Broadway Hollywood
(The erotic memoirs of a department store ‘Floorwalker’) My Father passed away three months ago to the day. He was a good father and seemingly lived a very quiet, mild-mannered, average life. At least that’s what I thought until I pried open a locked large brown trunk in the attic of his small 2 bedroom home in West Hollywood and discovered the three dusty, well-worn black books inside. They contained the tightly scrawled handwriting of my father. The realtor listing my dad’s house was calling...