My Hollywood Gun -- Part II
January 09, 2007
My Hollywood Gun, Part II: The Get-a-Way
Weapons.
I have to protect my family.
I'm pretty sure the mob outside are dead serious about breaking in and getting down to serious violence.
Not to mention "liberating" some pretty major karats; at the reception, I noticed some diamonds whose glitter could induce siezures; watches: I saw at least a dozen Cartier Tanks; and I cannot count the Rolexes, and no doubt there's plenty of walking-around cash to steal. This is, afterall, an affluent Hollywood crowd.
I have to protect my family.
In my pocket, as always, a little Swiss Army Knife.
"I've never yet seen an eyeball who felt that the Swiss Army knife was not a dangerous weapon."
This charming and somewhat gruesome comment, advice really, was given to me by an Israeli soldier, a commando who, one evening was listing for yours truly all the common, everyday objects that have lethal potential. My friend was a big fan of the ordinary Swiss Army Knife and all its nifty attachments.
So: it is pitch black, rioters are throwing stones at the theater, trying to break down the doors, and to make matters even worse, women and children are screaming in panic.
I feel like announcing: "People this shrieking does not help. Really it doesn't."
But, why bother? It's a mob mentality and I'm only interested in my family.
I'm busy formulating a plan, trying to figure out a way of escaping from this building before the mob breaks in, before they figure out a way of getting in through one of the numerous exit doors, so easy to crack open.
Interpolation:
Karen does not scream or yell.
Unnaturally calm is the love of my life. Even as stones--where do the rioters get these rocks?-- thwack sharply against the front doors, Karen does not even flinch.
It's almost eerie. Basically, everyone else is losing their collective minds, but Karen's body language and facial expressions just build into this magnificent wall of serene composure. Her posture goes taut, as if a steel rod is welded into her spine and molding her into a perfect Marine: Ten-chun! I have this really weird urge to lift her sleeve and seek out the Semper Fi tattoo. And then there's her lovely face. All the open and generous softness has receded and been replaced by a look of, well, the only way to describe her expression is --
-- have you ever seen those miltary paintings of 17th Century generals? You know those huge canvases where you get to see a full battle, say Austerlitz, or Waterloo, thousands of men are fighting, dying, blood and guts strewn about, rearing horses with eyes wide as saucers, but the General, the reason for the painting in the first place, well, he's usually sitting on his white horse, on a hill, watching the battle, and his expression conveys, determination, resolve, bravery, a self-assurance that tells the viewer: look believe me, I know exactly what I'm doing.
Anyway, that's what Karen looks like tonight.
"Karen," I whisper, "I think we should get to the car and --"
"I was thinking the same thing. Let's not wait around one minute longer."
I've been in love with Karen since fourth grade and only now come to the realization that she's one part Antigone -- and all Patton.
End Interpolation:
"Everybody, everybody! Attention, please! We cut the lights. We don't want them to be able to see inside. Do you understand? We shut down the power. Not them."
There is a collective buzz of relief as the Security Man makes this vital announcement.
"What are we supposed to do now?" People shout.
"We've called the police," comes the weak reply.
More nervous buzzing.
"Just wait for the police to arrive."
More rocks ping and bounce against the theater doors.
Offspring #2 is still in my arms, still glued to my hip, and though six-years old, she has regressed and jammed her thumb in her mouth; she trembles mightily, as if freezing.
There is no reason for us to talk, Karen and I, we edge our way to the staircase; we are not going to wait for the police. We are not going to sit here like victims as rocks come pelting our way, as the doors weaken and the barbarians stream in.
We are going to make our way down to the parking garage, jump into the car, and drive home. We are going to take our fate in our own hands. The cavalry is not going to come to our rescue.
"Where are you going?"
A rent-a-cop is posted at the staircase.
"To our car," I tell him.
"That's not a good idea, sir."
"We think it is."
"We've called the police."
"Where are they?"
He says nothing.
"How long before they come?"
"Any minute."
"What happens when they start throwing Molotov cocktails?"
He takes a deep breath.
"The police are coming," he insists, voice quavering.
"We're going to our car. You can't stop us."
He steps aside. Poor guy. He's trying to do his job, but he no longer knows what his job is.
Robert's Rules for Driving Through a Riot:
1. Do not stop for anyone or anything.
2. Not even to help someone. My first responsibility is to my family.
3. If they gather and try to blockade the car, drive straight through them. Pedal to metal.
4. If the car stalls, don't leave the car.
5. Unless the car is on fire.
These rules flashed through my mind in a split second.
A thin slip of light allows us to make our way down the garage stairwell.
"Look," says Ariel ZT'L, "Mommy has a flashlight."
The children are delighted.
Karen carries a lady-like backpack. It's something of a joke in the family that the backpack is magic. Whatever you need, whenever you need it, it's gonna be in the backpack.
Cautiously, looking for signs of the rioters hiding in the garage, we make our way to the car. I snap Offspring #2 into her car seat. Ariel too sits in the back. He is pale with fear.
As I start up the engine, I realize that I am drenched in sweat, my shirt clings to my body as if I had just gone swimming.
Karen reaches into the glove compartment, pulls out the Thomas Guide to Los Angeles.
"We may have to find a different route home," she says.
"Right."
I'm happy that we have this poweful Lexus with the eight cylinder engine. Gas guzzler, who cares. It's our Centurion now.
And as we cruise to the garage exit, my breath catches in my throat for there they are, a dozen rioters just waiting for someone to try and escape.
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