After the war, O'Gatty earned a meager income as a screen extra, based exclusively on his resemblance to Groucho Marx. His last acting job was in a commercial with several other bald men who wore mustaches like bottle brushes and who could house a family of field mice in their noses. The director of the commercial threw a bash at his home in hopes of launching a career in feature films. Several Hollywood big shots were invited, including Groucho--the real Groucho. The lookalikes appeared on cue in the back yard around the swimming pool. They slapped each other on the back and O'Gatty fell in love. He had asked to be placed at the shallow end, but they lined up in reverse. The director's wife swam with Esther Williams, and when she pulled the drowning O'Gatty from the water he thought he had died and gone to heaven. It was the showgirl from Berlin. They were caught sexing in the laundry room while Muriel was supposed to be supervising the salmon mousse, and that was the end of O'Gatty's doubling in Muriel's marriages.

Together they bought the Blue Motel, but it wasn't happy capitalism. Between the jitterbug they danced on Hitler's grave and the re-routing of the Los Angeles freeway shortly after they bought the motel forever tipped the scales against them. Do you know something of the nature of our guests, O'Gatty asks. I grew up with crazy people but say, No, I haven't worked in an establishment of this nature before. That would require dying, going to hell, and returning to answer. Just look around: Hazel is conversing with a cueball who says it hurts. He asks for a potato. Clipped words and eyelids flutter. He makes a stern face, proud of the power. Why do you need the potato, Hazel asks. Eight, he answers. Eight what? There's an 8 in potato, he calls, as if Hazel has gone far from the desk where she always sits.



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