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so today i heard that jaime escalante died, which got me thinking about his movie, which got me thinking about a job i once had shortly after arriving in los angeles, which left me once again with the realization that just when mkf thinks he's tapped out, there's always one more story--or three.
1.
i recognize him immediately--little guy with a canvas duffle almost as big as he is, flagging me down at terminal 7 just as i'm getting ready to head outta the airport--could it be?
i jump out to help him with his bag, and as he climbs into the van, all doubts are erased--there's the logo for his latest movie emblazoned across the back of his jacket, big as life.
as soon as he's settled in--he's all alone in the wayback--i ease into traffic and resume my conversation with the two delightful english ladies in the middle row i had just picked up at terminal 2. it's their first trip to america and they're beside themselves with excitement--from the moment they entered the van, they've been peppering me with questions about hollywood.
as we drive, i give 'em everything i know, try to point out some landmarks--problem is, the bleak drive from LAX to hollywood is as about as far from glamorous as you can get, so to keep 'em happy (and thinking, as always, of my tip), i start making shit up.
every time i make some outlandish pronouncement for the benefit of my ladies--point out some anonymous hovel and tell 'em charlie chaplin used to keep his mistresses there, for instance, or "see that pretty girl at the corner? she's really a man."--i check the rear-view mirror, catch the eye of my passenger in the back row. he's smiling, enjoying the show.
until, that is, the inevitable "where can we find celebrities?" question comes up.
because i can't resist. "ladies, in this town, you never know where you're gonna run into a celebrity. it could happen on a street corner, in a cafe--heck, you might look up and find yourselves sitting right next to one at any moment."
i glance up--the once-smiling eyes in my rear-view mirror are wide and pleading now. i just wink and drive.
the first stop is his--chateau marmont. as i drag out his bag, he hands me an extra twenty, says "thanks for not giving me away."
turning back toward my van, i toss over my shoulder the line i've had the entire ride from the airport to perfect: "next time, do the right thing--hire a limo." this earns me a laugh.
as i prepare to pull back onto the strip, i turn back to my ladies and breathlessly ask, "my gosh, do you have any idea who you just shared a ride from the airport with?"
this bit of theatre would net me my second big tip of the night.
2.
one of the first things the other drivers tell me: "cops hate shuttle drivers--be extra-careful when you're anywhere near LAX." being me, i don't pay much attention to this advice.
one night shortly thereafter, returning from a run and anxious to get back to the airport, i ignore the "no right turn on red" sign at the 405/la tijera off-ramp and am promptly rewarded with flashing red-and-blue lights in my rear-view mirror.
fuck. i pull over, brace myself for another ticket--i've had more than a few in my life.
this one will be different.
i sense it right away--cop walking toward me has about ten times the attitude i've ever gotten from a cop before. i offer him my driver's license through the open window and he loudly orders me out--and when i comply, gets all up in my face and, spittle flying, backs me up against the side of the van and tells me to move not a goddam inch until he returns.
he then snatches my ID outta my trembling hand and retreats to his car, trains the full force of his spotlight upon my scared, miserable person. as looky-lou traffic slows, through the humiliating glare i can see him on the radio, calling me in--it takes forever. in the meantime, i nervously pull a cigarette outta my pocket and await my ticket.
eventually he comes back, scribbling in his ticket book, takes one look at the cigarette in my hand, screams, "DID I SAY YOU COULD SMOKE? DROP IT--NOW!" i immediately do as he says.
he then flips a page on his pad, scribbles some more and eventually hands me not one ticket to sign, but two: the first, for illegal right turn; the second, for littering.
later in the locker-room, red-faced, foaming at the mouth, shrieking about outrage and injustice and fucking goddam motherfucking cops, i'm oblivious of the snickering from the little circle of black drivers until one of 'em walks up to me with a grin, pats me on the cheek and says, "congratulations, white boy--you just got to be a nigger for a night. now, shut your mouth, change outta that uniform and go be white again."
on the drive home i remember thinking how if I had to go through that shit on a regular basis, cop killer would probably be pounding outta my subwoofer on high rotation, too.
3.
it's a dead airport and as i make my third and final round, i resign myself to the fact that the fare i picked up on round 1 is gonna be my only one for this run. and not only that, but it's montebello--jesus, the trip to east LA and back will eat up half my night.
she's nice, though--rather than bitching like most people do when told we're gonna have to go around twice more, she'd smiled, settled back in her seat and enjoyed the ride.
once LAX is behind us, we make the most of the trip, this lady and i--we talk about her family; we talk about mine. before i know it, we're pulling up in front of her house--a neat little stucco bungalow with a single porchlight burning.
i insist on carrying her bags--by this time i'm totally taken with this little woman who, even though she's nothing like her, somehow reminds me of my own mother.
she unlocks the front door, steps inside, flips a switch, and i walk into...not a living room, but a shrine.
seriously: every square inch of every wall, every table, every horizontal and vertical surface extending even unto the dining room beyond--is covered with pictures, posters, plaques, trophies, awards, ribbons, citations--documentation of a life well-lived.
and each one featuring the same familiar name and/or face.
i turn to her with my mouth open and she positively radiates with pride as she says, "this is my son i was telling you about."
fuck most celebrities, but i'd like to meet mrs. olmos's son one day, if only to tell him how his mother's face lit up when she talked about him.
4 comments:
I had never heard any of these three vignettes, which makes them all the more touching.
I must say, however, that my favorite was the Orange County surfer story -- both of them.
In the meantime, this is the stuff that really makes guttermorality worth reading. It truly is first rate writing.
Wow . I was seriously blown away . And to think you met Admiral Adama's mother ! I honestly don't know what to say !
noblesavage: as always, thanks for coming here and reading this shit.
and, also as always, i can't get over your fuckin' memory--i had completely forgotten about the oc surfer boy, much less remembered i'd driven him twice.
bb: i'm really glad you liked this one, but who is this admiral adama of which you speak?
and now i want to hear the surfer boy story...
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