Charles I in Malibu

Reincarnation dept.

I have this neighbor. Well, not exactly a neighbor, but he lives nearby. So, kind of a neighbor.

He goes by Dave. That is, he used to.

Back then he was trying to build a Time Machine, which he called a TM.

“It’ll be ready soon. Then you’ll see.”

Dave never built the TM, at least, not yet he hasn’t.

But he kept on working.

And one day he said, “Well, I haven’t done the TM but I think I got something just as good. Maybe better.”

From that point on, he didn’t want to go by “Dave” anymore, but instead was “David.”

I still call him Dave. At least, sometimes. Sometimes I call him “David.” He likes that.

Anyway, the thing he built that he thought might be better than a Time Machine, was a Reincartion Detector, which Dave calls an “RD.”

With the RD you don’t go back in time, but you’re able to find out who, from the past, is here now.

So, yes, like Dave says, it’s almost just as good.

I asked Dave how the Reincarnation Detector has done so far.

“Well,” he said, “Alexander the Great. He’s a ski instructor up in Vail.”

“What else?”

“Nikolai Gogol? The Russian writer?”

“The great Russian writer. And?”

“He oversees the buffet table at a dinner theater in Pennsylvania.”

“Philly?”

“Shippensburg.”

“Have you visited these people? Have you verified this?”

“Some. Not everyone. Ma Rainey, the blues singer? She’s up in Wheeler, just 20 miles from here. She styles hair.”

”You actually saw her?”

“I got a haircut. She’s a licensed cosmetologist.”

“Do these people know that they’re reincarnated? And who they were before?”

Dave wrinkled his nose. “They don’t seem to.”

He ran his fingers over the contraption, which looked like a black toaster with a silver wing on one side.

“You wanna try it?”

I shrugged. “Um, OK?”

He flicked a switch and it whirred, and then a bell rang, and a piece of paper came out. He took the paper and read, “Charles the First lives in Malibu.”

“Let me see that.”

Sure enough, it was just as he said. Charles the First. And an address, on Carbon Canyon Road, Malibu, CA.

I wouldn’t have been that impressed. I don’t really know Charles the First from Jasper the Eighty-Second. But Charles the First has been in the news lately, what with the stuff with Prince Andrew maybe getting charged with crimes and going to jail and all that. Charles the First was the last Royal, apparently, to be dragged into the courts. Whatever becomes of Andrew, you’ve got to say, Charles the First got it pretty bad. They lopped off his head. Chopped it off. Clean off.

I took the paper from Dave and drove out to Malibu. It was quite a drive, and I stopped at a Super 8 on the way. I asked for a late checkout out of habit, which they granted, but nonetheless I was out of there before nine, anxious to get to Malibu.

I drove to the address on the paper, on Carbon Canyon Road. It was the left half of a small modern duplex.

I wasn’t sure what the pretext of my visit should be, so I bought a Brachs chocolate assortment and planned to say that a cousin had wanted me to drop it by.

He opened the door. He was shirtless and wore long, tan, culotte-style beach shorts. Think early Nadal. His hair was long and scraggly but he looked pretty healthy.

I told him why I was there and handed him the chocolates. To my relief, he asked me in. “I’m drinking tequila lemonades, if that doesn’t sound terrible to you.”

I gratefully accepted. He lit a small pipe, took a deep inhale, then handed it to me.

“Care for one?”

When in Rome.

There was a newspaper on the table. The headlines were all of the latest scandals, the big and the powerful having done horrible things.

He motioned to the newspaper.

“Shit is whack,” he said.

There were paintings all around the small place. A few portraits, a few landscapes.

He saw me looking. “Like ‘em?” he said.

“Very nice,” I said.

“That’s mostly what I do. And surf, but not with this leg so much right now.”

He handed me the pipe again.

“Boy,” he said, “I don’t know what I’d do without the cannabis. I’d say we have a divine right to cannabis.”

“Everyone?”

“Well,” he said, “I don’t know about that. But me, anyway. I certainly have a divine right to cannabis.”

I felt like I had gotten what I’d come for. This was Charles the First all right. Divine Right and all that.

I would have gotten up to go, but that cannabis was strong. So I just sat on the couch for awhile. Charles the First took the opportunity to gather some paints and do a rendering of me.

Portrait of me by Charles I

I didn’t think it looked like me, particularly, but as Picasso said, “In fifty years you’ll be dead and they’ll only know the picture.”

I asked whether I might have it, but he said, “Well, I do make a living from my art.”

So I gave him $125 for it, and another $85 for a small portrait he had done of himself.

Self-Portrait by Charles I

I took the paintings with me, and I am happy to have them.

Not everyone can say they’ve been painted by Charles the First.

Well, they can say that.

But mostly they haven’t.

—

Before I left Malibu I went to a bar and heard this song being played by some musicians in the corner. It seemed oddly on theme, so I include it here:

“Weed Stores":