He lives in a guesthouse occupying half a converted garage. In a narrow room smaller than a college dorm, a few blankets — Ford’s bed — lay on the ground between his desk and the bathroom door, against which two white pillows rest. A bookshelf is lined with Judaica items and books on the Talmud, Jewish history and English literature; most of the books he reads come from the library.
There is a fridge and microwave; cassette tapes of recorded phone conversations are piled on the floor, a smorgasbord of bottled vitamins and medication cover a white dresser with gilded accents. "The Hovel," as Ford endearingly refers to it, feels dank and smells worse, but for $600 a month, it’s home.
I’ve got little sense of smell, so I’m embarrassed that my place smells bad. As for the rest of me, as you can judge by the article, I smell like a rose.
In this tawdry, fallen world, it’s good that kids have role models like me.
A friend emails me: "Cathy would be very proud of you."