Night-Walking on Ventura Blvd.? That’s Entertainment

When I tell people I go out for evening walks along Ventura Boulevard in Sherman Oaks, I’m often met with this response:

“Why?”

My answer is always the same:

“It’s cheap and it’s entertaining.”

And it is. Take, for example, the time a couple of weeks ago when a hulking, unshaven alley-lurker lunged from the darkness and assailed me with the following request:

“Hey, man--you got a pencil?”

I wondered if it was some sort of test, something concocted in schizophrenic logic--you know, if he has a pencil, don’t kill him! Or, if he has a pencil, kill him! I considered the question for a microsecond, calculated my odds of survival at 50-50, and shot back:

“Nope. No pencil.”

I figured it was best to tell the truth. Well, his eyes dropped and he shuffled quickly away, trailing rags like the Mummy.

Fun things like that don’t happen during every walk, but there are a lot of dependable diversions. I look forward, for instance, to the whole slew of natty, moussed, pony-tailed people sitting in chi-chi cafes, staring at the likes of me as if I am slightly more significant than ant dung.

And then, there are the carloads of young people whose idea of sport is to shriek obscenities at pedestrians. Some of them have invited me to take part in some very exotic events. And once, in a surprise variation, one of the shriekers hurled a grapefruit, which smashed me in the chest. A drive-by fruiting. Last of the regular attractions, but far from least, is the baffling “Bus Emitter On” traffic sign. If I happen to be walking with a companion, I enjoy pointing to the sign, then to the sky, and declaring “Look out!”

But one is also apt to encounter all manner of unexpected diversions while sauntering down the great boulevard.

To wit, I was recently asked for “spare change” by a well-coiffed guy in a beautiful leather suit. Another time I was asked to watch a preview of “The Prince of Tides” on a small sidewalk video monitor, and then to fill out a very lengthy questionnaire about it. (I basically said it looked like overwrought cornball hooey, but I guess my opinion was in the minority, because I later saw the same preview on the big screen.)

Then there was the time a tall guy with an iron-on smile blabbed at me about “our great future” with Ross Perot. He reminded me a lot of Snydley Whiplash from the “Rocky and Bullwinkle” show, and on that basis, I signed his petition.

Oh, and I once witnessed the following decidedly peculiar, if heartwarming, episode. An unkempt woman with two filthy children in a shopping cart asked a well-to-do young woman driving a Mercedes for spare change. The well-to-do woman emerged from a nearby market minutes later and bestowed a giant package of Pampers on the homeless woman, who thanked her profusely.

On some strolls, you actually get to have dramatic contact with fellow humans. Once, at the Sherman Oaks Newsstand, I was copying a magazine address on my note pad, only to be sternly admonished, “Don’t copy out of the magazines!” by a guy with a Brooklyn accent and a skinny, rat-like ponytail.

When I explained I merely wanted an address, I was told again, “Don’t copy out of the magazines!” I put my notebook away, picked up the magazine, memorized the address, put the magazine back, pulled out my notebook, and wrote the memorized address down. The supervisor’s response: “Don’t ever come back here again!” I advised him, using rather untidy language, to return to New York.

But dramatic encounters are not always so satisfying. Take, for instance, a few months ago, when I was shot.

There I was, waiting innocuously for a light to change about 7:30 p.m., when a hulking, gurgling four-wheel-drive vehicle with black-tinted windows whooshed past me and let out a little “pop!” I was suddenly aware that my right arm stung like hell. I grabbed my elbow, saw my arm and shirt covered with red stuff. The four-wheel-drive beast roared off, its hidden occupants hooting. I couldn’t see the license plate.

I had been shot, all right--with a paint bullet. It had bounced off, like I was Superman. Unlike Superman, my arm actually was bleeding--but most of the red stuff, mercifully, was paint. I ran into a nearby Sizzler, where I knew I’d find a cop loading up on the salad bar.

I told him what had happened, that the assailant couldn’t be far away.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “If you have no physical description there’s nothing I can do.”

I ran home, got my car and roared down the boulevard right through two long-red lights, found the assailants’ vehicle parked and empty a few blocks away.

I flagged down another cop, who told me the same thing the first cop had said. Believe it or not, I flagged down a third cop (they were out in force that night--not, apparently, to arrest me for running red lights), and he agreed to shine a flashlight inside the four-wheel-drive, in hopes of finding the gun. No gun.

The third cop said there had been a rash of paint-bullet shootings that night, and that I should be happy it was not a real bullet. I was.

Now that was entertaining.

At other times the dramatic human contact is more subtle. A few weeks back, an elderly gent hobbled off the boulevard curb and hailed my car. He was well-dressed--nearly dapper--a good 75, and steadied himself with a handsome brown cane. He also appeared to be in trouble. I cracked my window open.

“Please, sir,” he said in a heavy European accent, “can you help me? I need a dollar for bus fare. Please help.” His hand shook a little.

“Sure,” I said, and gave him a dollar.

A few nights later, while out for a walk, I saw him again. He was across the boulevard, still holding his handsome cane--still hailing cars for money. I observed him for a full 20 minutes. He stopped eight cars, received eight donations. I wondered what kind of bus you could ride for eight bucks, or if he had graduated to taxis. I crossed the street.

“Good evening, sir. How are you?”

“English . . . no speak-oh,” he said nervously.

“Oh yes, you do. You speak English.”

I grinned. He frowned.

“I gave you a dollar a couple days ago. I just want to know what you used it for.”

“I don’t . . . I don’t . . . “ He looked frightened.

“Oh yes, you speak English. Look, I don’t care if you didn’t spend it on the bus--really. I’m just curious to know what you did spend it on. Hey, I’ll even give you another dollar, if you tell me.”

A bus suddenly pulled up, and the old boy took off like the Road Runner, cane tucked under his arm. He scrambled aboard, following a short, squat woman--obviously his wife--who had been sitting on the bus bench. A team. I yelled after him.

“Keeps you in canes, does it? You old liar !”

I shouldn’t have yelled, though. Entertainment like that is hard to come by.

And all for a buck, at that.