Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Los Angeles (Page 12 of 16)

From Television City in Hollywood

June 14, 2006 / / 48 Comments

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Some of you have noticed that I’ve been a bit jittery on this blog lately — putting posts on, taking them off, and changing titles every half hour. I’m not exactly sure what’s going on with me. Maybe I’m nervous about spending two weeks in Flushing with both Sophia and my mother. Did I mention that we’re also spending five days in a lakefront cabin in the Berkshires together?

But I think the real reason for my nervous energy is because I recently went to a meet-up with a few old friends from grad school, and I’m doing the inevitable comparisons of our lives. We were all in the MFA program at USC Film School. We lost touch for a while, but one found me through “Citizen of the Month.” During the weekend, we had a reunion. One is them is a major movie director. One is a editor for TV. One is a ICM talent agent. And then there’s me, the freelance writer known as Neilochka. So, I hope this explains my recent ranting on about syndication and bloggers making money.

I was very anxious about seeing these guys, but once I was there, it wasn’t bad at all. After you hit the age of 30, everyone’s life is such a confusing mess that it’s difficult to make comparisons based solely on career choices. And in Hollywood, everyone has had his ups and down, including the most successful of the bunch.

At some point during our meet-up, we went around the table, and each told a tale of his WORST Hollywood experience. This was not an easy task. Everyone had stories of crazed agents and meglomaniacal producers, sometimes even with the same characters.

When it was my time to tell a story, I filed through my storehouse of unpleasant Hollywood moments. Should I tell the one about the agent that was arrested while I was in his office? How about the pitch meeting at Fox? Sophia and I had written a romantic comedy script together. But when we pitched it to a young executive, he stood in the corner of his office and played this miniature hole-in-one golf game by himself.

I decided to tell the story of the sitcom taping that I attended with my former writing partner. It was the taping of some brand new show for the Fall Season. The show had a lot of “buzz.” They were filming their first episode at Warner Brothers.

After the show, my partner and I went to Dalt’s Grill in Burbank (which sadly closed last year). Even though Dalt’s was nothing more than a fancy coffee shop, it was close to Warner Brothers and Disney Studios, so everyone went there. You saw more celebrities at Dalt’s than in Beverly Hills.

As we ate our burgers, we saw the cast and crew of the sitcom taping we had just attended — sitting a few tables away. The producers, the writers, and the cast were there, all celebrating the success of the taping.

My partner dragged me over there to say hello and kiss some ass. We tried to look confident as we introduced ourselves. We told them how brilliant they were and that their show was the best thing on TV since “All in the Family.” They invited us to sit down with them. My writing partner and I looked at each other. We were in!

For the next hour, we poured on the B.S. I told my best stories. We did some shtick. I talked with the lead actor about some obscure movie he was in, and scored some major brownie points. The executive producer treated me like I was an old buddy. We both were from Queens. He said my partner and I would be perfect as writers for the show.

The executive producer’s phone rang, supposedly about some party we were all going to attend in West Hollywood. But it wasn’t about the party. It was the network. They were cancelling the show — after the taping of the first episode.

The executive producer started to cry. The lead actor threw a container of coffee against the wall. The others got drunk.

My writing partner and I never heard back from any of them again.

LA Coffee

June 13, 2006 / / 39 Comments

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I went to my local coffee “bar” for a cup of coffee.  As I was about to order, a rude woman burst in and stepped in.  She said she was in a rush and needed to order her coffee NOW, so I let her go first. 

She ordered a cup of coffee, but insisted that her coffee must be made at 114 degrees.

“What an asshole,” I thought to myself. 

But the “barista” didn’t bat an eye.

I just got home and did a Google search.  I was surprised to read this on a “coffee FAQ” about getting rid of the caffeine:

“Heating the water to 114 degrees Fahrenheit (45.5 degrees Celsius) destroys the methlylene chloride compound, which takes the caffeine with it. The beans reabsorb their flavor when reintroduced to the bath. This is called the indirect method, as the coffee beans never directly come in contact with the methlylene chloride.”

Have you ever seen anyone ask for their coffee at 114 degrees?

Even if it is legit, the woman was still an asshole.

Perfect Post to Be Syndicated by the Washington Post

June 13, 2006 / / 23 Comments

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Sophia called me up and said she was hungry. I suggested our usual lunch place in Redono Beach.

“Not that place again,” she said. “Can’t we ever do anything different?”

I’ve heard this said to me many times in the bedroom, but never about my choices of where to eat lunch.

But then inspiration hit me.

“Oh, I know where I’ll take you. I found a place where they have really good gyros!”

“Great” said Sophia, turned-on by my surprising show of spontaneity. 

But things quickly changed as we pulled into the parking lot of Dave’s Burgers. I could see Sophia was incredulous.

“We’re going here?” she said, emphasis on HERE.

I reminded Sophia that some of the best hot dogs, burgers, sandwiches, even GYROS are created like masterpieces in the dumpiest of take-out joints.

Inside Dave’s Burgers, it was like Formica Heaven. The Menu board was as long as “A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius” (pretentious literary reference to impress). There was Mexican food, Italian food, Greek food, and an assortment of burgers, with or without chili on top.

“This Gyro is like a sandwich with shaved meat in a pita, right” asked Sophia.

“Absolutely!”

“You know I don’t like sandwiches too much.”

Before I could spell “high maintenance,” I found a solution.

“Look,” I said, pointing towards the vast menu board, “They have a gyro platter for two dollars more. And it comes with a salad and a drink.”

Ten minutes later, we were sitting at at an uncomfortable plastic table while Sophia stared down at her plate glistening with fat, reconstituted meat slices.

“Aren’t they supposed to use real meat?” she asked.

Maybe I was so deluded by WANTING to find a good gyro sandwich in Redondo Beach, that I imagined it as tasty the first time. Or maybe when you order a sandwich rather than the platter, and you get it wrapped up in paper, you just don’t see what the meat actually looks like (or see it dripping with oil).

The “salad” was 1/6 lettuce, 1/6 french fries, and 2/3 greasy onion rings. We ended up tossing our food away.

“I hope the guys who work here don’t eat this crap every day,” said Sophia. “They’re gonna drop dead.”

Note to Editors of the Washington Post:

OK, let me take a little pause in this story for some literary self-criticism.

I understand that if I want my posts to be picked up by your illustrious newspaper, I must start telling “true” stories. That means no fudging the facts or using exaggeration. After all, imagine what would happen to my budding career if I start making up the story like Jayson Blair did with the Times.

The problem I have with most true life stories is that the endings are usually lame. Most real-life incidents don’t come with a ready punch-line. That said — THIS true-life “gyro” story does have a good ending. But the final twist is so forced and obvious that you are not going to believe that this really happened. It just seems like hack work. But it did happen. I swear. I swear on the names of your gods, Woodward and Bernstein.

BACK TO STORY:

Quick recap:

Sophia says, “I hope the guys who work here don’t eat this crap every day. They’re gonna drop dead.”

As we leave Dave’s Burgers, three fire engines, an ambulance, and two paramedics zoom into the parking lot. One of the chefs collapsed in the kitchen after eating his own lunch, and is carried out on a stretcher.

Comedy and Modern Science

June 9, 2006 / / 67 Comments

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Last Friday, Sophia and I went with blogger-pal Danny and his wife, Kendall, to the Hermosa Beach Comedy and Magic Club.  It is one of the best comedy clubs in Los Angeles, well-known as the club Jay Leno performs every Sunday night, trying out his monologues.  It is a great place to visit when you come to Los Angeles  Afterwards, remember to drop by Sophia’s house in Redondo Beach for some tea and cookies.

At Friday’s performance, we were sitting next to a rowdy table of ten.  They all seemed drunk.  In the center of the bunch were two twins, both blond Pamela Anderson types, both wearing skimpy halter tops.   It was their birthdays.   (Danny later discovered that these “twins” were the Costello Twins and they are known for something in C-level Hollywood.    Look it up yourself.   It’s not that interesting.)

The show consisted for four acts.  During each act, Blond Twin #1 would stand up, talking to the comedian on the stage — wanting to bring the attention to herself.   Even though the comedians seemed annoyed, they tried to keep it light, realizing she was drunk and it was her birthday.

But the audience was getting increasingly pissy.

The headliner for the evening was the very funny Ralph Harris.  Towards the middle of his routine, Blond Twin #1 stood up for the fourth time.

“I like you.  You’re funny.” she slurred.

“Uh, yeah, thanks,” Ralph Harris said.  “Could you sit down now?”

But Blond Twin #1 did not sit down.   Instead, she pulled down her halter top and flashed her breasts to the comedian — and the rest of the audience.

Now, I know what you’re thinking while you’re reading this at home or in the office.

“Why is Neil telling me this story?” 

I tell this true-life tale for an important reason.  I think it’s time to prove to my female readers that not all men are horndogs.  As this blond beauty turned my way, her breasts bare to the world, my eyes didn’t pop out of their sockets like a cartoon character.  I didn’t drool all over myself.   The table didn’t miraculously lift a foot off the ground.

No, I sat there and pondered modern science.    I thought:

“When are they ever going to make fake boobs that don’t look like large bocce balls?”

A Year Ago On Citizen of the Month:  The Blog is Mightier Than the Sword

Driving in LA – In Two Parts

May 24, 2006 / / 45 Comments

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Part One — Car Poetry

This week’s Poetry Thursday assignment was to be inspired by a single line from another blogger’s poem. I picked “A Morning By the Sea” by Susannah of Ink on My Fingers.

The line that inspired me was:

The computer hums,
the kettle rumbles.

Why this line? Her poem is wonderful, filled with wonderful images. This is probably — content-wise — one of the least important lines. But that’s exactly what inspired me about it. Its importance is more than just the content, or the onomatopoeia of “hum” and “rumble.” I like the way the line rolls off your tongue, like a good song lyric.

The computer hums,
the kettle rumbles.

I think one reason I find it poetry difficult is because I’m always focusing on the “meaning” of the words. Poetry, more than fiction, is about the music of the words themselves.

I have a comedian friend who is always rewriting his material to make it funnier by using “funnier” words. These are words that start with a “hard” letter. So, a “Crazy Cat” is theoretically funnier than a “Weird Worm.” It’s his own way of using the “poetry” of words to enhance his routine. In a way, Susannah’s poem helped me to remember my love of words — words for their own sake.

In my ideal world, Elliot Yamin would have won “American Idol,” not because he has the best voice, or a doting Jewish mother, but because he has the coolest sounding name.

Elliot Yamin.

Taylor Hicks? Not poetry.

As I was driving on the 10 Freeway today, I thought about how much the big auto companies must spend to come up with their “poetic” sounding names for their cars.

I wonder if they hire poets.

Chevrolet Cabriolet
Toyota Corolla
Ford Focus
Hyundai Santa Fe
Mercedes
Rolls Royce

I like the way all of these car names “sound.”

I’m driving on the freeway
In my Hyundai Santa Fe
Zooming past a Corolla
and a Chevy Cabriolet

I know my car ain’t a Mercedes
Or a beautiful Rolls Royce
But it’s better than that Ford Focus
Now that was one BAD choice.

I know, I know. A fourth grade poem. But it was fun.

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Part Two — Overheard in LA

As most people know, Los Angeles is a driving town.  What you drive matters.  Since I first met Sophia, she’s had four completely different types of cars — each one evoking a wildly different negative response from some other driver. 

1) 1996 —

As we entered the parking lot of Campanile Restaurant, an upscale restaurant, a friend told Sophia, who was driving a five year old Honda Accord:

“I’d be embarrassed to give this piece of junk into the valet.”

2) 1999 —

After a motorcycle cut us off in Beverly Hills, Sophia blinked her lights at him.  The motorcyclist turned to Sophia, who was now leasing a Infiniti i30, and yelled:

“Screw you, you rich bitch!”

3) 2001 —

As we left a coffee shop in Redondo Beach, an environmental activist was putting a flyer on a windshield of Sophia’s new Hyundai Santa Fe SUV:

“Do you morons know what you’re doing to the environment with this monstrosity?”

4) 2006 —

As (Republican) Sophia pulled away from an IHOP, after having breakfast with me, in her new Toyota Prius Hybrid, I heard two men talking about the special DMV stickers that allow some hybrid owners to drive alone in the carpool lane:

“What gives these liberal treehugging assholes the right to use the carpool lane when we can’t?!”

Moral of the story:  You can’t win driving in LA.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: 90 Million Women Wear Wrong Size Bra

We Will, We Will Treadmill

May 23, 2006 / / 67 Comments

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“Parking is upstairs,” shouted the parking attendant at the 24 Hour Fitness on Pico Blvd.

I drove up this tight, curving ramp to the second floor.

“Where ya goin’?” asked a second attendant.

“24 Hour Fitness.”

“Parking is downstairs.”

“He told me to come upstairs.”

“Did you tell him ’24 Hour Fitness?'”

“Uh, I don’t remember. Maybe.”

“Parking for 24 Hour Fitness is downstairs.”

I looked behind me. The ramp only went one-way and I was blocking traffic.

“Well, how do I get down there now?”

“You’ll need to exit and come back in.”

I drove down the a ramp marked “Exit.” I was stopped at the booth by a third attendant. I handed him the card that came out of the machine when I first entered a few minutes ago.

“I went upstairs by mistake, so I’m going to go out and come back in again.”

“That’ll be three dollars.”

“Huh? I haven’t left my car yet. I just went the wrong way. I’m going to go to 24 Hour Fitness. It’s my first time.”

“You’re supposed to validate this at 24 Hour Fitness, otherwise I have to charge you.”

“I haven’t gone to 24 Hour Fitness yet! I haven’t left my car! I just came in a minute ago.”

The attendant took another bite of his Big Mac and sighed.

“OK, I’ll let you through, but just this time. Next time, make sure you get validated first.”

I was already regretting this whole exercise idea.

I finally made it inside 24 Hour Fitness. It looked nothing like the shiny gym they show on TV. It was an older location, with no TVs and (is it possible?) no air-conditioning. The place was hot and smelly. My first stop was the locker room, where I took locker ’69’ — so I’ll remember where it was. Ok, I also thought it was funny.

Now, I know in the men’s locker room, we’re a bunch of men undressing next to each other, and the situation is a bit vulnerable, but doesn’t ANYONE ever say a word to each other in the men’s locker room? Not one guy gave another guy a nod, a hello, or even a “how ya doin?” Is it different in the women’s locker room?

By the way, I purposely wore my boxer-briefs rather than my usual white briefs, so as to not embarrass any of my readers. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, search for it in the archives, because I’m not linking to that stupid post again.

The gym was as unfriendly as the locker room. I understand that people are here to exercise and get the hell out, but no one seemed to acknowledge anyone’s existence. It felt like I was back in my apartment building elevator, with everyone glancing up at the clicking floor numbers, afraid of looking at each other. I’ve always heard rumors of the gym being a good “pick-up” spot?  Urban legend.  No one talks to anyone!  If you’ve ever been self-conscious about going to the gym, forget about it. No one gives a damn if you’re there or not!

I decided to take things slow for my first time there. I would just use the treadmill for an hour. There was also some type of Nordic Tracker-looking thing available, but I couldn’t figure out how to use it. So, I stuck with the treadmill. I took the only empty treadmill, at the end of the “treadmill row,” right next to some cute Asian woman in a red “Dell Computer 2001 Softball Team” t-shirt. She never looked my way.

Once on the treadmill, I played with the nifty buttons, and decided to go for the Manual settings. There was some contraption connected to the machine which supposedly measured your heart beat, but frankly, it looked like something used to torture Jack Bauer on “24.”

My hour began. The air was rancid (it seemed to be recycled air, like in an airplane) and there were two large fans blowing in the faces of everyone on “Treadmill Row.” I know that exercising is good for my cardiovascular system, but I was beginning to wonder if I could die from a respiratory infection from exercising in THIS gym. Next time, I’ll go to the nicer “Sport” gym in West Hollywood.

I don’t have an iPod to listen to, so I just spaced out. After what seemed like an hour of walking, I looked down and saw that I had only been on the treadmill for fifteen minutes. So, this is what they meant on Star Trek about a break in the space/time continuum. I was bored. I decided to sing something to myself. Something inspirational to keep me going, like:

We will we will
Rock you!
We will we will
Rock you!

And then, just as I got to the main lyrics of this Queen song, I couldn’t remember them. It was as if the exercise was affecting my brain. I remembered the catchy melody from countless Laker games, but what were the words? So, I spend the next few minutes coming up with alternative lyrics:

Buddy, gotta tread, gotta keep on
Movin’ in the gym cause ya promised them on your blog
This is boring as hell
I almost just fell
Smiling at the girl who once worked at Dell

We will we will
Rock you!
We will we will
Rock you!

And singing this over and over again amused me enough to make it through my first hour of exercise.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Drug for Premature Ejaculation

He Wasn’t a Tiger-Cat!

May 22, 2006 / / 45 Comments

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Look, it’s one thing if, while IM-ing with a female blogger, I tell her that “if we hook up, I’ll make love to you like no man has ever made love to you before.”  She’ll understand that I’m blowing some smoke in her face, being a typical man who just wants a piece of ass.

It’s another thing when you’re Los Angeles City Attorney Rocky Delgadillo, currently running for State Attorney General, and telling voters that you won a football scholarship to Harvard University, and also received an Academic All-American award there.

But now that the local media investigated his background, it appears that he never received an athletic scholarship from Harvard.  He got financial aid. 

“The Ivy League does not permit” athletic scholarships, said Robert Mitchell, a Harvard spokesman.

As for the All-American honor, Delgadillo actually got only an honorable mention for the award.

City attorney spokesman Jonathan Diamond said the words “honorable mention” inadvertently were left off Delgadillo’s city Web site.

Delgadilllo also has claimed a brief stint as a professional football player with a Candadian team, but even this is cloudy.

Delgadillo signed with the Hamilton Tiger-Cats of the Canadian Football League and reported to training camp but was cut before he could play, Brad Blank, a sports agent who represented Delgadillo, told the Times.

“He never played for the team, never claimed to. That was the extent of his stint as a professional football player, and he has never claimed otherwise,” said Roger Salazar, Delgadillo’s campaign spokesman.

Team spokesman Rom Halverson said he could find no record of Delgadillo being signed to play for the team and added, “if he didn’t play, he wasn’t a Tiger-Cat.”

Did I already mention that this man is running for State Attorney General?

I just sent him off this angry email:

Dear Mr. Delgadillo,

What kind of message do all these “white lies” send to our youth?  What message does this send me, a tax-paying citizen rewriting my resume for the fifth time before I mail it to someone at Warner Brothers?

Sincerely,

Neil Kramer
2006 – Editor-in-Chief of Internationally-Read Online Publication

Responsibilities include — content management, web design and template development, customer service, marketing, search engine optimization, social networking, photography, research, editing, audio production, visual conception, statistical interpretation, and scheduling. 

Hey, I’m not lying, am I?

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Bikini Girl Sells Body on Ebay

Meeting Barry at Canter’s

March 20, 2006 / / 42 Comments

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Barry is one of my oldest friends from New York.  We’ve known each other since elementary school.  Recently, he took on a  job which requires him to travel a lot.  This week brought him to Los Angeles.  I decided to meet him at Canter’s Deli, one of the oldest restaurants in town.   I thought it would remind him of our days hanging out in coffee shops back in Queens.   Sophia adores Barry, too, so she braved the rain to come along.

On the way there, Sophia and I got stuck in traffic.  Barry called from the deli:

"What’s going on here?  There’s a line around the corner like at a movie opening." 

"Are you sure you’re at the right place?"  I asked.   "Canter’s Deli?"

"I’m right in front.  The line’s enormous.  And half of the people on line look like they’re homeless."

"Homeless? At Canter’s?" asked Sophia.   "He must be jet-lagged."

"You have to see this place.  Are you sure Canter’s hasn’t been turned into a soup kitchen?"

Barry made no sense.  But when we got to Canter’s, and we saw what he was talking about.  There was a indeed a huge line for take-out and the local news was filming the crowd.

What the hell was going on?

It turns out that Canter’s was celebrating their 75th Anniversary with old-school prices:  a hot corned beef sandwich, pickle, potato salad, and chocolate rugala for 75 cents!

I’m not sure why everyone was waiting for take-out, because we got the same deal sitting in the restaurant — without the wait.  What a deal!

Sophia, Barry, and I chatted for a couple of hours about all sort of topics.  It was sort of like blogging without the computer… and with better coffee.

Barry and I told Sophia stories about our school days together.  Sophia asked if we ever have been back to any of our old schools.

Barry and I laughed.  A few years ago, during a trip to New York, I met with Barry.   We were in a sentimental mood and decided to drive by all our old schools — Jamaica High School, Parsons Junior High School, and P.S. 154.    The school looked pretty much the same — except much smaller.  What seemed like a massive structure back then, just looked tiny now.   We talked about how life seemed so much easier back then, with nothing to worry about except doing your homework.  We found a hole in the fence surrounding the school playground and crawled inside.  We sat on one of the benches (with the same initials still cut in!) and remembered the exciting games of Ringolevio that we used to play during lunchtime.

How did we learn how to play Ringolevio?  Who remembers.  Does anyone play it anymore?  It was actually a very complicated game, with all sorts of teamwork and strategy required.  According to Wikipedia:

Ringolevio (also known as Ringolario) is a game which may be played anywhere but which originates in the teeming streets of Depression era New York City. It one of the many variations of tag. It requires close team work and near-military strategy. In some quarters this game is known as Manhunt which is really another game with different rules.

Two sides are drawn up, roughly of even number. One side goes out. The other counts to some number like 300 and then goes looking for them.

Anyone on the pursuing side can catch anyone on the pursued side by grabbing hold of them and chanting "Ring-O-Levio 1-2-3" three times in a row. If the person pursued breaks free at any point during this brief recitation, the person is not caught. If caught, the pursuer takes the pursued to an area called the jail (the area was called the base in some variations).

Jail is any confined area, typically between two parked cars or bushes where members of the pursued team are accumulated. Any free member of the team that is out can at any time free all team members in jail by barging into the jail without being caught and shouting "Free all!" This means that all members of the team in jail are now free and have to be recaught.

As we sat there, we wondered how many of the guys we used to play it with are now REALLY in jail?

We were also glad to see that kids never really change, because near the "monkey-bars" were two Asian girls playing "catch" with a big ball.  It was great to see the old playground still being used.  We got all sentimental and watched the girls play, big smiles on our faces.

Then, Barry turned to me and said:

"You know, I’m looking at you grinning and I’m thinking – if anyone passes by and sees us sitting here, it’s going to look like we’re two pedophiles."

"Boy, I think you’re right.  Let’s get out of here, before the police pass by."

As our Ringolevio days quickly faded in our minds, we hurriedly left the school grounds, never to return to our old elementary school.

I guess it was time to grow up.

LA is so Laid Back

March 14, 2006 / / 78 Comments

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Do you remember that Seinfeld episode where they can’t find their car in the parking garage? 

I have one better.

Let’s backtrack to yesterday.  Sophia and I made up and my anxiety lessened.

“Do you want to go for dinner tonight?” she asks.

“Sure.”

“Oh, by the way, we’re also going out with Andrew and his mother.”

“No way.  I can’t handle him right now.”

“It’s his birthday.  We have to.”

My anxiety level shoots up three hundred percent.

You see, I’m a Zen Master of Serenity compared to Andrew.  He makes everyone nervous.  Sophia is his only friend.  Although he is basically a nice guy, he’s what they used to call “eccentric.”  He’s a 35 year old Korean-born artist whose only real enjoyment in life is taking photographs of bugs.   His photos are actually beautiful and artistic…   Andrew would be a very successful artist if only he didn’t always get into fights with gallery owners.  He’s brooding, sullen, and bad tempered.  But I did say he was nice, right?

We make plans to meet outside of my apartment building at 6:30. 

At 6:30, Sophia and I go outside and wait.  6:30.  6:45.  Where is he?  We get a phone call.  He’s on the side street, waiting at the driveway of the parking garage. 

“And hurry.”  he says.

We rush over and see that Andrew and his mother are sitting in a car, but not in front of MY building.  They are in the driveway of a parking garage of an apartment building ACROSS THE STREET. Not only are they waiting at the wrong place, but there’s a loud cacophony of honking horns.  It seems as if Andrew is trapped between the gate of the parking garage and some RESIDENT of that building, a college girl, who wants to drive in with her Mercedes.  She can’t move because Andrew can’t move.  And behind her are TWENTY cars trapped on Hauser Blvd., which is always crowded during rush hour. So she cannot move back to let Andrew back out.  Everyone is screaming at each other and honking.  Andrew is beet red and screaming:

“Fuck you!  Fuck You!  Fuck you!” 

Sophia and I jump into the car.   The Mercedes Girl opens her garage gate with her remote.

“I think she wants you to go in,” Sophia tells Andrew.

“I’m not going in.  I want to go backwards.”

“You can’t go backwards.  You’re trapped.  There’s a hundred cars behind us!”

Dear readers, have you noticed that so far, I haven’t said a word in this story.  Usually, I’m the main character of my own tales.  But this time, I was just sitting there wondering if my Tic Tac could be used as a placebo for Xanax.

The Mercedes Girl honks over and over. 

“What the hell does she want me to do?” Andrew cries.

“Go in and then we’ll come right out again.” says Sophia.

Andrew drives in.  Mercedes Girl drives by, shaking her head, angrily.

“Idiot!  Jerk!” she says.

Andrew begins to look like one of those cartoon characters that have steam coming out their head.   As Mercedes Girl parks in her spot, the gate closes, leaving us trapped inside.

“One of us has to talk to the girl,” says Sophia.

“I’ll do it,” volunteers Andrew’s mother.

Andrew’s mother heads over to Mercedes Girl.  We watch as Andrew’s mother and Mercedes Girl  talk it out.  They seem to be working out the situation.  Suddenly, Andrew jumps out and starts pacing in front of the car and twirling around like a dreidel.

“What’s going on with you, Andrew?” asks Sophia.

“She’s dissing my mother,” replies Andrew.

“I think you should get back into the car and let your mom get us out of here.” 

“No one talks to my mother like that.  Especially this bitch.”

“Andrew, c’mon, this whole thing is even sort of funny.  Just keep calm.”

“What is that bitch saying to my mother? Hey you — what are you saying to my mother?!”

“You were wrong!” says Mercedes Girl.  “How about apologizing?!”

“Never, you fucking bitch!  Who the fuck do you think you are, driving around in that Mercedes…”

“There’s no problem anymore, Andrew,” says his mother.  “She used to live in Seoul, too.  Just go back into the car.”

“You need to control you son, Miss.” says Mercedes Girl.  “He’s crazy.”

“You think just because you own a Mercedes that you’re better than me, you fucking…”

Sophia and I jump out of the car to calm him down.  Mercedes Girl starts walking away towards the door leading to her apartment building’s lobby.

“Fuck you!” Mercedes Girl screams at Andrew, then turns to all of us.  “Fuck all of you!”

Mercedes Girl enters her lobby and locks the door behind her, purposely leaving us behind with no way to get out.

We are trapped in the parking garage of someone else’s apartment building.

Sophia and I look at each other.  Surely, the girl is going to come back and let us out of the garage. 

She doesn’t.

We drive to the gate, hoping that it will open automatically .

It doesn’t.

We see a phone on the other side of the gate. 

“Perfect!” says Sophia.  “We can call the manager.”

But we need a key to get to the other side.

Sophia and I look at each other.  Surely, someone will be either coming or leaving the building pretty soon.

An hour passes.  

We are all sitting in  the car, the engine running, ready to sneak out… as soon as someone opens the gate.   But no one is coming or going.    We can’t leave by car.   We can’t leave by foot.   We don’t know who to call.  We’re stuck. 

Sophia and I are now laughing at the absurdity of the situation.   Andrew sits stone-faced and hasn’t said a word to any of us.   But every few minutes he mumbles:

“Bitch… fucking bitch…”

Sophia and I try to cheer him up by saying that the whole scenario is hilarious.  We sing “Happy Birthday.”  He scowls.

Finally, Mercedes Girl reappears, carrying her remote for the garage.

“I’m going to let you out, but I want you to know you were wrong…  You should be more considerate…”

‘Yes, we were wrong,” says Sophia.  “You’re very kind to let us out.”

“Kind?!” screams Andrew. 

He has finally decided to talk.

“You’re nothing but a fucking…”

Andrew’s mother puts her hand over his mouth, muzzling him, so we could get the hell out of that garage — and finally go to dinner.

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