Tuesday, April 01, 2003

How Much Wood

I really didn’t get into trouble as a kid, as a general rule.  I knuckled under to the parental authority trip, and as a result was given wide latitude - within defined parameters.  In practical terms, this meant that if the Dickies were playing at the Whiskey, I wouldn’t be going with my friends to see them.  But I was free to meet Alfred from work to listen to the radio on a Tuesday night - even if it meant leaving the house.

This was the mid-80’s - inventive music was hard to find.  I’d met Alfred at an internship that I’d gotten through a parental connection with a music publisher; Al was a low-level executive in his early 20s and he was born to work in Hollywood.  His shirts and smile shone in an almost predatory way.  He was definitely not stupid, if not exactly an academic decathlete either; he had pronounced mesoamerican features and seemed successful with women from all walks of life.  We started hanging out together and listening to a new auditory genre that was just being developed: “space music.”
Alfred lived not far from me and was a regular listener to a weekly radio broadcast called “Stratospheres” or “Star Voyager” or something similarly vapid: four hours of spacy new age music broadcast by a college station out in Claremont.  He couldn’t pick it up at his apartment but he’d gotten into the habit of driving around till he could find it on his car stereo; then he’d just park and enjoy the music semi-al fresco. 

The first time he invited me along to listen to “Celestial Echoes” or whatever it was, we drove through a nice part of South-of-the-boulevard Studio City, big residential blocks right off Ventura.  The signal started coming in strong so we pulled up to a tidy corner lot, turned off the car, and listened to the tinkles and boings of post-mid-century space music.  After a few minutes a guy roared out of the garage in front of us on a motorcycle, his helmet shield drawn over his face.  “What are you doing in front of my house?” “Hello, we’re listening to a radio show from - “ “I don’t care who the fuck you are, don’t try any shit with my house.  Two of you guys have tried to rip us off already.  I’ve got my eye on you.” He rode back into the house and the garage door shut automatically. 

Undaunted by our welcome, we stayed where we were for a few hours.  We drank some beer out of some cans; nature ran its predictable course and I found myself growing anxious to unburden myself of superfluous fluids.  I got out of the car and found myself in a quiet dark neighborhood not of my immediate acquaintance, but generally familiar to me.  This was while I was on summer break from college back east; at school I was accustomed to a worldview in which the landscape as a whole could be considered a sort of impromptu men’s room.  I started to meander up the quiet driveway of the unfriendly house, looking for a shadowed corner.  Halfway up I stopped, realizing where I was and what I was doing.  I started backing away - just as someone inside the house shouted at me.  I kept backing down the driveway and into the street; once I got halfway down the block I turned frontwise again and walked all the long way around to Coldwater, where a gas station provided timely facilitation of my exigencies. 

I had a bad feeling about where we were parked.  Walking back, I kept both feet in the street, securely in the public right-of-way.  I wanted to tell Alfred that we had to vacate at once, but someone beat me to the punch:  I had gotten as far as the front bumper of the car when the guy from the house jumped out from behind a bush with a pair of nunchuks gripped in his fist and pressed against my throat, telling me tersely that the police have been called and my ass was grass; he’d gotten my license plate already and we’d better not try anything.  We had been placed under citizen’s arrest.  He was gloating. 

Together, we all waited for the cops: me and him on his lawn, and Alfred in his car with one other dude who’d joined us for the freaky tunes.  The cops arrived about half an hour later.  I was wearing a pale blue palm tree-print short sleeve shirt, light tan slacks, and round bookish glasses.  The homeowner was in black motorcycle leathers and a motorcycle helmet with the shade down, at night.  Alfred and the other guy were dressed like I was.  They were paranoid about the beer and kept a low profile.

“Here he is, officers; I caught him trying to break into my house.”

“What’s your story?”

“First, why I’m here: we’re listening to a radio show that’s coming in from a small station in Claremont - this just happens to be one of the rare places around here where we can get reception.  We told this guy all about it when he introduced himself to us earlier this evening.  About an hour ago, I had to take a leak and left the car.  I just automatically started up to the house on autopilot.  I was halfway up the driveway before realizing that I had to go the other way.  I stopped myself and went all the way around to the gas station on Coldwater.  On my return to this area I made sure that both my feet were in the street as I approached this car.  I was walking to the driver’s window to tell my friend that we had to leave this area, when this guy jumps out from behind a bush and jams a pair of nunchuks into my throat. He told me to stay still or he’d kick my ass.  Isn’t carrying nunchuks a felony in California, officer?”

The officers glanced at each other and said together, “Ok, go on back home,” so we did.  I didn’t go out on any more of Alfred’s radio expeditions again.  Pretty soon I didn’t even like that kind of music anymore.  But for one brief shining second, I almost got my ass kicked over new age radio.