I am Threatened

Of cars and skin care products...

Until a week ago, I never had to dial 911. All of that changed one night when my good Samaritan nature took over and I was involved in a car chase with a classic Chevy pickup, a screaming woman, a useless 911 operator, and best of all, moisturizer.

Yes. Moisturizer. I don’t know what brand.

It’s a Thursday night. I figured it would be a good thing to get my grocery shopping done before my kickboxing lessons in Pasadena.

Now, Ralph’s was a little out of my way, in the wrong direction from the highway, so I decided it would be easier to cut through Hollywood and catch the 101 North to the 134, and... what the hell do you care, you don’t live out here.

Anyway.

Sunset Boulevard was giving me warning signs: <Major Work Near La Brea - find alternate route>. So I did. And then it happened.

I came up to a red light, about three cars back. This is on a two-lane road with a left turn lane at the intersection. To my left is a gas station. Directly in front of me, a huge Chevy pick up (had to be pre-1975, all steel and sharp corners), is attempting to squeeze into the left turn lane from a dead stop with another car about two inches in front of it. The back half of the truck sits in my lane. So of course, the light turns green. I’m stuck behind the truck.

I try to go around. In Los Angeles, this means taking your life into your own hands, for while the posted speed limit in urban residential areas may by 30MPH, any Angelino will tell you those are “optional speeds posted for careful people”, and only then if you can get them off of their phones, get them to stop putting on their make-up (and I was near West Hollywood, so this applies to both genders), etc.

A car blows through my escape lane. He’s kind enough to honk so I didn’t hit him. However, it’s a prolonged “What the Hell do you think you’re doing on MY road?!” honk, not an “excuse me, sir” honk.

Strike one for me...

By this time the light is red. The truck has fully moved into the left turn lane with no cars in front of it. I still have one car in front of me, so I’m even with the truck now. Which was odd, because the truck had nobody in front of it. The woman inside is looking around frantically, trying to find a street sign or a map...

She begins turning into the gas station. Halfway through this maneuver, she backs up. (Mind you, this is all taking place in real-time LA night traffic). But there’s a car back there.

And when they see the truck gunning for them, they honk, “excuse me!”, which turns into a “JEEBUS, THERE’S A CAR BACK HERE YOU M@THERF^CKER!!!” honk. The truck stops. The lady starts scrambling around in her cabin, looking at me, waving her arms. She rolls down her passenger window. I decide she needs directions or help of some kind, which I’ll gladly offer.

Strike two for me...

Now. I know the weather in California is dry. Apparently this lady wanted to make sure my car stayed fresh and soft. Or maybe she’s pissed off, thinking I was the motherhonker behind her. As the old baseball announcer Jack Buck might have said,
“We’ve got trouble tonight folks, and heeeere comes the moisturizer! Whoa Nelly!”

In a way, I feel closer to the entertainment industry. Yes, I can officially say I know what the stars of adult film and video feel, because there I was, watching white ropy jets of goo fly at my car. (Gross, I know, but you weren’t there. It was scary) I’ve been shot. I’ve been hit. She moisturized my car.

High school prank. Crazy beeyotch. Ah well, time for class.

Behind me, the fun was just getting started.

She’s chasing me. And screaming. And honking. This goes on for about three or four blocks. She stays about two feet behind me, swerving, honking, and screaming obscenities. Maybe she was an auto-rights activist: “You monster! Look how dry your car’s paint is!” Or maybe she was a long-range Mary Kay sniper. Sadly, I will never know.

The whole thing was absurd for several reasons. At every red light (and there were quite a few), the truck would stop, wait patiently, a little screaming but no honking or light flashing. She didn’t gun her engine, nothing. But as soon as we were at green, the chase was on again.

So I call 911 for a little service and protection. And I’m instantly met with the following reassurance:
“911 emergency. All circuits are currently busy. Please stay on the line and an operator will be with you soon.”

So I wait, and drive, and circle, trying to stay at legal speed while simultaneously pulling off some kind of incredible French Connection move that will separate me from the psycho. It doesn’t happen. So I’m now giving her the cheap 5-dollar tour of the nether regions of Hollywood. I’m talking the really good places like Grauman’s Chinese theater, the walk of fame, the new Border’s store on Vine, Amoeba Music, El Pollo Loco, everywhere. On hold with 911.

Then the operator comes on, and I explain my situation in terms slightly more dire than “help me, my car’s been moisturized!” She asks me to hold while she transfers me to LAPD.

Strike three for me.

LAPD comes on, and I explain the situation again as quickly as possible. She asks me where I am, and I tell her, thinking, “Yay! Help is on the way!”

And I’m right. Sort of. Operator #2 asks me to pull over and get the license plate of the truck. I explain to her that I’m a bit concerned for:
the safety and structural integrity of my car
my personal safety,
the fact that she may have a higher caliber of lotion hidden under her seat.

She tells me, “Unless you stop, there’s not much I can do. I can’t send an officer out on the streets. I need a location.” And then she asks me, again, if I can get the license plate number. I assume this is so that they can avenge my corpse after she kills me and drives away.

I inform her the lady is two feet behind me with her brights on, and I can’t see. I’m not stopping because I don’t want to risk having my car vandalized or my life becoming a statistic. She suggests driving to a police station and gives me the nearest location: Sunset and Wilcox. I think, “Yay! I’m on the way to help!” I ask if I can stay on the line with her until I get there, to which she replies, “No sir, we can’t tie this line up. We need to take emergency phone calls.” I’m too frazzled at this point to debate the semantics of the word emergency, but I do tell her that I consider being chased by a large truck a bit of a problem.

By this time, I’m near the station. I think, “Yay! Help is on the way!” I ask her what I should do when I get there. She tells me to get out of my car and proceed inside. All well and good I think. But just to be safe, I ask her if she can radio ahead to let them know what’s coming their way. “I’m just a dispatcher sir. I can’t contact individual police stations”.

At this point, I begin to wish I was a member of the NRA. At least then, I could dive-roll out of my car and say something like “From my cold dead hands!” before being killed.

Which side of the street the station is on? She doesn’t know. Is there a parking lot? She doesn’t know. An emergency space? She doesn’t know. By this point, I’ve crossed the intersection of Sunset and Wilcox THREE TIMES without seeing a police station. (I actually went back in the daylight. Still haven’t found it.)

And God intervenes. At least, I think he does. The light turned yellow, I go, and the truck doesn’t. Just like on the news, chase over, no big finish. I go to my kickboxing class, stopping along the way for gas and to give my car a post-lotion cleanser (These are located where the gas station keeps its squeegees should you ever wish to pamper your ride).

I’d like to say I got to class and won my sparring matches with righteous anger. But basically, I got laughed at. And kicked. And punched. At least I had protective gear on.

And nobody came at me with a skin care product.