BAD


It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Mostly, however, it was the worst of times.

Hugh, you may say, don’t be such a Drama Queen. After all, you have your health, fame, fortune, each other, a cell phone. How do I know it’s been rough? Any conversation where you say “You should have seen the haircut on the Detective at the Hollywood Police Station” can not be full of good things. However, I digress.

I was stopped Thursday on the way to the Dog Park by the police because my registration on my car had expired. I’d put it off because I needed insurance information and one thing led to another and it was a stupid mistake. Per Network Standards, there was a Black Cop and a Hispanic Cop. They approached my Jeep with the B.C. standing back on the left in case I pulled out the Uzi.

“We stopped you because your registration has expired.” Duh. “May I see your Driver’s License?” I’ve previously mentioned my Issues with Authority Figures, especially ones wearing uniforms and carrying guns. I become an overly polite, flustered, Southern Debutante. It’s kinda gross.

“I’m so sorry, Officer. It’s my fault, I’ve been distracted and I just haven’t gotten around to it yet.” Oh, and I think I’m getting the vapors! Didn’t say that but it was on the table right after Crying.

He took my license and walked to their Squad car while the Black Cop still stood back and away from my Jeep. I assumed he was eying me suspiciously for quick action, so I began moving as if I were underwater. When the Hispanic Cop returned he dropped the Bomb.

“I’m afraid we have to impound your car.”

“Now?” Here? What about me and Polly? “We can call you a cab.” In LA you Call cabs, you don’t Hail them. I tentatively asked the officer if I could use my cell to phone a friend to come get me. I thought it best to let them know what I was doing, like you talk to a psychotic serial killer so they don’t flip. Thankfully my dear friend M. was available to rescue me and Polly.

“What’s that?”, the Black Cop asked when I took what I needed from inside. “Uh, it’s my iPod.” “May I see it?” Oh no, it’s really a bomb, pipe and stash kit, my iPod! As the tow truck arrived and they hooked up my car, Polly and I stood forlornly waiting for M. to arrive.
“We have alot to do here” the Hispanic Cop said. "Please move down the road and wait there.” So I walked ten feet away and watched as the Tow-ers drove away with my Jeep.
I desperately craved a Dunhill but discovered I’d left my lighter in my car. Now I panicked.

M. was a Godsend. She was sympathetic, patient and everything you need when you’re feeling overwhelmed. Plus she also smokes so I was allowed to franticly puff away without fear of chastisement. I needed to go re-register my car and then I could go claim it from the Impoundment place. Coincidentally M. had to go to the DMV the next day as well (Thank you Betty!) so we made plans to go together the following morning.

10.30 AM - We arrive at the DMV which for some odd reason is the Ellis Island of Los Angeles. Screaming babies, crowds, a multitude of languages. All this is offset by the Hollywood Stars of Fame Sidewalk directly in front which in a superb ironic twist has the stars of Orson Welles and Fritz Lang. On the walls inside are black and white head shots of ancient movie stars like Judy Garland, Marlena Dietrich and Cary Grant. I wondered if anyone there besides me actually knew who the photos are. We stand in line to get a number then sit and wait to be called. Actually it’s a number and a letter which makes things even more illogical. They may call the letter/number before you (I had B067) but then there may be a huge run of Cs and Ds and Js. We appropriately decided A was for Assholes, B for Buttheads, J for Jerkoffs and C for Cunty Cunt Cunts.

11.30 - After a thorough discussion about Ballet Slippers, we moved on to the skintight jogging pants worn by the 300 pound woman standing at the counter. Your eyes were forcibly drawn to the deep chasm between her buttcheeks.

12.00 - My letter/number was finally called. It was apparently the first day for the clerk who helped me. She didn’t even ask about my insurance which was the whole reason for my delinquency in the first place. It took me about 3 minutes to get my new sticker.

12.30 - M. is finally helped and receives new license plates to replace one of hers that was stolen. We tentatively screw one on the back of her VW and go to Pep Boys to ask them help us put the other one on.

12.45 - The Pep Boys mechanic says we need a screwdriver (duh) but M. will have to buy the front plate parts at a dealer (?). He then disappears never to return. We decide to hit Rite-Aid next where M. buys a screwdriver and secures the plate in the back.

1.00 - M. drops me off at the Auto Impoundment Lot. While waiting, I look through the fence like I’m at the Pound to pick up my lost dog. The woman at the window tells me I need to go to the Police Station for a Release before I can claim my car. Fortunately, M. had not gotten far and she returns and we go to the Hollywood Police Station.

1.30 - Inside the Police Station we wait in a small room that gradually fills with other people apparently also getting their cars. It’s funny how you feel more vulnerable in a Police Station when logically you should feel safer. There is one poor detective to help us and he has the aforementioned haircut - a buzzcut/flattop with a part down the middle with the short hairs fanning away from the center. Not unlike the sweatpant’s crack of the woman at the DMV, something about it seemed vaguely obscene. There are movie posters in the Police Station, The General’s Daughter starring John Travolta being one of them. This could have either been Army-Envy on the part of the police or a subtle message that They consider Themselves soldiers against Us. Either way, I didn’t want to go there.

A Mexican couple entered and the woman proceeded to act like she was going to cut in line. M. says “If she thinks she’s cutting ahead, I may hurt her” while making a little kicking motion, bringing her ballet slipper dangerously close to the woman’s leg. The woman saw her and I quickly stretched my legs too. Ah yeah, our legs sure need a good, quick stretch! Boy Howdy! I certainly had no interest in an American/Mexican catfight so I quickly stood and walked to the counter. Sgt. Haircut suspiciously looked over my registration before handing me the proper papers.

2.00 - Back at the Impoundment Center, I paid (alot) and they finally told me to step to The Gate where someone would take me to my car. The gate opens and I hop in a golf cart next to a worker before we zip away to the roof. This was actually kind of cool. How often do you ride really fast in a golf cart? I was very tempted to wave my hands and scream weee!!! Finally I’m at my Jeep, he tells me the keys are in the car, I get in and... the battery is dead. I sit for a moment thinking about watching the ground fly so close to me in the golf cart.

Once home, I was exhausted. It wasn’t just the sitting and the waiting and the frustration, it was also all that Negative Energy. The Oppression. The “You’re a bad person and we don’t care because we don’t have to” of it all. I’m incredibly lucky to have had a Partner In Crime for the day. Man, we laughed. We talked about everything. There was the golf cart ride.

Maybe not the worst of times.

3:19:56 PM    sro home /