Point Doom (3 page)

Now, here I was, at forty-four years old, back exactly where I’d begun.

FOUR

A
s I was returning to Mom’s place in Malibu after the interview, driving up the Coast Highway, the northbound traffic was thick but moving pretty well and my head-thumping was only moderate. I was sipping from my third Starbucks double latte of the day, holding the cardboard cup between my legs as I alternately sipped and smoked, congratulating myself on getting a new job and a fresh start. I was determined to do well.

On the cassette player in Mom’s car I was listening to one of my favorite blues songs, an old Jimmy Reed number, “Me and My Baby in a ’60 Ford.”

If I did okay at the car sales job, if things worked out okay, in a few weeks I might be able to afford to rent my own apartment on the West Side of L.A. and attend normal, non-movie-star, non-Malibu-celebrity AA meetings.

In the Big Rock area, where the Coast Highway runs just above the ocean, a new yellow Porsche convertible with its top down cut in front of me so quickly that I was forced to hit my brakes and then swerve to avoid smacking the rear of the car the prick Porsche driver had just passed.

The act of slamming on my brakes caused my Starbucks latte’s top to pop open and its contents to spill out on my only pair of dress pants, soaking the crotch, the bottom of my white dress shirt, and the cloth seat under me.

I was immediately pissed off. I honked several times, then punched my gas pedal to catch up with the Porsche prick, but Mom’s three-cylinder turd reacted only by coughing and sputtering. The Porsche guy, wearing a black baseball cap and a black hoodie and sunglasses, was now a full car length ahead of me, still weaving in and out of traffic.

When I finally caught up and got his attention by honking, he sneered, then flashed me the one-finger salute, mouthing the words
Fuck you
as he cut off another car and changed lanes, moving ahead.

L.A. is notorious for road rage and I’d read somewhere that its citizens had been rated the most bad-tempered in America. People get aggressive in their cars all the time and wind up getting shot for their trouble. It wasn’t in my mind to hurt the guy, at least not at first. I just wanted to catch up and tell him to take it easy.

The sun was out and the northbound two-lane beach traffic was thick enough for me to keep the convertible in view. A mile or two farther up the highway, I finally caught up to the Porsche.

I honked several times and then, through my passenger window, yelled, “Hey, you almost caused an accident back there! Take it easy, for chrissake!”

The next thing I knew, a heavy aluminum traveling coffee mug was heaved at me and bounced off the side of my passenger door, just below my open window. Again, the one-finger salute and the mouthed words,
Fuck you, motherfucker!

I had to hit my brakes and slow down. This jerk was now over the line. Now he was intentionally trying to cause an accident!

Minutes later, when I passed Malibu Pier, the yellow Porsche was still in my sight, eight or ten cars ahead. It had just turned twelve o’clock on Mom’s Honda’s dash clock.

Half a mile later, at Cross Creek Road, I saw the convertible make a quick and dangerous right turn into a shopping mall, rolling through the red light. By the time I reached the intersection, the light had changed to red again. The Porsche was gone.

While I was waiting for the light to turn back to green I noticed that my hands were shaking from rage. Something inside me, some cog in my brain, had just snapped. It was like the old days in New York. It was him or me. I didn’t care how long it took or what I had to do, me and this asshole were going to settle this—face-to-face.

Finally, the light was green again and I hung a right also, turning into the U–shaped Cross Creek shopping mall, hoping—suspecting—that the convertible’s destination was a noon lunch appointment at one of the high-end eateries in the mall.

The Cross Creek Plaza isn’t that big: a movie theater, a Starbucks, and several swank designer shops and restaurants. I knew the area pretty well because I often stopped at Diesel Books to check out the new arrivals.

I maneuvered the Honda through the L–shaped blacktop lot, looking up and down the rows of cars. The yellow Porsche was nowhere in sight. My brain was now hammering itself against the inside of my skull and I was still buzzed with adrenaline rage, but I could sense myself gradually becoming calmer. Reason was slowly replacing anger. It’s just some spoiled L.A. asshole in a high-end ride, I told myself. You don’t need to bust someone up over this nonsense, car dent or no car dent. Jesus, JD, cut the guy a break, for chrissake! Use the Twelve Steps. Live and let live.

I pulled into a parking space and stopped the car and began to take deep breaths. A couple of minutes later I was better.

I decided to pack it in and was about to back out and turn for home when, just for the hell of it, I told myself to take one more shot and try Guido’s Restaurant on the other side of the plaza. The outside entrance to the restaurant is between the buildings but its parking lot is in back, behind the shopping center. Movie people and celebrities from the Malibu Colony come to Guido’s for lunch.

Pulling behind the plaza and seeing Guido’s in front of me, I spotted the yellow convertible again and congratulated myself for thinking that the Porsche guy must’ve been rushing to make a noon lunch appointment.

I watched as two busy kids in red jackets tucked spiffy cars into the valet park area.

The convertible’s top was still down and it was parked ten slots away from the restaurant’s front door.

I could feel anger returning. Screw it! This jerk has it coming. It was time to get even.

Since I knew where the Porsche prick was, I decided to give myself plenty of time to form a plan of attack. I pulled Mom’s Honda into a spot several rows away from the restaurant entrance, in the public parking area. This punk was going to get a nice surprise for almost causing a wreck, ruining my only decent pair of work pants, and denting my mother’s car with his metal coffee mug.

When I was sure no one was looking, I opened my trunk and removed one of the three quarts of 40-weight oil I kept in a cardboard box as backup. Mom’s shitwagon regularly used a quart every two days. Then, from my toolbox, I grabbed the silver metal oil funnel that I kept wrapped in a rag and jammed it into a new quart. After that, from the box, I located a folding tool with a leather punch. Then I tore off a handful of paper towels from a roll I also kept in the trunk.

I carried the oil can wrapped in the paper towels behind my back, out of view, as I walked down the row of high-end rides toward Guido’s entrance. The valet guys were busy working, parking a line of new arrivals, and didn’t notice me.

I waited until neither of them was near the yellow convertible. Then, leaning in and across so I wouldn’t trip the car alarm, I poured half of the oil on the seats and floor carpet. After that, ducking down, I circled the Porsche, my punch in my left hand, and jammed it into the side of each tire. I could have done more. A lot more. I could have slashed the seats and done electrical damage but I figured that a nice cleanup job and a tow-truck call for a couple of thousand dollars’ worth of tires made us even.

WHEN I ENTERED
the restaurant I noticed that my hands were shaking again. A pretty Asian hostess in heels approached me. She saw that I was carrying a quart can of oil wrapped in paper towels, then noticed my expression, and gave me a startled look. “No problem,” I said. “I’m not here to eat. I’m just talking to a customer.”

She stepped back, nodded, rolled her eyes, then turned to the couple in beach clothes who had come in behind me. “How many for lunch?” she chirped.

It took me a few seconds out in the main dining area to locate the Porsche motorist. His black hoodie was easy to pick out and he was sitting with two other people at a table. Both women.

Approaching the jerk, who was still wearing his heavy-framed sunglasses and cap, I noticed he and the women with him were eating salad. One of them had tattoos on both her arms and two or three lip piercings. Retro punk.

I waited until they stopped talking and looked up, thinking that maybe I was their waiter or something.

Without speaking, I first poured some of the oil on his salad, then trailed the dripping goo across the white tablecloth to his pants and sweatshirt. Then I pressed my oily hands against the guy’s chest, rubbing the oil in.

To my surprise I discovered that there were breasts behind the baggy sweatshirt. Good-sized breasts.

She—now I knew it was a she—lurched backward in her chair. A nice blob of the oil was running down the front of her and soaking into the seat cushion of her chair. “That’s for you, jerkoff,” I said. “I never forget someone who tries to kill me on the highway. And I always get even.”

Her face reddened but she didn’t speak.

She opened the zipper on the sweatshirt and peeled it away. Beneath her hoodie was a tight-fitting, white T over round, large, braless breasts.

When I finally noticed her hands, I saw that there were rings on at least three of the fingers. She had big hands for a woman.

“Go ahead, get up,” I said. “I’ll nail you right here! You think a yellow Porsche and bad attitude gives you the right to get crazy with people on the highway? Go ahead—get up, you psycho bitch!”

She didn’t stand up. Instead, she adjusted her sunglasses. She didn’t look scared either. “You grabbed me, motherfucker! That’s a serious mistake.”

As her friends watched, I poured the rest of the oil from the can into my hands, knocked her cap off, then smeared it on her hair and face. She tried to duck but I was moving too fast. Finally, she lurched back in her chair and it tipped over.

Now she was on her feet. When she spoke again, it was in an even tone. “You’re a dead man, bitch. That’s a promise.”

“Screw you, lady! You messed with the wrong guy today,” I yelled. “Now the score’s even!”

Heads were turning toward us from the tables nearby.

As I started to leave, two busboys and a beefy-looking guy in a cook’s apron were blocking my path toward the exit. The beefy guy was holding a heavy metal soup ladle—ready for trouble.

“Back off,” I snarled. “I’m leaving. If you don’t want to get hurt, just back off!”

They backed off.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER,
when I got back to Mom’s house, I was okay again. Grateful I hadn’t really hurt anyone.

Mom and Coco were outside on the patio in the sun and didn’t hear me come in. Without saying hello I went to the bathroom and took a shower. After the shower, standing naked at the refrigerator, I downed a quart of milk. Then, wrapped in one of Jimmy Fiorella’s old bathrobes, I went to my bedroom and called my sponsor, Southbay Bill, on my cell as I’d promised. I’d already decided not to share any of the details about what happened at the restaurant.

Bill was at work at his store. He owns a copy and printing business in Hollywood and when he talks about owning his own joint he always calls it “a gift of my sobriety.”

“Hey, Bill,” I said, “it’s JD. Can you talk?”

“Yeah, of course we can talk. But I gotta go if a customer comes in. I’m working the counter. It’s Friday and the girl’s on a coffee break.”

“So . . . guess what? I got the job.”

“Hey, congrats, JD. Nice work. God is good. Small miracle. I was praying for you. When do you start?”

“Tomorrow morning. I feel okay about it too. I really need the job.”

Then I added, “Look, Bill, I wanted to say thanks for your help. You were the one who suggested that I ask Woody about an opening at the dealership.”

Bill chuckled. “First things first, my man. God’s will and not my will. We take the action and leave the results up to the Big Shooter.”

“Well,” I said, “anyway, thanks again.”

But Bill wasn’t done. He had more spiritual input. “Speaking of miracles, I’ll share one with you. Want to hear how a Higher Power works in another recovering alcoholic’s life?”

“Sure. Okay,” I said, knowing that I was in for another of Bill’s spiritual AA harangues.

“My friend Stan. You know Stan. We always sit together at the Wednesday night meeting.”

“Sure . . . Stan. He’s got twenty-something years, like you. The bald guy.”

“Well, Stan has a bad back. He’s had laser surgery and he wears that metal brace ’n all. He’s had a rough time for the last few years with that back. Naturally, because he’s sober, he refuses to take any pain meds.”

“Hey, that’s a drag,” I said. “I didn’t know about Stan’s back, Bill.” And I didn’t give a rat’s dick if Stan had a bad back or not. I don’t like Stan. In my book Stan is a shithole, a long-time-sober condescending prick. Stan makes it a habit of calling me “sonny boy” at meetings and makes every effort to infect me with the feeling that I don’t know my ass from third base about sobriety and recovery.

“Well,” said Bill, “here’s the miracle: Stan is watching the evangelist guy, Joel Osteen, on the TV. He watches him every week. You listening here?”

“Front and center,” I said. But now I was also wondering to myself why in the hell I had to hear about Stan’s demented Jesus miracle.

“So Stan’s watching this preacher, like he does every week. And the guy is talking about the healing power of God. How many have been cured by their faith in a loving God and all. So Stan gets this idea—an inspiration. His idea is to put his hands on the TV screen while the preacher is talking.”

“Really?” I said. “No kidding. Stan actually put his hands on the TV screen?”

“Are you listening, JD?”

“Right. I’m listening.”

“From that second on, Stan has had no more back pain. That’s a miracle of faith! A product of the Twelve Steps of recovery.”

“Well, wow, no kidding, I don’t know what to say here.”

“The point is, my newcomer friend with twelve months and two weeks of abstinence from booze, that through the steps of Alcoholics Anonymous and faith in a God of your own understanding, miracles are achieved. A great change is possible if you apply yourself to this work and make a commitment to grow into a new man. That’s the reason I said what I just said.”