Miracle On Wilshire Boulevard
http://www.phetasy.com/articles/194/1/Miracle-On-Wilshire-Boulevard/Page1.html
Bridget Phetasy
By Bridget Phetasy
Published on 08.04.09
About a year ago, I
lost my car. How does such a thing happen, you ask? Blame it on the
TRUE gateway drug, alcohol. And it’s no secret I occasionally like to
drink.
It is a beautiful Sunday sometime during the fall of 2008. I meet my friend, we’ll call him Pokerface, at a bar on Montana. From there, things get fuzzy. I only remember him driving us 10 blocks to Sonny’s, the Boston bar on Wilshire. It’s also no secret that I like the Red Sox. I believe it was a playoff game. One they lost. I didn’t take it well. At least, I’m guessing I didn’t.
It is a beautiful Sunday sometime during the fall of 2008. I meet my friend, we’ll call him Pokerface, at a bar on Montana. From there, things get fuzzy. I only remember him driving us 10 blocks to Sonny’s, the Boston bar on Wilshire. It’s also no secret that I like the Red Sox. I believe it was a playoff game. One they lost. I didn’t take it well. At least, I’m guessing I didn’t.
An L.A. Story: Part I
About a year ago, I lost my car. How does such a thing happen, you ask? Blame it on the TRUE gateway drug, alcohol. And it’s no secret I occasionally like to drink.
It is a beautiful Sunday sometime during the fall of 2008. I meet my friend, we’ll call him Pokerface, at a bar on Montana. From there, things get fuzzy. I only remember him driving us 10 blocks to Sonny’s, the Boston bar on Wilshire. It’s also no secret that I like the Red Sox. I believe it was a playoff game. One they lost. I didn’t take it well. At least, I’m guessing I didn’t.
CUT TO: the next thing I remember—the two of us leaving the bar.
Me: Where’s the car?
PF: I don’t know, where’d ya park it?
Me: You drove!
PF: No, you drove. You parked it like six blocks away.
Me: Jesus Christ, YOU DROVE. And you clearly shouldn’t have!
PF: No. You drove. And you parked like a mile away.
The next two hours are a blur of gridding the neighborhood, fighting about who drove, stumbling down alleys and repeatedly saying “No” to and laughing hysterically at Pokerface’s non-stop, drunken requests for sex by the nearest dumpster. Somewhere along the way, I even lose a shoe.
Needless to say, it’s a good thing we couldn’t find the car. We walk to his hot friend’s condo in Brentwood arriving at about 4 am. We look like we’ve been walking for days.
Hot Friend: Where have you guys been? The bars closed 2 hours ago.
PF: We walked home.
Hot Friend: You walked here from Santa Monica?
PF: We were looking for Bridget's car.
Me: We just can't remember where we parked...
PF: She lost it.
Hot Friend: Excuse me?
Me: What? He lost it! He was the last one to drive it!
Hot Friend: I'm sure you’ll find it in the morning. Or maybe it got towed.
Fuck, I hadn't even thought of that. I say a prayer for the Baby Car, still not too worried, and pass out on the couch.
REWIND: 4 DAYS EARLIER
As usual, it’s never simple, and there is something else going on in my life at the time: financial disaster. When the entire global economy collapses, private yoga instructors are the FIRST luxury to go. In a month, every client but save ONE, mysteriously disappears to “traveling” or “injury” or some other bullshit excuse.
So I’m piss fucking poor. I mean BROKE. Too broke to buy shampoo. Too broke to eat 2 meals a day. Three car payments behind, rent is due, collectors are calling, broke. Flat. Broke.
At the time, my sole remaining client is living at one of the old, fancy, famous L.A. hotels. Being the little hustla’ that I am, I inquire at the concierge as to who is in charge of booking yoga instructors for the hotel. They give me the card of the guy. We’ll call him: The Muscle.
I call The Muscle that day. He is a self-proclaimed personal trainer/stuntman/marksman/producer. We have breakfast the next morning, Friday. He's got a thick New York accent. Short, stocky, square-jawed and steely, I get the impression this guy has broken some bones before in his life. And I don't mean his. We talk physical training and yoga. I’m interested in where he sees me fit into his fitness company. He’s more interested in something else. My TV show ideas.
So being the green-ass retard that I am, I pitch him my finest. An idea I’ve been developing for years. A world I created from scratch. My baby.
He loves it. He knows this producer guy, we’ll call him: Slimy. They’re working on some stuff together, been friends for years…yadda, yadda, yadda. The Muscle sends over the treatment that day. I get a call from Slimy's assistant. We’ll call her: Jersey. Slimy wants to meet with me on Monday. He loves the concept.
Holy shit, is this really happening?
FLASH FORWARD: MONDAY
I wake up at the butt-crack of dawn, 6 am, unable to sleep. Something is amiss. My car!!! I bold upright on the couch. FUCK! THE MEETING!!! IT'S TODAY! I wake Pokerface up and tell him we need to roll. Now. He sleeps for another two hours.
Finally, after an agonizingly slow two hours of the CNN news cycle, Pokerface awakens and we go searching for my car. Again, we grid the entire surrounding neighborhood. I have maintained a relatively positive attitude about the situation--until now. I start to panic. I’m laughing, but in that nervous, crazy kind of way.
Holy shit, is this really happening?
I tell Pokerface to bring me home. I’d rather go through this humiliation with Maggie (cousin/roommate/co-conspirator) who is completely immune to this kind of shit after years of living with me.
She’s also used to me bursting into her room in the wee hours of the morning saying something like this:
Me: Maggie! Maggie!! Wake up! You’re never gonna believe it!
Maggie: (groggy) No. I’m sure I won’t. Now what?
Me: I lost the Baby Car.
Maggie: You what?
Me: I lost my car.
Maggie: What? How does someone lose their car?
Me: I can’t find it. Anywhere.
I call the police station. I call the tow companies. Maggie and I grid the entire neighborhood and beyond—three times. It’s as if my car has vanished into thin air. Exasperated and out of time, I have to go get ready for the meeting with Slimy.
Maggie: Take my car. Don’t worry about it. We’ll find it.
Me: You've got to be fucking kidding me!!! I work with special needs kids for crying out loud! I’m about to turn 30! I’m meeting with a production company that wants to buy my show!!! I’m supposed to be a responsible adult!! And I lose my car???
Maggie: Don’t psych yourself out honey.
Me: Too late. I don’t deserve success! I should be grateful I make it through a day alive! I’m a giant loser!! I should be checking myself into rehab, but, oh wait, I can't find my car!!!
Maggie: You always say “everything happens for a reason”.
Me: Yeah, that’s what all us imbeciles say about the bad shit that happens as a result of our own poor judgment or a cruel act of God too painful to face.
Maggie: Don’t be so hard on yourself.
Me: Hard on myself? I should kill myself before I have a chance to procreate.
Maggie: Oh Jesus. You’re in one of these moods. Maybe it got stolen.
Me: At least it wouldn't be my fault! Maggie, right now, I’m praying my car was stolen.
This isn’t funny anymore.
It is a beautiful Sunday sometime during the fall of 2008. I meet my friend, we’ll call him Pokerface, at a bar on Montana. From there, things get fuzzy. I only remember him driving us 10 blocks to Sonny’s, the Boston bar on Wilshire. It’s also no secret that I like the Red Sox. I believe it was a playoff game. One they lost. I didn’t take it well. At least, I’m guessing I didn’t.
CUT TO: the next thing I remember—the two of us leaving the bar.
Me: Where’s the car?
PF: I don’t know, where’d ya park it?
Me: You drove!
PF: No, you drove. You parked it like six blocks away.
Me: Jesus Christ, YOU DROVE. And you clearly shouldn’t have!
PF: No. You drove. And you parked like a mile away.
The next two hours are a blur of gridding the neighborhood, fighting about who drove, stumbling down alleys and repeatedly saying “No” to and laughing hysterically at Pokerface’s non-stop, drunken requests for sex by the nearest dumpster. Somewhere along the way, I even lose a shoe.
Needless to say, it’s a good thing we couldn’t find the car. We walk to his hot friend’s condo in Brentwood arriving at about 4 am. We look like we’ve been walking for days.
Hot Friend: Where have you guys been? The bars closed 2 hours ago.
PF: We walked home.
Hot Friend: You walked here from Santa Monica?
PF: We were looking for Bridget's car.
Me: We just can't remember where we parked...
PF: She lost it.
Hot Friend: Excuse me?
Me: What? He lost it! He was the last one to drive it!
Hot Friend: I'm sure you’ll find it in the morning. Or maybe it got towed.
Fuck, I hadn't even thought of that. I say a prayer for the Baby Car, still not too worried, and pass out on the couch.
REWIND: 4 DAYS EARLIER
As usual, it’s never simple, and there is something else going on in my life at the time: financial disaster. When the entire global economy collapses, private yoga instructors are the FIRST luxury to go. In a month, every client but save ONE, mysteriously disappears to “traveling” or “injury” or some other bullshit excuse.
So I’m piss fucking poor. I mean BROKE. Too broke to buy shampoo. Too broke to eat 2 meals a day. Three car payments behind, rent is due, collectors are calling, broke. Flat. Broke.
At the time, my sole remaining client is living at one of the old, fancy, famous L.A. hotels. Being the little hustla’ that I am, I inquire at the concierge as to who is in charge of booking yoga instructors for the hotel. They give me the card of the guy. We’ll call him: The Muscle.
I call The Muscle that day. He is a self-proclaimed personal trainer/stuntman/marksman/producer. We have breakfast the next morning, Friday. He's got a thick New York accent. Short, stocky, square-jawed and steely, I get the impression this guy has broken some bones before in his life. And I don't mean his. We talk physical training and yoga. I’m interested in where he sees me fit into his fitness company. He’s more interested in something else. My TV show ideas.
So being the green-ass retard that I am, I pitch him my finest. An idea I’ve been developing for years. A world I created from scratch. My baby.
He loves it. He knows this producer guy, we’ll call him: Slimy. They’re working on some stuff together, been friends for years…yadda, yadda, yadda. The Muscle sends over the treatment that day. I get a call from Slimy's assistant. We’ll call her: Jersey. Slimy wants to meet with me on Monday. He loves the concept.
Holy shit, is this really happening?
FLASH FORWARD: MONDAY
I wake up at the butt-crack of dawn, 6 am, unable to sleep. Something is amiss. My car!!! I bold upright on the couch. FUCK! THE MEETING!!! IT'S TODAY! I wake Pokerface up and tell him we need to roll. Now. He sleeps for another two hours.
Finally, after an agonizingly slow two hours of the CNN news cycle, Pokerface awakens and we go searching for my car. Again, we grid the entire surrounding neighborhood. I have maintained a relatively positive attitude about the situation--until now. I start to panic. I’m laughing, but in that nervous, crazy kind of way.
Holy shit, is this really happening?
I tell Pokerface to bring me home. I’d rather go through this humiliation with Maggie (cousin/roommate/co-conspirator) who is completely immune to this kind of shit after years of living with me.
She’s also used to me bursting into her room in the wee hours of the morning saying something like this:
Me: Maggie! Maggie!! Wake up! You’re never gonna believe it!
Maggie: (groggy) No. I’m sure I won’t. Now what?
Me: I lost the Baby Car.
Maggie: You what?
Me: I lost my car.
Maggie: What? How does someone lose their car?
Me: I can’t find it. Anywhere.
I call the police station. I call the tow companies. Maggie and I grid the entire neighborhood and beyond—three times. It’s as if my car has vanished into thin air. Exasperated and out of time, I have to go get ready for the meeting with Slimy.
Maggie: Take my car. Don’t worry about it. We’ll find it.
Me: You've got to be fucking kidding me!!! I work with special needs kids for crying out loud! I’m about to turn 30! I’m meeting with a production company that wants to buy my show!!! I’m supposed to be a responsible adult!! And I lose my car???
Maggie: Don’t psych yourself out honey.
Me: Too late. I don’t deserve success! I should be grateful I make it through a day alive! I’m a giant loser!! I should be checking myself into rehab, but, oh wait, I can't find my car!!!
Maggie: You always say “everything happens for a reason”.
Me: Yeah, that’s what all us imbeciles say about the bad shit that happens as a result of our own poor judgment or a cruel act of God too painful to face.
Maggie: Don’t be so hard on yourself.
Me: Hard on myself? I should kill myself before I have a chance to procreate.
Maggie: Oh Jesus. You’re in one of these moods. Maybe it got stolen.
Me: At least it wouldn't be my fault! Maggie, right now, I’m praying my car was stolen.
This isn’t funny anymore.
To be continued….