maintaining its identity as the 5 on the right fork, the 170 soon merging and vanishing into the 101 as it turned south for Hollywood.

When all of those east-west Valley streets passed the 5, more or less, they suddenly veered, mostly to the left, to run diagonally southwest to northeast, and it was particularly noticeable in Burbank, which itself had been laid out on a diagonal instead of a grid aligned to the cardinal directions.

The rest was paving anarchy, but that was because the city developed in different sections aligned to local landmarks or landscapes, the roads having to hook up eventually. The longest straight streets were the ones that had originally been lone country highways in the middle of nothing that connected distant developments, like Downtown and West Hollywood.

The Valley, meanwhile, had started out as immense, flat farmland, covered by huge rancheros originally owned by a handful of Mexican families, back when the southern third of California was still part of Mexico. Coraline would never have believed that of course, and it was a very unpopular subject to bring up in Simi Valley, but it was true.

While what Valley people called “the other side of the hill” developed in fits and starts beginning well before the 19th century and exploded from around WW I and after, only parts of the East Valley, like North Hollywood and Burbank, started to develop, as early as the late 1800s. Up until WW II, the eastern boundary was pretty much Van Nuys, with few and far between from there west.

Well, no houses, but quite a few companies engaged in the war effort. This was where they built the bombs and planes.

Once the war ended, there was a land boom, and the land was flat and wide, so turning it into a grid was the easiest thing in the world to do — a roughly 8 by 10 mile grid with very few breaks in its regularity.

But then she found herself over the Cahuenga pass, following the freeway that ran through a gap between two sets of mountains, and finally to Hollywood, landing at Hollywood and Highland, where she found the ghosts of the famous to be quite active.

She asked some of them if they’d ever heard of Ausmann. None of them had.

“Then I guess it’s time to go free-range,” she announced, and wandered off down the street. She could tell that people were looking at her and asking, “What’s she famous for?” but she ignored them.

She was a bit star-struck by all the celebrities she did see, even if they were all dead — Bette Davis, always the center of attention; the Three Stooges (Curly, Moe, and Larry era) hamming it up for the crowd; Peter Lorre, looking very sketchy; Alfred Hitchcock, leering inappropriately at every young blonde woman he saw — he was a Class III because there were still a lot of people alive who had known him, but he still liked to use his celebrity; Valentino, posing for selfies and proving very popular with gay men; and Gloria Grahame, appearing in glorious color as Ado Annie from the movie Oklahoma!.

But there was one Rêve who had been watching her, because Pearl had sensed something and sent a Hada to give him the word. Ausmann’s wife was apparently now one of them, and she was out here — the Hadas had sensed it and reported it to Pearl.

The message was to try to bring her to Anabel so that they would have a bargaining chip to use against Ausmann, and the message was sent to Ritchie.

As Coraline got close to the Hollywood and Vine station, he approached her. “Excuse me,” he said.

She stopped and looked. He seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place the name. “Oh. I’m Ritchie Valens,” he said. She was clearly still drawing a blank, so he sang a quick phrase: “Para bailar la bamba…”

“Oh,” it dawned on her. “I love that song. But… do you know me?”

“Was your husband named Ausmann?” he asked.

“Yes. Have you seen him?”

“No,” he told her, “But I may know where he is,” adding a lie to his truthful statement.

“I really do need to find him,” she said.

“Great. If you come with me, we can go look.” He nodded and lead her down into the Metro station, then to the platforms and the eastbound tunnel.

“Let me show you how our kind prefers to travel,” he announced, and then took her with him.

* * *
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