The Cat from Hell

Hungover, tired as hell, damp from a shower, and dreading work, I opened the door to leave my apartment and heard a strange noise in the hallway.

"What is that strange noise?" I said to myself.

I perked my ears and listened closely, but didn't hear anything. I closed the door almost all the way, keeping my hand on the knob, and looked across the room at my sleepy-eyed girlfriend sitting up in bed, curious, confused.

"What's going on?"
"I heard a strange noise in the hallway. What do you think it is?"

I opened the door to get another listen and some sort of creature immediately shot through the crack like a bullet.

I jumped out of my shoes, onto the ceiling, and back into them. What was it? A diseased rat? Possum? Raccoon? Skunk? Feral dog?

As the faceless monster frantically darted around the apartment and my heartbeat worked its way back toward normal, I saw it was only a cat. I hate cats; they smell, I'm allergic, they're boring, arrogant, and rude. Would it bite me? Would it scratch me?


As I debated whether or not a squirrel or raccoon would have made a better foe, an unkempt middle-aged man stepped into the doorway and offered up some morning breath.

"I'm sorry. He's been a little crazy lately and he thinks he still lives here."

I recognized the man, Dennis, as the weird dude that lived in my apartment for years and years before moving into an identical apartment a mere two flights up. Even though we are probably more similar than I would like to admit--or maybe because of that fact--I was glad he decided not to cross the threshold and venture into my intimate space (it's an adorably/annoyingly small apartment).

When I toured my apartment...five years ago(?), trying to decided if the place was right for me, Dennis was in the throes of his big lazy move upstairs and pretty much all that remained were dozens upon dozens of milk crates stuffed with old records, stacked floor to ceiling along an entire wall. I'm a record collector myself, so you'd think I would think somebody who had tons of records would be cool, but these babies might as well have been yellowed newspapers--something about that gargantuan wall of musty records and its prominent location in the apartment screamed mentally-deranged loner pack-rat.


Based on that small bit of data, before I even met him, in my mind Dennis was a middle-aged hermitic freelance saxophone instructor or jazz music critic who decided years ago, maybe after his only girlfriend left him for their accountant, to hole up in an old brick building in Koreatown--probably since before the neighborhood was swallowed by the insatiable Korean monster and was still mostly Hispanic--smoking cigarettes with the shades drawn, never venturing outside save his midnight walks to the pleasantly uncrowded 24-hour grocery store and the ritualistic weekly moving of the ancient Volvo station wagon for street cleaning.

Not long after I moved into my apartment, I got a piece of Dennis' mail--which is the only reason I know his first name--and decided to give it to him by hand, since I knew where he lived and I was curious to see what he was like. Our neighborly interaction/intrusion of personal space lasted all of two seconds and did nothing but confirm my earlier impression about this guy's weirdness, reclusive nature, and potential for jazz saxophone instruction.

Dennis had long dirty-blond hair, wore tinted prescription glasses, didn't open the door more than 4 inches and never said a word when I politely handed him his mail and tried to make a bit of small talk (I hate small talk, but ya gotta do what ya gotta do).

To see this man standing inches from my face, at eight o'clock in the morning, years after our first/last meeting, seconds after being startled nearly to death by a crazed cat I never knew he had, and still stung by a hellacious hangover, was a bit much. I froze.

Luckily, my girlfriend leapt out of bed and corralled the cat before conversation between Dennis and I became necessary. Once the prickly pet was handed over and Dennis apologized for the intrusion, I nodded, closed the door, and took a breath.

"That cat scared the shit out of me!" I had to say out loud.

My girlfriend and I looked at each other as if we had both seen a ghost. Wishing to put the entire incident behind me, I opened the door for a third time, checked to make sure the coast was clear, and headed off to work, a bit closer to death than I was the last time I opened that portal to reality.

_

Saturday in LA

There's a homeless man outside, covered in carbuncles, walking an endless circle around our block, jabbering to whomever has a free ear and nothing better to do. He does this every day, never asking for money, but somehow always drunk or getting there.

I call him Barnacle Bill because I like to think of his face as the prow of a ship, content with its humble lot in life, wading through the muck day after day, doing as little as it takes to get by, patently unconcerned with trivial things like appearance, until the whole vessel suddenly falls to pieces one day, swallowed by the timeless sea, unacknowledged, relieved.

Like most fixtures in my neighborhood, Barnacle Bill is a lot friendlier since my girlfriend moved in and gave the fellas a little something to look at around these parts. He never used to say a word to me, but now he often interrupts his monologues to say 'Hi' as I walk past; I'd rather not think about what he says to my ladyfriend.

Even the workaholic bodega guy, Michael, has gotten friendlier. One day, Michael gave me $3 and change because he said his brother overcharged me for a bottle of vodka the day before; another time he gave me a bottle of Crown Royal and three Mexican Cokes for an IOU when my debit card wouldn't work. My girlfriend, meanwhile, not only gets handfuls of free Korean mystery candies and slightly lower prices, but also has her own private stash of Italian sodas.

Unwelcome friendliness is better than a knife to my throat, but in general I prefer to avoid the local flavor, to remain anonymous, despite my conceptual yearning for community. I suppose you have to draw the line somewhere, though--do I really want Barnacle Bill drinking a beer on my couch, in his pee-stained pants? Do I want to find out what goes on behind the curtain at the all-night Taco Psychic across the street?

I saw someone buy Barnacle Bill a beer from Michael's bodega once. I learned that Barnacle Bill only drinks good beer--Modelo--when somebody else is buying, some stir-crazy lonely soul angling for a sidewalk drinking buddy. On one such glorious evening, as she smoked on the fire escape above, Bill chatted up my girlfriend by trying to convince her that toucans live in the trees outside our building.


Phantom toucans aside, nature is everywhere out here, whether you want it or not. Confused fruit flies patrol the toaster oven, an alley cat minus a tail begs for male attention, and
the cockroach perched on my toothbrush shoots me daggers. Does he know something I don't?

Somewhere in the bowels of our building, a lap dog resumes its incessant barking and the shirtless Korean man in the building next door hocks his 400th loogie of the day. It's 7:30pm. "Welcome to the Wheel!"

There is comfort in regularity; there is also resignation.

_

The Lineup

March 17, 2008. Los Angeles.

This past Wednesday, I was supposed to be at the police station on Venice Boulevard at 5:30pm. I was late. I had forgotten it was so far away. And I had been dreading it all week, so it's not like I was in a hurry to get there.

The Detective on my case called to make sure I was on my way and I was surprised to hear how nonchalant he sounded; I had expected a reprimand of some kind, or at least a little sternness or something. Nothing--I might as well have been calling a friend to tell her I'd be five minutes late for drinks.

I parked right out front and approached the front door to the station. A large black woman blocked the doorway, on her way out, moving at a remarkably slow pace.

"We closed."

"Huh?" The police station is closed? How...hard to believe. I stood there for a second, planning my next move.

"You lookin' for the traffic school?"

"No..."

"Oh, you want the next door. That way."

"Thanks."

I walked over to the next set of doors and they clearly led to the same wing that was now evidently ‘closed.’ I looked around a series of obstructing columns and saw another set of doors. A handful of schoolchildren stood in front of them. White lettering informed me to USE OTHER DOORS. I kept walking in the same direction, to find more and more doors. Police cadets were lined up in formation along the walkway. They looked at me funny. There was such a random assortment of people buzzing around that I felt like I was on a movie set, where there is always a far-too-convenient assortment of people buzzing around, to make every scene more 'dynamic.' This did not feel like a real police station at all; I was getting creeped out. Where the hell was the main entrance?

Although I hadn’t done anything wrong, I was definitely feeling nervous. Walking into the hornets' nest, as it were. As a career sinner--at least in the eyes of the law--I am never happy to see cops, even when they're just innocently passing by, doing their jobs to keep me safe or whatever. I always expect them to catch me absentmindedly jaywalking or driving two miles over the speed limit, forgetting I had an open bottle of liquor in the back of my car, peeing in public, driving on an out-of-state license despite the fact that I've lived in LA for four years...you get the point. There’s always something.

Sometimes I get so nervous when a cop drives behind me, even while 100% sober, that I actually envision running somebody over while secretly watching my rearview mirror the whole time. This makes me even more nervous behind the wheel and, thus, increases its potential reality. I'd feel horrible. I'd go to jail. It'd be awful. And, to top it off, everybody would think I was stupid. I can hear the raspy, mocking voice of my psychopathic cellmate now:

"You ran somebody over while a cop was tailin’ ya?! Jesus, listen kid--if you're gonna run somebody over, do it when there ain't no COPS around...idiot. Now let me borrow your toe for a second..."

Were they going to smell something on me? Find something on me? Shit--I didn't even check my pockets! I even check my pockets and luggage with special care when I go to the airport, but I don't think of it when I'm going into a police station? Idiot! I'm not sure what would have been in my pockets, but if there WAS something in them, and I walked straight into a police station with it on me, and they searched me or something, as a standard procedure, and I got caught, I'd feel pretty stupid. I could see the headline:

"Man arrested after walking into police station for routine lineup with unlicensed firearm and kilo of heroin absent-mindedly duct-taped to thigh. 'I forgot they were there!' Moron says."

This is how nervous this lineup had made me. Why was I nervous when I had done nothing wrong? I didn't think I could identify either of the guys who robbed me.

Now, I'm normally a pretty observant fellow, which is partly why this story is so long, but that night my mind was racing too fast in too many directions. I was simply walking home from where I parked my car and then--WHAM--I was suddenly being robbed! Right across the street from my building! On one of the biggest/busiest streets in Los Angeles! I was freaking out. I was wondering if they had a gun, if they were going to kill me, if I should try to run away--I wasn't checking my assailants' faces for birthmarks and cheekbone prominence.

I never thought this ‘lineup’ situation would arise--how often is a suspect in a mugging actually apprehended? Yet, in this particular case, the police department investigated so thoroughly that they actually had a suspect in custody, without any help from me, who thought stupidly that it could not, would not be done.

Here we were. They got him. If I couldn't identify him, he could be set free; all that hard work, ON MY BEHALF, for naught. The cops left wondering why they even bother trying to help, when stupid people like me can't even do a simple thing like recognize the guy that robbed them. And so, my inability to identify said criminal might result in that criminal being on the loose once more. A criminal with my home address and apartment number (and cell phone, iPod, credit cards, etc). A criminal that might be a little pissed off about spending a month getting pushed around by 'the man' in the county jail. I almost wished that he had never been caught.

I was sweating. I was looking around and couldn't help but feel like I was in Paul Verhoeven's Detroit. Was this the police station he used for Robocop? It sure looked like it. The paint on the doorjamb seemed fifty years old, yet the station looked modern in design. Everything was hyper-institutional, drab, dirty, smelly, WORN. I expected a laser beam fired by a malfunctioning robot to end my days at any moment.

Instead, I walked into what had to be the main door, because there were none left, and a friendly officer standing behind the desk smiled at me and asked me if he could help. He looked at me funny. He was thinking hard; I could see it in his eyes.

"Wait a minute--didn't I do a report on you?"

I recognized him instantly; he was the officer who spent an hour taking down my story, and repeatedly got almost every detail wrong, including something as simple as the location of the incident, but was so genuinely kind I didn't have the heart to tell him, because it's not like they'd ever catch the guys, right, so who cared?

"Yeah, I remember you, too."

"Charlie, right?"

"Yeah. Good memory."

"Yep--I never forget a face."

He smiled broadly, and even chuckled, proud of his memory. I believed him--how in the world did he remember me? Was I his only report? His first? He did seem new at it.

"Hey--you ever go to court for your case?"

"No. But that's why I'm here. I'm here for a lineup. With Detective Sang."

"Oh, oh, yeah. The lineup. He's waiting for you."

Detective Sang came out from the back and ushered me inside the nerve center of the police station without saying a word. Two men in their fifties followed me in. I was confused. One of them spoke:

"All of us?"

"Yeah. You're all involved in the case."

What? Three of us? All robbed by the same guy? I guess that made him easier to catch, and more worthwhile to spend the time investigating. Maybe they'll know what he looks like.

I began to feel more at ease; the burden wasn't entirely on my shoulders anymore.

Detective Sang--never has the word ‘doofus’ seemed so appropriate when describing someone--slouched his way through an enormous room filled with cubicles, his head bobbing listlessly from side to side as he walked. I followed, eyes open in wonder. 'This is where it all happens,' I thought to myself. Signs hung from the ceiling, denoting certain clusters of desks as "HOMICIDE," "ROBBERY," etc. Pictures of officers' loved ones adorned their cubicles. Folders, papers, books, clutter everywhere. I was reminded of brief glimpses into the faculty offices at my high school.

Detective Sang retrieved car keys and a sportcoat from his cubicle. He told the officer across from him, who was in the middle of a phone call, that he couldn't find an important file and to see if he could find it for him while he was gone. The other detective said some other guy probably took it off Det. Sang's desk. I hoped it wasn't about our case; it wasn't.

We left through a back door and climbed into an unmarked car.

I rode in the back, behind Det. Sang. I instinctively avoided eye contact with the other two victims. I also didn't speak. I wasn't sure why, but I also wasn’t sure what I should say and do, and I figured I was entitled to that behavior, 'having gone through what I've been through,' and all. Hell, for all the other two guys knew, my life had completely crumbled to pieces as a result of the robbery and today was a very difficult, potentially cathartic, experience for me, and I needed to psych myself up for it and not be distracted by banal conversations with three middle-aged men I didn't know and didn't necessarily ever want to know. I thought about this and liked the element of mystery involved, so I stuck to it even when my social instincts screamed, ‘SPEAK! Don’t be so unfriendly!’

Instead of talking, I listened.

The first thing Det. Sang told us was that we should talk about anything BUT the case, so as not to influence our individual opinions of what the guy looked like. So, instead, I listened as Det. Sang talked in excruciating detail about some TV show I've never watched, but that apparently the other two men had watched every episode of--‘because their wives love it.’ It's a show about the nitty gritty of crime investigation, as far as I could gather--morgues, coroners' laboratories, etc. It sounded disgusting, but its existence makes total sense in these forensic-scientist-as-run-of-the-mill-TV-hero days.

Exhausting this topic, Det. Sang transitioned into a couple tremendously long, boring, and revolting stories about his own various experiences with rotting corpses. I looked out the window and tried not to puke as his descriptions got more and more detailed, but never actually interesting; let's put it this way--he is not and will never be a storyteller. The only interesting thing he said all day was that LA has only 9,000 police officers, whereas New York has 30-40,000 for a smaller area. I knew we were greatly understaffed, but not to that degree; it explains a lot. Like why everybody can speed like maniacs with little fear of getting caught--all the cops are too busy chasing serious criminals to worry about little things like speeding.

I noticed we were driving to downtown LA, which struck me as odd, but I didn't say anything. I also thought it odd that I never asked where we were going, but, whatever, it’s not like it would have mattered. I was in their hands, and here we were. Roll with it.

It being rush hour, the drive was long, and there was plenty more time to talk. The man riding shotgun revealed, when asked if he grew up in LA, that he was Filipino, born and raised. It turns out that Det. Sang's wife is “Filipina,” so he then started rambling on about different towns he'd been to when they visited the Philippines, and his opinion of them, as well as his opinion of the Philippines and Filipinos in general. The man sitting beside me, who had tattoos visible on his forearms and looked rather worse for wear, chimed in that he had been to the Philippines twice. Evidently his band toured army bases at some point in the vague past. I was the only one in the car who had not visited the Philippines, which struck me as odd when I considered the random assortment of people gathered inside it today.

This fact certainly aided me in my quest to remain silent, I'll say that much.

I smiled to myself, wondering what they must think of me. Did they think I was some kind of iceman, who never talks to anybody because I think they're all idiots? Did they think I was just shy, waiting for the right topic to be broached before I chimed in and joined the fray? Did they think I was mute? I could tell they were thinking about me--the feeling was palpable in the stale air of the bouncing, nausea-inducing cop car, but I liked it that way. I liked the mystery. I kept my mouth shut.

I listened to the three of them talk about the unrivaled dominance of Filipinos in the Asian music industry--evidently nearly every working band in Asia consists of Filipino musicians, which I did not know, but is now a fact I have in my pocket--and heard one interesting story about a singer who was shot and killed onstage for singing off-key during a concert in the Philippines.

This story immediately reminded me of the Columbian defender who was killed after his own-goal resulted not only in his nation's first-round elimination in the 1994 World Cup, but also allowed for the advancement of the much-hated United States national team.

Several wealthy, predictably-intemperate drug lords lost a lot of money as a result, and so:

"On July 2, 1994, [Andres] Escobar was shot outside ‘El Indio’ bar, located in a Medellín suburb. According to Escobar's girlfriend, the killer shouted ‘Gooooooooooooool!’ (mimicking South American sporting commentators for their calls after a goal is scored) for each of the 12 bullets fired."

 (courtesy wikipedia.org)

[Editor's Note: Please think about this. Do you know how long it would take somebody to shout "Gooooooooooooool!" TWELVE TIMES? And nobody stopped him until he emptied his entire clip...]

With this in mind, I thought about speaking for the first time. I thought about saying something clever, like "I guess Filipinos are as passionate about music as Columbians are for their fútbol." But I didn't. I chose to maintain my silence, which is probably for the best since it wasn't that witty. I tossed the sentence around for a while in my head, reconsidering my silence at every turn, thinking it might be an ideal moment to stop being rude. I figured these guys would forgive me the lengthy space between ‘Filipino musician’ story and my Columbian reference, since they seemed to hunger for the sound of my voice for any reason, worried about what my silence might mean, etc.

After a long stretch of dead air, I almost gave in and uttered a sound, but figured far too much time had passed and it would be weird to bring the topic up again. Besides, I was enjoying my role as the quiet, mysterious outsider too much. I like unnerving people in general, but especially if I am able to do so by doing absolutely nothing.

I think Detective Sang picked up on this and turned himself completely around, while driving, to ask me if I had to leave work early to be here today.

Unable to avoid this direct address, I told him I had the day off and everybody was visibly surprised.

"Really?"

"Wow..."

"Yeah. I work freelance...so...I have a lot of days where I don't work."

They seemed suspicious. Why would I not have to work on a Wednesday?

"I do film and event production."

Now it made sense--and everybody got really excited. People not in the industry always do, because they don't realize how mundane the work is on a day-to-day basis. I tried to calm them down, telling them I work mostly on commercials, which usually works, but then I remembered the last commercial I worked on--where we blew up a car on a residential street in a poor neighborhood (for some reason, they always choose the poor neighborhoods...). I decided to give 'em a rise and told them about it. They loved it. I went on.

"Glass went everywhere and the hood flew off over the houses, landed on somebody's roof. Could've killed somebody--it was incredibly dangerous."

I was now the center of attention. I revealed that I also work on large events a few times a year. Detective Sang turned around to face me again.

"Have you ever thought about working for the city? You know, the Cultural Department has people on staff that run the events the city puts on. Real big events."

"No...I've...never thought about that..."

Lord. Help! I immediately had flashbacks to every office job I ever had, which--no matter where it was--always involved fat middle-aged women talking endlessly about their cats' most recent operations.

I shuttered at the thought and tried to change the subject, informing them that I also write in my ample free time. This also excited them. Everybody has a script idea they've tossed around, everybody hears the rags-to-riches Ben Affleck-Matt Damon/Diablo Cody stories and retains hope they will one day conquer Hollywood, so I braced for the worst. Luckily, though, it seems these were the only three people in LA that had no desire to write a script and so I relaxed. The aged rock'n'roller informed me he works for CAA, the titan of talent agencies. I was confused-he didn't look the type. He had the shakes, quite frankly. And he lives in MY neighborhood. And he's over the age of forty. Turned out he works nights, putting covers on scripts.

"I got lucky--I was working there as a temp and they needed somebody full time, so I got the job. Been there ten years."

My heart sank. I had to look away. This dude, who is as old as my dad, who earlier was telling everybody about a TV show he used to watch as a kid--IN THE FIFTIES--was not only temping, but then felt LUCKY to be promoted to the shittiest 'staff' job in the industry. (Trust me, the mailroom positions are above this one--mailroom employees often have law degrees...it’s where you are forced to start out.) AND, he has done it for TEN YEARS? GodDAMN this man is never gonna give up on his music, at any cost. It was at once admirable and miserably depressing. I don't want to be him in 25 years. I don't. I promise. Please kill me first.

We finally pulled into the LA County Jail downtown. It's a sprawling complex. Very institutional, like an Eastern-bloc university campus. The inside carries over the theme. The lobby was very Modern Times/Art Deco/Soviet. Busts of Stalin would not have been out of place.

Waiting for us in the lobby were three people: the female Defense Attorney and two more-iconic-looking detectives. Slap a couple fedoras on 'em and they coulda been in LA Confidential. Every man in the room checked out the Defense Attorney--on the sly of course--many, many times as we waited for a photographer to show up. I felt sorry for her. She knew it was happening, but it's not like she could do anything about it. I'm sure it always happens--this woman hangs out in PRISONS, for Christ's sake. And she had a nice ass, so, you know, there it is. The fact that she was only marginally attractive is irrelevant. You take what you can get around here, in this female desert that is the County Jail, and it's not like all these men standing in the lobby had anything more pressing to focus on for the moment. Maybe she likes the attention (she was wearing tight pants...). Maybe she uses it to her advantage sometimes. Who knows? Women are so mysterious, aren't they? [Sometimes. -Ed]

Meanwhile, as we all surreptitiously checked-out the Defense Attorney, the cops grumbled about paperwork and overtime, per usual. I realized this is a quality they share with Grips, Electricians, and Camera Assistants in the film industry--always griping. The two more manly detectives wanted to know if Det. Sang thought they should get overtime for 'staying late on this one.' I tuned out and went to the bathroom to avoid having to hear, or get dragged into, any more chit-chat. I hate chit-chat.

When I returned to the lobby, the photographer had shown up and we were led through the secure doorway, into a hallway that immediately reminded me of high school. Trophy cases lined the walls, as did posters advertising fundraising campaigns and softball team practice schedules and such. The paint was drab and old, the linoleum floor had the same faux-marble pattern, the fluorescent lighting cast a greenish pall over everything. We stopped outside a door and waited. I looked around. A sweaty football-player-type left what must have been the weight room and said 'hey' to some other guy, on his way to the showers. We might as well have been in the hallway outside my high school gymnasium.

"Right this way, folks."

The four of us were led into a room resembling a small college lecture hall. There were about 80-100 seats. I can't imagine this scale would ever be necessary.

"Okay, Marty--bring in the 80 people who were robbed by this guy. They all have to see the lineup at the same time, for some reason."

"Yes, sir--we'll use the big room!"

We, the three victims, were led to the front row and told to leave an empty seat between us as we sat down. We did. One of the iconic detectives sat down on an elevated stage up front and spoke. His partner handed us each a blank form, a clip-less clipboard, and a pen.

"I'm Detective Murray and this is my partner, Detective Smith. We are here today to run the lineup; we don't know anything about your case, so we are unbiased. Now, have any of you ever done a lineup before?"

We all shook our heads no.

"Have you seen it on TV?"

Before we could even answer, he smiled, nodded knowingly, and continued speaking.

"Well, it's exactly like it is on TV."

Weird. Det. Sang had said the exact same thing on the ride over here. Is that really their official line? He continued:

"When we turn out the lights in here, and turn on the lights in there, this becomes a two-way mirror. You will see six men in front of you; all they will see is themselves in a mirror. You might see them fixing their hair or picking their teeth, because they're looking into a mirror. They can't see you."

I thought to myself, 'Yeah, but it's not like they don't know we're HERE, on the other side of the mirror, looking at them. It's not like they think they're being led into the bathroom for a group nose-pick before prison picture day or something.' I wondered if they would make faces at us, try to scare us or whatever. I pictured myself in this thug's shoes, or any of the other thugs' shoes, for that matter, and I could see myself confrontationally mouthing the words, 'I will kill you' and smiling maniacally. Intimidation, baby! It's worked for the mob for how long now? The detective went on:

"They will all be wearing a number from 1 to 6. If you ever need to look more closely at one of them, please come up to the stage and do one of two things: either walk slowly all the way down the black line, past all of them at the same speed, or move forward, up to the glass, and look closely at each one of them, so as not to influence the others' decisions. And if you have any questions, please raise your hand and either I or my partner will pull you aside and answer them in private, so as not to influence the others."

He said 'in-FLU-ence.' Both times. It bothered me, but I let it go.

Det. Murray told us how to fill out the form and asked if we had any questions. We did not.

"Alright, here we go."

He turned the lights off in the auditorium and turned the lights on in the lineup room. I was shocked at how close, small, and well-lit it was. I mean, I understand the concept of the two-way mirror, but it was still pretty surprising to see the reality of this situation in person. It was like a brightly-illuminated department store window at Christmastime.

'Which man do you want, honey?'

'That one!'

'Are you sure? Are you sure that's the one you want Santa to bring you? The scary-looking Hispanic guy with a mustache and knife-scars all over his face? The one who's clearly killed a man and gotten away with it? Are you sure you don't want a pony instead? Okay...I'll let Santa know...'

The men filtered in. It was surreal. It was so surreal that I just had to say, 'It was so surreal.' It was--there is no other word to accurately describe the feeling that washed over me immediately. It was like having an out-of-body experience; I was watching myself sit in this room watching this unfold.

Six huge Hispanic men in matching outfits, with numbers hanging around their necks, trudged in and faced forward. They wore yellow t-shirts that had the word 'LINEUP' printed on the back. I wondered whose job it was to design those, how many times they had to be redesigned, how many people had to approve the design in meetings, how many they had to order, how often they had to replace them, whether or not jail employees wear them out and about--as a joke, why they chose yellow, etc. Then I told the voice in my head to shut up and pay attention.

I looked them all in the eyes. They all looked like they had killed somebody, or at least tried to. They all looked overweight--gut-heavy, broad--which did not match with my memory of either of the two men who robbed me. They all looked guilty. Most surprisingly, they all looked SCARED. All of them. So scared that I have never seen six men with better posture, six men who maintained such rigidly identical body positions, six men who so perfectly executed sometimes-vague instructions dictated to them by the disembodied voice of 'the law.' Whichever five guys were not the guy who robbed me were all pulled from the prison population, so I'm sure they all had a right to be scared--they were all IN PRISON, getting abused by fellow inmates and guards, deprived of almost everything enjoyable in life, etc. I knew all this, in theory, of course, but I was still surprised to see how much it showed on their faces, in their body language. They did not move a muscle, their posture was perfect, their hands hung at their sides at an irregular, uncomfortable, uniform angle; their eyes screamed, "I AM FUCKED! I AM FUCKED! OH, HOLY FUCK--I AM FUCKED! DON’T LET IT SHOW! OH, FUCK! I CAN’T HELP MYSELF--I’M FUCKED! I’M SO FUCKED!"

Det. Smith was standing on the stage, on our side of the two-way mirror, barking tried-and-true commands into a wall-mounted microphone that, for some reason, had a faded, discolored windscreen on it. The windscreen looked like those faded old Nerf balls you would sometimes see on the side of the highway, dropped by misbehaving children, faded by the sun, as you were taking an emergency piss on a family vacation, hoping nobody could see your penis. It grossed me out.

"Number One, step forward. Turn to your left one quarter turn. Walk to the wall. Turn around. Walk to the middle of the room. Turn to your left one quarter turn. Look up. Look down. Turn around. Return to your number."

He repeated this procedure with each of the six men. My time was therefore predictably finite--as soon as he finished with the first one, we were 1/6th of the way finished. Shit--not much time. Who is it? What's the answer? Hurry!

I eliminated the last three from contention immediately, but then wondered if that was only because the other three were the ones closest to me. No, I confirmed, it was because they didn't look right. I looked at the first three again. The middle one looked almost black, which made me think that maybe the 'black' guy I got the best look at during the robbery was actually a very dark Hispanic man with a hood pulled over his hair. This might explain why the police, and everybody else I've recounted the story to has been surprised that a Black guy and an Hispanic guy would work together. Evidently, as I've also learned from paying somewhat close attention to the Obama campaign, blacks and Hispanics hate each other.

This realization did not instill much confidence in my observational skills--I got even more nervous. Regardless of the black/Hispanic dynamic, though, this guy simply seemed too big to be the guy that robbed me. The robber had seemed skinny to me and, besides, this guy's hands looked funny, sort of like Down's-syndrome hands, whatever that means. They were super chunky, short, like useless sausages. Wait a minute--was that why, when I had the knife stuck in my throat and my feet lifted off the ground, the 'black' guy in front of me asked ME to empty my pockets, rather than relieve me of my valuables himself? (My response to his request, by the way, was a sarcastic, "YOU do it!" to which he immediately obliged) Hmmm...it's an interesting hypothesis... Staying true to the idea that I was robbed by a black man and an Hispanic man, though, since I had to go with my gut in this situation, I figured we must be looking for the other guy here--the Hispanic guy who stuck the knife in my neck.

Unfortunately, I never got a good look at this guy, as he was behind me during most of the fracas. This being the case, Number 1 and Number 3 both looked like they could be that guy. They looked incredibly similar. Number One looked the most scared--he was clenching his left fist, which none of the other guys were doing. This, in fact, was the ONLY distinguishing behavioral characteristic displayed among the six men for the duration of the lineup. I wondered if it was an unconscious giveaway, or if it was mere coincidence, or if it was simply a red herring gleefully tossed in by the mirthful Lineup King backstage.

Surely I couldn't pick him simply because he clenched his fist. I looked at them again. I looked at their faces, their eyes, their hands, their bellies. Number One was also the skinniest--I thought the guys who robbed me were fairly thin, or at least not what I would consider fat like five of these six guys were. Number 1 was looking like the best shot.

But I was hardly sure.

The last man 'returned to his number' and Detective Murray asked if any of us would like to look closer. We all shook our heads 'no.'

"Okay."

He nodded to Det. Smith, who must have pushed a button or something, because all six of the men suddenly filed out of the room, as if instructed to do so by some guard off-screen, who heard the buzzer. My heart leapt--the same feeling I used to get when my teacher would announce 'Pencils down!' when I wasn't yet finished with the quiz. Who was it? Was it Number 1? Number 2? Number 3? I don't know. I can't pick. I couldn't figure it out. It should have been immediate, right? Or, at least, certain at some point soon thereafter. It wasn't.

I had no choice but to put an 'X' on the line that said 'I cannot identify the suspect.' I felt stupid, like I had wasted everybody's efforts. At the same time, however, I felt relieved. I came here with the best of intentions, I tried my best, I failed, oh well, it happens--end of story.

As the finality of that 'X' sunk in, though, I began to wonder about the Defense Attorney and her Defendant, the alleged mugger I failed to identify. I wondered how many otherwise clear-cut cases are thrown out of court before they even go to trial, because nobody can positively identify the guy in a lineup. I wondered how much evidence it takes to make a trial worthwhile for the city/state if nobody can identify the criminal. I thought about how hard it must be for anybody to identify an assailant in such a quick, frightful crime, especially when the authorities are required to line up other people that look almost exactly like the criminal. I wondered if this process benefits the criminal more than the victim. Obviously, I wouldn't want somebody to get railroaded, and so it seems fair that he/she should need to be identified, and yet, if every guy in a gang has the same haircut, the same physique, the same coloring, the same hooded sweatshirt...it seems like a really easy loophole to exploit.

But the effectiveness of the lineup as an element of due process is not what I was here today to judge, so I raised my hand. I was finished with my test. Det. Murray grabbed the piece of paper from my hand. I watched his eyes look down and notice the 'X.' I wondered if he was disappointed. I wondered if he cared at all. He probably just wanted to go home because he knew he wouldn't be getting any overtime today because the city's already way over-budget. He told me to go stand in the back of the room.

The Filipino man next to me was scribbling away on his paper--perhaps he was able to identify the guy? The rock'n'roller had turned his paper in right off, even before I had, and stepped to the back of the room. Once the Filipino man finished and joined the two of us, Det. Smith called the other Detectives and the Defense Attorney over to look at our three pieces of paper. Nobody said anything revealing like, "Aha! Got him!" or "Shit!" They just looked and nodded, as if being shown a TV Guide schedule for the night before. Det. Smith turned to the Defense Attorney:

"When is your next day in court?"

"The 23rd."

"You will have copies of the reports mailed to your office before the 23rd."

"Okay."

"Okay. Let's get outta here."

Det. Sang, the two other victims, and I waited outside for the others. Det. Sang told us he would be on vacation starting the next day, for two weeks, but then sheepishly admitted that it was not a real vacation. He was sending his mother-in-law on vacation, and he was going to stay home to watch his 10-month-old son while his wife worked. He also revealed, for some reason, that a few days before, he had taken the grates off of his oven, to clean them in the driveway, and somebody stole them as soon as he went back inside. They cost him $600 to replace. I laughed. Jesus, that sucks; but why did he own an oven that had $600 grates in it? How much did the entire oven cost? On a cop's salary? And where did he live that somebody would steal those so quickly, from a cop’s house no less? Why not buy a house in a better neighborhood, but have a shitty oven?

I was reminded of the summer I lived in Bournemouth, England, when I was 19, and had just downgraded bed & breakfasts because I still hadn't found a job and money was tight. This was a 'bed and breakfast' in name only, mind you--it was quite dodgy--and somebody stole my brand-new shoes while I was in the communal shower, a mere ten minutes after I had moved in. I told them this story and it was their turn to laugh at ME.

The others joined us in the hallway and we retraced our steps, outside, to the car--we sat in the same seats as before, an unspoken agreement--and drove off. Nobody said anything about what just happened. I imagine this conspicuous silence was a result of both our private reactions to the process, as well as not knowing whether or not it was allowed. Det. Sang informed us that we would all be served with subpoenas at some point in the near future. I wondered what the point of that would be if I couldn't identify the guy. I hope I don't have to do it. I hope I don't have to turn down a job because I have to go to court and say, for the record, "Duhhhhhh...I don't know..."

The ride back to the police station was much faster, thankfully, it now being 8pm. I stared out the window and tried not to vomit--Det. Sang is a horrible stop-and-go driver, and a poor merger. I was reminded of the opening line to Less Than Zero:

“People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles.”

It's true. My thoughts strayed to Bret Easton Ellis, and how I wish I can do what he has done. There's still time.

We pulled up to the police station and Det. Sang let the three of us out of the car. We all said goodbye to him, all shook hands with each other. Afterwards, the rock'n'roller and I were going in the same direction. We had already said goodbye, so this was a bit awkward, as usual.

The rock'n'roller immediately pulled a cigarette out from somewhere. He seemed nervous, like he wanted to exchange numbers and be friends, but wasn't sure if he should ask, if I would want to. He had even said something earlier, in fact, in the car, about staying in touch and maybe helping me get a script of mine on somebody's desk at CAA. It was endearing, but I'm a realist--we're not going to be friends. It's not worth it to me. It's probably not worth it to him, either. I broke the silence.

"So, you said you were in a band--what instrument do you play?"

"Guitar, and the harmonica."

He pulled a harmonica out of his pocket and smiled sheepishly.

"I play the blues. And Celtic music; I'm learning the Celtic Harp."

We got to the fork in the road. My car was a tantalizing few feet away.

"Cool. Well...good luck with your music."

"Yeah, same to you. With your writing."

He walked off toward the vast strip mall parking lot next to the police station.

I hopped in my Jeep, started it up, and drove away, not really sure how I felt about the whole affair. I had a vague nervous energy; I felt troubled, I guess, but I wasn't sure why. My brain was true whiteness--my thoughts were like all the colors of the rainbow, which combined to form a furious, pulsating blank slate in my brain--maximum energy expended, zero result. I was home before I knew it and hardly knew how I got there.

I had to get up at 5am the next day for work, sadly, so I went to bed almost immediately. Even if I had had the following day off, though, I imagine I would have done the same thing. It's not like I could've sat down to write, or watched a movie and been able to give it any thought, or pretended my mind wasn't twisted in a knot as I had a light-hearted drink with a friend. Unfortunately, however, sleep was impossible. The combination of getting out of bed at 2pm that day--which happened mostly because I knew I would be unable to accomplish anything knowing the lineup was happening later that day, and so was in a state of semi-mental-paralysis--my actual experience at the lineup itself, my ringing phone (friends wanting to know how it went, me ignoring them because I didn't want to talk about it yet and just wanted to lose consciousness), and my dread of the 16-hour soul-destroyingly-boring day ahead of me all conspired to keep me awake for most of the night.

The next morning, I felt like a truck had run over me. But I suppose it could have been worse.

I could have gone home to my post-menopausal wife, in my shitty Koreatown apartment, to watch some revolting forensic-science cable TV show, all the while pondering why I have to work as a menial office servant at the CAA 'Death Star' five nights a week in order to afford the privilege of playing music clearly nobody wants to hear, after 35 years of trying unsuccessfully to gain a following large enough to support myself in even a meager economic position.

I've still got plenty of time to reach that low--don't worry. And stay tuned!

Item: Woman Afraid of a Mailbox

Los Angeles, CA (Koreatown)---Mere hours ago, on the corner of Western and Fifth Streets, a little old Korean woman hobbled toward me, thrusting a stamped envelope in my face, repeatedly saying the word 'okay' and smiling.

I pointed to the mailbox--she said 'okay.' I opened the mailbox--she said 'okay' and then dropped the envelope down its throat.

The little old Korean woman resumed pushing her shopping cart from the nearby Korean supermarket down the sidewalk. The door to the mailbox swung shut as I released my grip. The 'walk' signed lit up, and I crossed the street, chasing down a couple tacos, wondering why the old woman was afraid; have they begun the revolution? So soon? Are the mailboxes taking over?

Stay afraid, stay tuned.

The Yowl of Unresolved Cat Life

I took an eight hour nap today, after an extraordinarily late night, and now lie awake in the middle of the night, acutely conscious, being driven to the point of insanity by the guttural moaning, screeching, and mewling of an alleycat in heat. An alleycat that has dogged me for three accursed years now, disappearing occasionally, randomly (or is it according to some obscure pagan fertility
schedule?), seemingly only to ensure her vocal yearnings will never be so constant as to blend in with my sonic environment and cease to retain their full effect.

In my lonelier moments, as I lie unattended in bed, forced to compare my own sex life to that of cats, specifically to that of the one insatiable cat begging for cat-dick* outside my window, I find the plaintive wailings reverberating through the cement and brick alleyscape unbearably depressing for a host of reasons.

1. Why is it so easy for this cat to unabashedly ask for what it wants, while I find the mating process so fraught with awkwardness, difficulty, and disappointment?
2. Why is it that this cat seems to have so much trouble getting laid, despite its clear intentions? A human female would not have the same problem, should she spread her legs in an alley and shout for all comers to have a go. Maybe she's a really ugly cat?
3. Why can this cat never get enough? Are all cats this horny, or is this cat some sort of rare sex-obsessed feline? And, if so, is there a lucrative black market for these rare animals?
4. Would it be a good thing or a bad thing, for myself as well as for the species, if women behaved like this cat? Would I really care if it was bad for the species but really, really good for me?

The big question on my mind lately, though, is this: how can this cat get away with keeping hundreds of people awake for years? Am I the only one who dreams of leaning out my window with a night-scope-bedecked sniper rifle and putting her out of her/my misery? Are my fellow forced insomniacs so cowed by the threat of PETA-sponsored legal ramifications that they just grin and bear it? Or is this cat simply an expert at hide and seek, or some sort of preternatural master of disguise? ("I heard the cat moaning, but then all I saw was a discarded Fendi handbag, so I moved on...")

Another big question: does this fucking cat ever sleep? The easy answer, supported by years of circumstantial evidence, is 'no.' Or maybe minute-long catnaps throughout the day are all she needs, fittingly. Or maybe this is the real reason she moans and screams: she hasn't slept in three years either.

Regardless, I have no sympathy for this cat for any reason. I am bigger than it, and I will kill it if I get the chance, animal-rights supporters be damned. I'm no Randy Lenz, mind you--he of 'Infinite Jest' cat-stomping infamy--but, all the same, I wouldn't mind it too much if he came 'round my place sometime soon and did his thing.


*I never even thought about cats having dicks. And I now wish the thought had never occured to me, or that I could wash it from my brain. Oh, forgetful mind, don't fail me now!