The old ladies were as predictable as the California sun.

Helen, the rich one, the one with the big boofon hairdo,

emerged from her satamatic apartment each morning dressed to kill.

Tasteful ensembles, tight skirts, lipstick,

jewelry dangling from her ears and jangling at her wrist.

From there she drove for white Mercedes SUV,

a couple of miles over to Izzy's, a beloved neighborhood deli

on Wilshire Boulevard, potted plants, vaulted ceiling.

Everybody knew Helen of Izzy's. She almost always took the same corner booth

near the window and wall photos of famous faces.

Table 22. Helen liked her coffee, hot,

drank it with a straw.

At the same time, 10 miles away in Hollywood, the other one

started her mornings with a white knuckle drive to the beach and her blue Honda Civic.

Or a short walk to Runion Canyon Park. That was Olga,

and out Dorsey, Hungarian immigrant with a Zhajagabor accent and energy.

A brisk walk on the shore or a five to ten mile hike in Hollywood Hills

were just what Olga needed to get her motor running in the morning.

Though must be said, Olga's motor consistently perred at a pretty high rpm.

Together, Helen and Olga made quite a team on the weekends,

doing what they could to help the homeless who haunt Boulevard's famous for their

wealth. Wilshire, sunset, Hollywood.

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