I was on the West Side of L.A. yesterday, taking care of some art bid-ness, when a rather odd experience came my way.
It was a perfect storm: I had to piss like a racehorse, my old car’s tank was on empty and I was lost because I had used my phone’s navigation system to the point of completely draining the battery. As I was lost in civilization, I kept heading down the road I was on, thinking a gas station would surely be around the bend.
I nearly forgot! There were a couple of helicopters buzzing about and cop cars kept racing around me, also headed in the same direction as I. But I didn’t give them much thought, as I was so intent on filling one tank (my car’s) and emptying another (my bladder).
I neared a major intersection in Marina Del Rey. Wait – let me put that another way. I was allowed to near the intersection, as in there wasn’t a single thing in the world to stop my progress.
Anyhoo, the left turn signal was red (and that’s where I wanted to go), so I slowed to a stop. As I did so, I looked over to the right and saw them – all those police cars. A ba-jillion police cars, to be precise. And standing beside each car were 2 police officers, guns drawn, pointed in my direction. What the f*%@?!?
I was screaming aloud, “What do I do? Don’t shoot me! What do I do?” Then the light turned green and I floored it. I swear, I was a good half mile away before I even thought about slowing down.
I finally happened upon a gas station and pulled in. As I filled the car’s tank with jittery hands, I realized I didn’t have to pee anymore. I think fear caused my body to absorb the urine into my bloodstream or something. That can’t be bad, I facetiously thought.
I have no idea what went down at that Marina Del Rey intersection, and I’ll probably never know. But I can tell you this: I do not like having double-ba-jillion guns pointed at me.
And that, friends, is my West Side Story.