Scrapping by and Lowly in Los Angeles

The diviest of dives, this joint. They used to call it The Kind Edward; now it’s just known as King Eddy’s. I’m not sure why the titular change came about, but the bums used to start rolling into this place at 6 a.m. sharp, and they’d scope out their seat at the bar and stay put for the better part of the afternoon. Nobody was having their birthday celebration or getting engaged here. There are no banquets ever being held on the banquettes. The bathroom’s just two perpendicular troughs and a shady stall with no door. One becomes inured to the lingering scent of ammonia and lye and urine, and after enough well whiskeys and cans of Olympia and cigarettes, well, everything just starts to stink about the same, including oneself.

The hotel above was once a lavish and capacious palace for the well-heeled out-of-towners to spend a California vacation in. But those polished and romantic days are way behind it. Now it’s just a rotting carcass of mold and dust and broken beams. The cream-colored staircases still hold on to their majesty, though. If you squint hard enough through that darkened magnesium-infused glass of the windows, you can just make out those red-carpeted spiraling steps winding their way up to the second floor’s abandoned rooms. Someone’s thinking of redoing the whole place to make dwellings for those bereft of homes, those who now fill the streets of Skid Row with their…