by Andrew B. Hurvitz
After the horrific events of April 20th I buried my feelings, like socks in a dark dresser drawer.
I tried to elude pain but it stalked me so.
I spent hours hiding: at the gym, on the treadmill, on the bike.
I wore red headphones. It was the color of the rage I felt inside.
When a cop dies, and, if you are somehow connected to it, you are left dazed, morose, and unshakably sad. Someone should have shot me dead that day.
One passable Tuesday, many months after the tragedy, I was at the gym pedaling a stationary bike. And a font of mid-century wisdom, Steve, red-faced, sharp-nosed, white-haired, came over. He carried a plastic water bottle and a Bible. He put his hand over mine on the handlebar grip.
“I am so sorry about what happened to you. That was truly a tragedy. And that cop who died. My heart breaks for her family.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.”
“What’s important is getting into a routine. Stay busy. You’ll feel better. Be positive,” he said.
“Thank you. I appreciate it,” I said.
“Your friend was a loser. Even if your own life is crap, you don’t have a right to kill a cop. I thought your friend was a jerk from what I heard on the news. Wasn’t he a Marine too?”
His last question implied that there was honor and stature in a Marine. Something we both agreed on.
“He was a good man. Everything fell apart for him in rapid succession,” I said, attempting suture for my dead friend’s torn character.
Old Steve shook his head, muttered good man and walked away.
Smoky or Sweet
Early last year, before any of the bad business began, I worked as a stylist for fashion photographers. My specialty was boxer shorts and briefs. They paid me about $150 a day. I worked 2 days a week on average.
One night, after a jockstrap shoot in Echo Park, I rode out to Van Nuys and disembarked with the rest of Las Vacas Negras near LA Fitness, across from Costco.
I biked over to Bevmo on Sepulveda. There was a 5 Cent for a Second Bottle Wine Sale going on. But I was there not for wine, but whisky.
I ended up in front of a locked glass cabinet holding expensive Scotch, teasingly alluring and expensively unreachable. My eyes were locked on the labels beyond my budget. And then a deep, male voice spoke.
“You like it smoky or sweet? You could spend up to $250,” he said.
“Can’t do it. I’m low paid. My job is kind of futile. I’m a lowly fashion stylist. I pick out boxer shorts for models to wear. There’s nothing lower than that,” I said.
“Yamazaki from Japan. It’s our last one. It was voted best whisky in the world last year.”
“If it’s under $100 I’ll take it.”
“I’ll give you a 5% off coupon. And if you join Bevmo you’ll get it for $89.99. Good deal huh?”
At the checkout line, shy eyes down, earphones on, I did glance up briefly.
A name badge pinned to his red company shirt, a shirt tucked into his plain front khakis:
Derek Moss, Store Manager.
Frank Young Loh, also known as Dad, taught me humility and to never think of myself as above anyone else. “See the woman at Starbucks sweeping up the sidewalk? She has a job to do too,” Dad once said as we parked outside of a coffee shop near our home in Bountiful, Utah.
He had grown up in Taiwan. He was converted and later fished off that island by Mormon missionaries. He came to Salt Lake City, graduated from Brigham Young, married a white girl from Provo, had a kid, me; got widowed and later took Mom’s life insurance payout and opened a hardware store.
He had an Asian work ethic, nose to the grindstone. He had the pure heart of a believing Mormon and the coldly indifferent soul of an ice pick. He was ready made for Utah: flinty, bland and obedient.
We were two men living together. Yet we were all alone. Carol Brady never came around.
My ambition, under his tutelage, was to reach for the average. Make no waves. Broach no controversy.
I thought I got along OK by not challenging him. And then my dick got in the way.
I told my father I was gay and I was ejaculated into exile.
“Get your bag or your purse and get the hell out of this house. There is no place for this in my home,” he said.
I quickly stuffed a backpack with underwear, socks and a toothbrush and ran out of the house on S 50 W.
S 50 W. Does that sound like a human place, a loving home? I think it sounds like coordinates for a place on Mars.
That’s the last I saw of him. People ask me if I miss him.
I lost my virginity through honesty.
Along the mirrored wall at LA Fitness in Van Nuys, are men and women staring at their reflections as they move weights. I never went into their area. I was too intimidated.
Then one day I said fuck it. I’m going in. 5’8, 148 pounds, determined.
I entered their space and laid down on their Decline Press. I started out light and put two, ten-pound plates on each side and got into position on the padded bench. I wrapped my sneakers under the cushioned poles. Supine, low angled, head lower than feet, I felt light-headed, blood rushing down.
I grabbed the bar and tried to raise it but it lost balance as the right side plates slipped down.
Quickly, a solidly built black man in a blue spandex shirt stood over me and held his palms open under the steel, leaning over and smiling.
“Slow-ly. Raise it up, breathe brutha. Let it down. I got you. Up, slow, bring it down, slow. Good. Keep going young man. I’m right here. Ok. Get it up, up, push. You got it. You did it.”
The voice was smooth, like Nat King Cole, sonorous, soothing. His encouragement was gentle and kind.
“Thank you,” I said. He had an earnest gaze, a wide smile and broad shoulders. He walked over and extended his hand.
“I’m Derek. If you need me I’ll be over there.”
“Conner,” I said.
He went to the chinning bar and raised himself up and down. He stretched his arms out and raised them overhead. His lats opened like butterfly wings. He dismounted and wiped his mouth and walked over to the water fountain. I thought of a panther, an acrobat, a dancer.
I watched him in his tall, assured dexterity, an adroit form of athleticism touched with decorum.
I wanted to know him.
He looked back at me and smiled.
I felt a chill.
Recognition for the lonely is dear.
Why Don’t People Have Respect?
Later on, I walked out the door of the gym, into the sun. I encountered him in the expansive parking lot picking up discarded bottles and trash, in between shrubs, the people’s plantings of Van Nuys.
“They dump shit everywhere. Why don’t people have respect?” he asked me, taking a handful of crap and dropping it in a wastebasket.
The ground was dirty, the air was smoggy; and that day, a mushroom cloud of fire in Santa Clarita pumped toxins into the atmosphere: thick, black, toxic, ashy, smelling of burnt wood.
“I think there’s a fire out in Santa Clarita,” I said.
He laughed. “I drove through there five years ago What a lost place of look-alike houses. Every house alike! Tens of thousands!”
“Were you going somewhere?” I asked.
“I left Los Angeles in search of California. Then I took a job in San Francisco. I went to work in a tech start up. They had a program for vets to learn coding,” he said.
“Why didn’t you stay there?” I asked.
“I had dreams of greatness. Then I realized I was doomed. I tried to concentrate. But I was no coder. I was working in a tall high rise on Market St. I rode the elevator up to my office on the 32nd Floor. One day I ran out of the building screaming. Right on Market St. I had a complete collapse. I could not go back in an office building in an earthquake zone. It might collapse on me. I had a building fall on me in Iraq,” he said.
“San Francisco scared me. But down here in the heat I think about it. What I miss most is the rain. And that cold, blowing fog.”
I tried to empathize with him.
“People live and die in LA for no good reason,” I said.
“I won’t dispute that. But my life has been on the upswing since I settled here,” he said.
He got into a new, red Ford Focus. It looked like a just licked lollipop. It made me salivate.
He opened the window and looked out at me.
“Aren’t you tired of walking across this endless stretch of asphalt? Too hot to walk. You want a ride?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure. Can you drop me off on Burbank and Kester?”
“Get in,” he ordered.
We were stopped at Sepulveda and Oxnard. He looked at me. “I know how I know you. You came into Bevmo and bought some Yamazaki whisky. Smooth and Asian.”
“Me?” I asked.
“No the whisky,” he said.
He reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a bottle of Diptyque’s Tam Dao fragrance. He sprayed it on his neck.
It smelled like sandalwood and cedar, like the fire burning in the mountains north of Los Angeles. It enkindled desire.
We parked, in front of the mini-mall donut shop at Kester and Burbank, and sat in the car, air-conditioning blasting.
“Tam Dao keeps me calm,” he said holding the bottle in front of a chilled air vent.
“I got it in Fallujah. My buddy gave it to me. He had the bottle on him,” he said.
“It was a hot day. Just like today. But Iraq hot in war hot. We were resting on a bench inside a walled, arid garden courtyard. It was house-to-house combat but this place seemed quiet. A family lived there. My buddy, Lance Corporal Jose Martinez, was talking with me. We were both scout snipers. He had this bottle of Tam Dao in his pocket. He said it made him calm. Then, out of nowhere, but actually up on a roof, an enemy shooter hit him, right in the heart, and he collapsed. He died quick. No scream, just death. Lord, mercy, no. I had no time to think. I dove behind a wall and started shooting at everything around me in the air. I think I hit that sniper on a roof. I stayed there until I was rescued. It was three hours. See that black and white Tam Dao label? It was covered in his red blood. I felt ashamed to wash it off. Somehow dishonoring him,” he said.
“I never saw someone die. I never fought in a war. I respect you. How do you, how do you deal with death?” I asked.
He looked at me and took his hand and rubbed my shoulder.
“You think it will all go on but it won’t. Once the heart stops it’s over. I never went looking for death. It just finds you.”
Last Year in Van Nuys
He became my workout buddy. He took care of me on the machines, especially on the Decline Press. On there I felt most vulnerable, most in need of support and encouragement.
One of my favorite lines was “I can’t do it.”
But he would challenge me and shame me in a joking way.
“C’mon Loh you ain’t so Loh. Get it up!”
I’d push and surprise myself in getting it back up.
I’d daydream when I had to spot him. I’d look around at other men on the floor and he’d tease me.
“Stop looking at the chicks. Concentrate. Look at me Loh and say I Concentrate on You!”Inadvertently, I’m sure, he named a song I loved, a song once sung by Sinatra.
Whenever skies look gray to me, and trouble begins to brew
Whenever the winter winds become too strong
I concentrate on you
When fortune cries “Nay, nay” to me
And people declare “You’re through”
Whenever the blues become my only songs
I concentrate on you
On your smile, so sweet, so tender
When at first my kiss you do decline
On the light in your eyes when you surrender
And once again our arms intertwine
And so when wise men say to me
That love’s young dream never comes true
To prove that even the wise men can be wrong
I concentrate on you
 Cole Porter, Songwriter. © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.
I listened to that song, covertly; hummed that song, secretly; absorbed the lyrics, furtively; and never confessed it anyone. It was too soft, too romantic, too tender. To admit to liking or believing it, was to surrender myself to persecution and ridicule.
One night, under the red neon Fatburger sign, we devoured turkey burgers after the gym. He twirled a fry and divulged a secret about having a kid and an ex-wife back in the Bronx.
“She wanted to instantly shape me up: job, attitude, love-making. Men are sometimes lethal. But woman are always toxic. She was too much,” he said.
“I used to be irresponsible. But hey, look at me now. I’ve changed. I got on my feet! I manage a liquor store. I bought a new Ford Focus. I go to the gym. I put it all together,” he said.
He leaned back in his chair, patted his stomach and laughed like the Devil.
Styling Men’s Socks
One day last year, Polo Ralph Lauren hired me to assist on a shoot for men’s socks, a step up for me as a stylist. I earned two grand.
I remember the day well. I wanted to celebrate my good fortune. I met Derek at MacLeod Ale Brewery on Calvert Street and we played golden hour darts, and drank beer in the large room with the open-to-the-sky garage door before sunset. The setting sun bathed the room in an amorous glow: rose and amber on cinderblock and concrete.
I hadn’t eaten at all that day, and I was quickly drunk. My tongue was loose and I said whatever came to mind.
“I’m glad we are buddies,” I said. He threw a dart that missed the board and hit the wall. He looked annoyed.
“Did I say something wrong?” I asked.
“I got a parking ticket before you got here,” he said.
“The back tires were barely in the red zone. And the parking enforcement dude, fat white guy, he knew my Ford Focus. He wanted to aim his $75 dart at me. I don’t have to tell you why,” he said.
“I’ve had parking tickets too,” I said.
“Dude I’m telling you this was not normal. Sometimes only revenge makes you feel like there’s justice in the world. I have a semi-automatic rifle at home, a Saiga AK-74. Only my excellent self-control as a man and a Marine prevents me from turning lethal.”
He took a sip of the pint. He smiled at me benignly and patted me on the back. Then he stepped out of the room onto the driveway.
He looked out across the chain link fence, out across the auto repair shops, the parked tow trucks and the darkly silhouetted palm trees along Calvert Street marching tall against the orange sky.
There was lament and sadness in his eyes.
“Was anyone ever happy in Van Nuys? Why do they come here? Why the hell do they stay?” he asked.
We sat on a ledge. “At least today I’m happy. I made some good money. I’m going to give you $75 for your ticket. It’s my fault you were waiting for me,” I said.
“Silly little boy. You ain’t got nothing to atone for. Keep your money. Or use it for dinner Tuesday night. My place. Bring some prime meat. We can cook on the balcony. You can see my pink building on Kittridge and Sepulveda where the whores hang out.”
I wanted to be loved that Tuesday night.
I walked into Whole Foods and picked up two, solid, meaty pork chops, bone-in, a bottle of Woodford Reserve Bourbon, a crusty, fresh baked apple pie and a pint of high fat vanilla ice cream.
At home, I showered and dried, picked out navy cotton trousers, a white oxford cloth shirt and suede wing tip shoes. I pomaded my hair and parted it precisely.
It was Tuesday, April 1st. A day when I last fooled myself into imagining happiness.
There was something in the cool air that spring night: a sense of expectation, wonderment, mystery, and desire. I rode my bike, hopefully, up Sepulveda, with a backpack full of food and liquor.
It was one of those evenings when the ocean breezes blow up into the valley, slithering through the passes, over the brake lights, and lay onto the land a soothing blanket of coolness. Ecstasy is when you are alive, and aware, and intoxicated, at the hour your events align with meteorological events.
I had arrived at my destination on Kittridge.
He was up on the balcony, shirtless, in shorts, surveying the sky. His carved arms were clenched on the bar of the steel rail. He looked out onto the street, and beyond, with that same faraway look he had on Calvert Street, at the brewery, the night before. He did not see me down below.
I waited and watched, in silence, on my bike, admiring him, not wanting to end our moment of separate but equal gazing.
A Lost Place
I carried my bike into the elevator, wheeled it up to his apartment door and knocked. He opened it wearing only green paisley silk boxers. I smiled and handed him my food and booze. He put it up on the counter, examining it. And frowning.
“Why pork chops?” he asked.
“I thought you would like that instead of beef,” I said.
“Yeah, I always eat pork chops. Did you get collard greens too?”
He left the items on the counter and walked over to his chinning bar/dip station in the living room, lifting himself up and down.
He was the trained soldier and the focused athlete up for inspection: advertising his fineness, keeping me away.
He went over to the kitchen counter and opened the bourbon. “You drink it straight or with ice or water?”
“Water please. No ice,” I said. He poured water into a glass, added bourbon and gave me the drink. I sipped it and waited for the sedation to soothe my rattling. “Do you want to see my Saiga AK-74?” he asked non-chalantly.
“You mean your gun?” I asked. “Ok.”
“Semi automatic rifle,” he said picking it up and carefully pointing it down towards the floor. He brought it closer to me and I reached over and touched it.
Ignorant of its uses, it appeared to me like a three-foot long, black metal toy.
“Obama stopped importation of these after Putin invaded Ukraine. But I got this ten years ago. It’s the same folks who make Kalashnikov,” he explained placing the gun back carefully on the floor, sliding it under the sofa.
“Let’s go out on the balcony and cool off,” he said.
“When I was in the Marines they would make us drink bourbon out of the bottle. We had contests to see who was toughest, who could hold out the longest,” he said sipping his bourbon in his boxers.
I went to move closer to him. But I dared not touch him. “You’re so lucky cause you were born with such a great, natural body. I have to work for mine. And I still could never look like you,” I said.
“That’s a shitty thing to say,” he said. “I’ll go inside and get the pork chops.”
He brought the pork chops out to the barbecue, dropping them on the gas grill. They sizzled, smoked, burned up with black marks.
We forked them done, went back inside, and ate them on the couch, watching “The Bachelorette” in distracted silence.
I had spent an evening with him. A first date really. I had seen his home, his gun, his body, and his hospitality. And it left me in a suspended state of frustration and incomprehension. Was it all for show? He was so undressed, yet so hidden.
Front door open, I paused before closing and looked back. He sat on the leather couch, eating his bowl of vanilla ice cream and laughing at the blue flickering light without acknowledging my departure. I closed the door, slowly.
I rode back home on the sidewalk, like a boy on a bike, sulking and morose, in the brightly lit night along Sepulveda Boulevard, a high wattage ugliness of billboards, burgers, and cheap motels, where everything worthless on earth was for sale.
French Toast With Butter and Syrup
The French Toast was soft, soaked in butter and maple syrup. The bacon was crisp and crunchy. The hot coffee was roasted dark and diluted in vanilla cream.
It was Sunday morning and I ate at Nat’s Early Bite on Burbank and Hazeltine. Above me, along the wall near the ceiling, a long shelf held dusty plastic trinkets, artificial plants and imitation flowers. The walls were hung with photos of actors who once acted.
And then he entered the restaurant. We hadn’t spoken for weeks. He saw me sitting alone at a two-man table near the door and walked up to me.
“Can I sit with you?” he asked.
“Of course,” I answered.
“Where have you been?” I asked.
“I had a lot of bad problems,” he said.
“What?” I asked.
“I got fired. I forgot to ask a company spy for her ID and she purchased some alcoholic lemonade that looked like regular lemonade but had vodka in it. The minute I rang her up, I was called back into the office and dismissed that very second. Bevmo is mean and cruel,” he said.
“Oh my God. I’m sorry,” I said.
“And with no income I missed a car payment and then I thought I ain’t going to get no $45,000 a year job like Bevmo so I turned in my car and I owe money on that car but I don’t have no car,” he said.
“My ex-wife’s been texting me for child support but I have nothing to send her. I can’t pay the rent so that will be the next thing to collapse. I’m sorry I’m telling you every woe in my life,” he said burying his face into his hands.
“Let me get you something to eat,” I said.
“No I couldn’t let you do that,” he said.
A waitress walked over. “Please bring my friend the same breakfast you brought me. French Toast with well done bacon and a cup of coffee,” I said.
“You’re a good man. I mean you are a good man. You know what I mean!” he said and laughed.
His weary eyes were open, focused on me, singularly and poignantly.
“I went to return the car to Galpin Ford. I was pulled over on Roscoe by a cop, LAPD Officer Veronica Montez, a Latina bitch with her hair in a bun. She said I was going too close to the car in front of me. She wrote me a ticket, a moving violation, just as I was heading into the dealership driveway to dispose of the vehicle. Am I cursed or something?” he said.
“No. I think you’re blessed,” I said.
The Second French Toast with butter, syrup and bacon arrived. Derek tore into the bread, plastered it with butter and drowned it in syrup. He looked grateful for a meal.
On another very hot day I told him he could stay with me.
We went over to his apartment, packed his clothing, Frosted Flakes, pillows, sheets, towels, and toiletries into heavy plastic garbage bags. He did not seem sad until he went back out on the balcony, sat down on a plastic stool and started to cry.
“I see those homeless people living in their cars. And I think, God, I don’t want to end up like that,” he said.
“You’re going to climb out of this sad time. I’m not going to abandon you,” I said.
“Just when you think you are winning you fail. Nobody ever escapes enslavement,” he said.
I took a cold bottle of water out of cooler and rolled it up and down the back of his sweaty neck.
Here was the battlefield Los Angeles. Here was the heartbreak of a war vet struck down by life.
I found that bottle of Tam Dao, the one that belonged to the dead soldier, and I brought it out as an offering, out to the wounded man on the balcony. I sprayed it on the side of his neck.
“Breathe deep. You’re going to win again. You’re a King, ” I said, saying those hyperbolic words as if I were administering an anecdote against suicide.
He unhooked his silver cross chain, put it in his hand and rubbed his finger on it. Rubbed it as if its essence, its power to confer eternity, justice, and compassion could come to life in his palm.
“Sometimes I think God’s gone away. Do you believe in Jesus?” he asked.
“I left Jesus back in Bountiful,” I answered.
I hugged him and pressed my head against his chest. I wanted this for so long but it was affection conceived in mourning, not joy.
“Should we continue packing?” I asked as we went back in.
There was a Holy Bible with a bookmark in it. He brought it over to me.
“Look here. This is something I want you to read,” he said. I read it aloud.
“We are hard-pressed on every side, yet not crushed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed”-2 Corinthians 4:8-9
“You didn’t leave Jesus back in Utah. He is here in Van Nuys.”
After Midnight, under cover of darkness, he came into my apartment, tiptoeing along the exterior hall and sliding into my studio.
I spoke softly. “You can sleep on my bed, or you can sleep on the sofa. House rules. No dirty dishes in the sink. Hang up your wet towel on the door so it dries and doesn’t get musty. I have an extra toothbrush for you. It’s red. Don’t forget. And don’t pee on the toilet seat. Lift it up before you urinate. Ok?”
“I’m going to crash on the couch buddy. Thank you for extracting me from desperation,” he said.
I laid out a bed of bleached, fragrant, white sheets. His Saiga, covered in its own protective wrapping, slept next to him.
“I have my protection here. I just keep it here. I won’t take my eyes off it. You understand right?”
“Of course,” I said.
Around 3am, I got up to piss, and looked out into the living room to see him asleep in the nude, fan blowing, but uncovered, and resting comfortably.
I tiptoed next to him and bent down on my knees and with no trepidation, kissed him softly on his lips. He stayed asleep and again I laid my head down on the pillow and kissed him on the neck. And he didn’t awaken. I raised myself up and went back in my room.
At 6am, I was up for good, already showered and dressed. I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He turned over and spoke. “You going out Conner?” he asked.
“Yeah. Sorry to wake you. I got a job in Hollywood. Make yourself at home. If you go out just make sure to avoid the building manager Jen Broadbent. You’ll recognize her. She’s a fat blond lady about 40. She waters the plants with a hose and wears a red hat. Try and be quiet and don’t tell anyone you are staying here,” I instructed.
As I grabbed my keys he spoke up. “I know what you did to me last night,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You took some liberties with me when I was sleeping. Or you thought I was sleeping. I didn’t say anything,” he said.
“Are you mad?” I asked.
“I’m not mad for the reason you may think. I’m mad because you took advantage of me without asking,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” I said. And then I walked out.
I left for work with an uneasy feeling tempered and jolted by an electric surge of eroticism and guilt.
I worked on a breath mint commercial in Hollywood and picked out the skateboards and t-shirts for young actors who ate mints, rode boards downhill and smiled for multiple takes.
When I got back to the apartment, he was in the bathroom. The countertop was full of open Styrofoam food from Zankou Chicken smelling of garlic and grease.
A wet towel was crunched up on the couch and his clothes were thrown onto the floor and across the coffee table. Open cans of Diet Coke sat atop the TV. In one day it had all turned slummy.
He walked out of the bathroom, trailing a shit smell that leaked out into the living room.
“How you doing dude?” he asked.
“Tired man. You need to clean up this room. This is my home,” I said.
“Hey I’m sorry. I was online trying to get work. I walked next door to the Laundromat to do my laundry and they had a help wanted sign so I applied,” he said.
“Close the bathroom door please,” I said. I wasn’t pleased.
“I’m sorry to get on your ass about cleaning up. I had a long day at work and when I come back I like things orderly and clean,” I said.
“I know man. You’re in command here. I will obey you. You have my respect. I’ll shape up,” he said smiling.
“I’m still in the mood for Lido Pizza if you want to grab dinner. My treat,” I said, attempting some reconciliation and niceness.
“Yeah sure,” he said.
Incident at Lido Pizza
We were in the rococo red sauce and vinyl booth restaurant on Victory, eating plates of spaghetti with clam sauce and drinking glasses of ordinary red wine.
The earlier confrontation in the apartment dissolved as we twirled pasta and soaked bread in the clam sauce, forgetting the problems in our entangled and undefined relationship.
Three LAPD officers, two men and a woman, came in and sat at a booth across from ours. Derek’s expression changed into agitation.
“That’s the bitch who pulled me over on Roscoe. Sgt. Veronica Montez. The enemy,” he said.
“Have another glass of wine,” I said.
“I need some air,” he said as he got up and rushed out the front door. I followed.
Derek, furious and gasping, pounded his fist against a steel sign pole in the parking lot.
A fire truck passed with deafening sirens, and Derek let out a scream. I held onto him as he screamed more. He fell down on his knees and cried out.
“I can’t stand it! I can’t be around this war, these cops, and all these people trying to kill me! What if the building falls down? What if the cops kill me? This is war! This isn’t Van Nuys. This is a war zone!”
In the midst of the asphalt melodrama, our gallant waiter came out to the parking lot with a glass of water on a silver tray.
Derek took it and he drank it. The waiter stood back observing.
“He just found out that his mother died. That is why he was so upset. If you could bring me the check I can pay you,” I said.
“Yes, of course,” he said and went back into Lido Pizza.
I took a cloth napkin, dipped it in the water glass and wiped Derek’s forehead. And then I lightly kissed him where I had dabbed him as he lay seated on the ground, his back against the steel sign.
“How do you feel now?” I asked him after he had thrown off his uncontrollable emotional convulsions.
“I realize now I tried to superimpose happiness upon this sad city but it never truly worked. I either have to leave here. Or I will die here,” he said.
“We can go to the VA tomorrow. Maybe they have some medication for you. We need to get some help,” I said.
“Lorazepam. I need that drug. If you can get that from the VA,” he said.
“I will,” I said, stroking his arm.
It was a night of emergencies. Another red LAFD fire truck, lights flashing, sirens blasting, sped down Victory west towards the 405. Something was on fire somewhere, out there beyond our view.
What We See Is What We Want to See
The next morning I carried a bag of just cleaned laundry and said good morning to Jen Broadbent who was out in the courtyard watering her clay pot plants. She wore her red cap and a satisfied smile, resonating confidence in her small triumphs of apartment management and horticultural husbandry.
“What are you up to today Conner?” she asked.
“I’m trying to get my buddy an appointment at the VA Hospital in Westwood,” I said.
“Your buddy a vet?” she asked.
“Yes. He’s a Marine who served in Iraq. He desperately needs some medication. I wish I had a car,” I said.
She turned the water off and dried her hands on a rag and looked at me with compassion.
“Take my car if you want to drive your friend down to the VA,” she said.
“Oh that is too much to ask,” I said.
“My father served in Korea, my older brother served in Vietnam. I come from a family of service members. We help each other out!” she said.
She pulled a set of keys out of her pocket and handed me a black one. “It’s the Toyota Yaris parked right across Burbank. Go move it by 10 O’clock cause they’re street cleaning today. Use it for today and bring it back in one piece. I’m proud of you for caring for a veteran. We don’t do enough for them. God Bless you!”
Appointment At Noon
He cleaned up the apartment, put his dirty clothes in the basket, and wiped down the toilet, even turning down the seat.
I came back with the laundered clothes and placed them near my bed. “Let me fold them for you,” he offered.
“We have to be there by Noon,” I said. “I have to move her car by 10. And I need to shower,” I said.
“Let me get the car. I’ll drive it over to this side of the street,” he said.
I handed him her car keys and he went out.
In a few minutes my phone rang. It was Jen. “I just saw a black guy in the courtyard and asked him who he was and he said he was your friend. Is that true?”
“Yes, that’s Derek the vet. He is moving your car because I need to shower,” I said.
“Ok,” she said.
He couldn’t even go out of the apartment to do an errand without arousing suspicion.
I went to take a clean, quick, water conserving, shower.
Rinsing the shampoo out, I heard, over the running water, shouting. I turned the faucet off, grabbed a towel, tied it around my waist and ran out into the living room.
“The bitch! The bitch! She’s out there. That cop I told you about! The one we saw at Lido! She pulled me over for an illegal U-turn right in front of the building. I swear that bitch she gonna die! She gonna die!”
“Ok. We can’t let her get to us!” I said. But he wasn’t hearing me. He was lost in wrath. He pulled off his rifle cover, grabbed the gun, loaded it, cocked it, aimed it, and defended his position in the apartment.
I pulled the drapes shut, sealing in heat and fear. The room was daylight dark, encased in danger, sparsely oxygenated. A lone goldfish swam in her bowl obliviously.
Derek stood ramrod, next to the door, no longer a civilian, but now, monstrously transformed into a sniper. The air in the apartment was still- then shaken- as a police helicopter circled and sliced in concentric menace.
A megaphone voice, a pounding on the door. We were in the siege of my house, the closing in of law enforcement, the sounds of police sirens, voices in the courtyard, panic all around, panic inside and outside. I pleaded with him.
“Don’t escalate this any more! Put the gun down. Let’s open the door and put our hands up!”
“This is the only honorable way to finish it!” he said.
I could see cops down in the courtyard. I motioned to Derek with my thumb their location. He moved away from the door, over to the sliding doors on the balcony. He stood behind the drapes aiming his weapon down to the courtyard.
He let loose maybe a dozen rounds. I screamed and ran over to the bathroom and locked the door. In my own deluded and crazed insanity I grabbed the holy bottle of Tam Dao and curled up into the bathtub. I heard more gunfire and then nothing.
I opened the bathroom door slowly into smoke, glass, death and carnage.
Glass shattering the sliding door; and Derek hit. The white drapes pulled off their rod, grotesquely splashed with blood. His brains blown out, his skull ripped open, his body on the balcony.
I crawled on the carpet, right up to the Saiga, grabbed it and pulled the trigger, and aimed it at my windowless front door, shooting furiously.
The bullets I engaged killed LAPD Officer Veronica Montez, 32-years-old, married mother of two, on the force for 4 years.
Who was the cop killer? Who cares? The answer was already officially adjudicated. I was never charged. Only God knows the truth.
After the horrific events of April 20th I buried my feelings, like socks in a dark dresser drawer.
I tried to elude pain but it stalked me so.
When fortune cries “Nay, nay” to me
And people declare “You’re through”
Whenever the blues become my only songs
I concentrate on you.