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My first day in my own LA apartment, straight from the Midwest. I was young, wide-eyed, and painfully naive. I knew LA was dark and dangerous—the riots and earthquakes that tore through the city just months before my move were a stark reminder that this was a Whole Different Kind of Place—but there’s a difference between knowing you’re supposed to be on your guard and actually being on your guard.
So there I was, not quite sure how I was going to get my couch into my new place. Enter Craig (not his real name, for reasons that will become obvious), who happened to be walking through the parking lot and stopped to help. He was an Oklahoma boy, living in LA to pursue his career in the medical field (again, I don’t want to give too much info here), and had played football for Oklahoma State just a few years back. A real Cowboy, then!
Craig picked up his end of the couch like it was nothing—which, to him, it likely was. As he helped me move the rest of my stuff, we struck up a conversation, and I found out about his wife, son, dog… all so normal. So unassuming.
Flash forward maybe four years and Craig is riding in my car, criticizing my driving, trying to get me to pass in the breakdown lane to get him to the pharmacy to get his next batch of pain pills. His own license has been revoked, and his wife took the boy and walked out weeks ago. This was the late 90s, and no one was talking about the opioid crisis—and I have no idea what sort of meds this guy was on. But his career as a college athlete, while piling on huge slabs of muscle, had also turned his spinal column into a stack of Funyuns. The guy was in a bad way.
Next we have Jerome (not his real name, for reasons that will become even more obvious than Craig), who helped me with my next move… from my first, tiny apartment to my second, roomier apartment in the same complex. Jerome was a postal employee, and loved to sing. He loved to write songs. And when he found out I had a music studio in my place—complete with a microphone—he was eager to ingratiate himself.
This one ended with Jerome showing up at my door unannounced late one night, with a very polite lady in tow—this was Janet (maybe her real name; we were introduced, but I don’t remember), another postal employee with whom he was attempting to have an affair. His own apartment being entirely inappropriate for the deed (mostly because his wife was there, asleep in the bed he would presumably be using), he showed up at my place and attempted to convince Janet we were roommates. Much furtive winking and a constant stream of increasingly desperate “no, no, this is really my place… isn’t it, Lee?” ensued.
I said this was how it ended with Jerome, but there is actually a coda to the story. Months after this fiasco, I get a call from the guy. He’s singing the National Anthem at some sporting event, and doesn’t know the words. He wants me to recite them to him, so that he can write them down for the gig.
Why call me? Who the fuck knows. This all happened before Google became a Thing, and in some people’s minds I’m just the guy who knows stuff.
