Last year I couldn't spell writer. Now I is one.
For this, my inaugural post on Patch, I’ve chosen to be the whore that I am in order to sell my Beach Shorts. It was a no-brainer to choose this story. Everyone on the Ritz Coast is talking about him. In fact, it is a feeding frenzy.
I'm telling about the Ritz Coast camper. A black man from somewhere else who seems to need a lot of Pacific Coast Highway air.
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For those of us in the know – and that is everyone who lives between the Montage and the Ritz Carlton – he has been harnessing our bus benches and holding down the high-priced curbs since early spring. And most people wonder when he is going to leave.
Well, his name is Nate. I didn't ask him where he sleeps because I would feel the need to tell him exactly where I do.
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He's 52 years old, born on Aug. 14. Was in the US Army in '77. Has relatives in Riverside.
Nate's favorite food is fish. Can crave a Carl’s Jr. burger. His vote for best burrito in town is Papa's Tacos. He likes Dr. Pepper and Coca Cola and is known to imbibe energy drinks.
Doesn't have a particular bench he is partial to.
His eyeballs are overflowing with life. He says he is willing to cut the dreads.
People keep feeding him. I bought him a blackened salmon salad from La Sirena Grill. There is a funny story about him denying some lady's meatloaf because he had that the previous night.
This real fairy tale story has been a tough nut to crack. The aspiring writer (desperate) helping a soul get a cozy spot to dream. Wouldn't it be great if some rich person came to his rescue?
Nate would love some (high-quality) size 14 boots (black would be perfect), and a cellphone to phone home.
I did ask if he had a mental diagnosis, and I think because we had spent enough time, he told me the word schizophrenia.
Do we even know how to spell it?