Miracle On Wilshire Boulevard: IV

By Bridget Phetasy
Published 12.31.10
Captains Blog

An L.A. Story: Part IV

Bridget Phetasy

View all articles by Bridget Phetasy

DAY 4 – THURSDAY

At this point, I only know one thing. I’m supposedly trying to “be” a writer. I obviously already am a writer, but apparently I’m not considered a real one until I am getting paid to do it. My guess is that there are plenty of brilliant unpaid writers in the world, just like there are probably millions of supermodels under burkas, but I digress…the point is, if I’m going to be taken seriously as a writer in Tinseltown, I know I have to at least take a crack at writing the pilot of my show before I sell the concept out.

Quick review: It’s now Thursday. If you include Sunday night, it is now technically Day 5 of The Baby Car’s mysterious disappearance. I am a week into negotiating/stalling the sale of my show with Slimy Production Company. The pressure mounts on both fronts.

THE DECISION

This is also the day I get the voicemail from The Muscle that seals the deal for me (or rather, destroys any remaining hope for one) in regards to working with Slimy Production Company.

“I have never been more offended in my life. I have never met a more ungrateful, rude little girl. Slimy just called me and told me that you refused to meet with Sketchy Lawyer. After all I’ve done for you, I cannot believe you would toss away this opportunity. We are only trying to help you at a point in your career when no one else will. You are nobody. I swear if you don’t have those papers signed by the end of the week I won’t help you any more and not just in Hollywood. I won’t refer you for yoga, I will make sure you don’t work at the Hotel, I will make sure you don’t work anywhere in this town…”

On and on and on…I think you get the point. Great. So The Muscle is not only threatening my future dream-livelihood, but now he’s also threatening my current livelihood. Fannnnnntastic.

At this point I’m fucking pissed. So I take matters into my own hands and call Slimy Production Company and tell Jersey the receptionist to put Slimy on the phone.

I very calmly ask who the Hell The Muscle thinks he is and explain that, in general, bullying and threatening someone into doing something isn’t a very effective way to get results. I emphasize the fact that I have every right to seek my own legal counsel and will take as long as I damn well please when it comes to making a decision as important as signing away the rights to an idea I’ve been working on for years, no matter how destitute and unknown I am.

Slimy seems surprised I have the cahones to confront him and stumbles for words and excuses. He says he realizes that The Muscles can be “enthusiastic and passionate” and gets “carried away” sometimes. He apologizes on behalf of The Muscle for his behavior and promises I won’t be hearing from him. To Slimy’s credit, I never do again.

My mind is already made up. But I still want to see the process through to its logical, businesslike conclusion. I will submit my counter-offer to their bullshit contract (made with the help of my Hip-Pocketing Agency) and wait to hear back from them. Then I will politely decline. Which I do, the very next day.

Although I find the situation with The Muscle and Slimy Production Company disturbing, there is a situation that remains far more disturbing to me…

THE CAR

There is literally NO TRACE of it. Not towed. Not ticketed. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s actually possible that my car was stolen the one night I have no idea (blacked out) where my (drunk) friend parked it —because that would be about right in terms of my random luck/crazy, Seinfeldian timing. (As I’ve mentioned before, the misplacing of my car is obviously a HUGE blessing in disguise).

I drop Maggie off at work, which is actually very close to where I last saw my car. I’m still racking my brain for any clue, any hint of where it could be.

At this point I am completely humbled: the police, my friends and the nice lady who took the “stolen vehicle” report at Geico have all laughed at my expense. I can’t say I blame them. I can’t say I’m not laughing at myself either. I am. Hysterically.

As I drive around and around and around in squares.

Mind you, these are the Days of Soup and Toast; the most destitute I have ever been in my adult life. I am now questioning my sanity for turning down any money for my show at time like this. I’m a frickin’ irresponsible loser who lost my car. I should take anything I can get! I am beginning to worry that NOT selling out will be the beginning of the end for me.

In last ditch desperation, I decide to look in the one place that I haven’t looked yet, a block away from the bar on Wilshire Blvd. Why haven’t I looked here? Well, this stretch of Wilshire Blvd. happens to be a NO PARKING 3-5 AM zone, which means my car would have been towed days and days before. Which means I would have FOUND IT BY NOW.

What if my car has been towed? How am I going to even afford to get it out? I can’t even afford to pay for a ticket. I can’t even afford shampoo. I am imagining myself as I stumble down Hollywood Blvd., drunk, wearing a boa and a broken high heel. Carless. Homeless. Wagging my finger and screaming at hapless tourists, slurring, “I made up word once! I had a website ya’ know!!”

“It’s so sad”, my friends will say. “She had so much going for her. It all really started going downhill when she lost her car…” Is this it? The moment that changes everything? The moment of my rapid decline into hopelessness, prostitution and depravity…

“What the f—????”

I pull up to Wilshire from the closest side street and look left. Halfway up the block, I think I see what looks an awful lot like the front of my car. It must be wishful thinking. My eyes are deceiving me. I am hallucinating.

It can’t be. Impossible!

Hands shaking, I quickly drive around the corner and park Maggie’s car. I run up to the METERED SPOT (the meter which is of course blinking EXPIRED) and rub my eyes in disbelief. Yup. It’s my car alright. And it’s been there for FOUR NIGHTS AND FOUR DAYS.

No ticket. No boot. No tow. Nothing. No joke.

Let me explain something to those of you who can’t fully appreciate this phenomenon: This is LA. A city where you get a ticket 30 seconds after your meter expires, let alone FOUR DAYS. A city where they’ll tow your car just for the fuck of it, let alone if you give them FOUR NIGHTS to do it in a no parking zone.

But I have nothing.

Now, I won’t be offended if any citizen of Los Angeles calls me a liar because they know this can’t possibly be a true story. Believe me, even retelling it, I still don’t even believe it myself.

THAT’S WHY IT’S A MIRACLE.

I am now convinced that my car either has a magical invisibility shield I don’t know about or it was used in an armed robbery or mafia crime. I anxiously await the day the phone call comes from a detective asking me to come down to the station and talk about my involvement in grand theft.

THE END

One day, months later, an early morning phone call does wake me up.

“Hello?” I say groggily.

The baritone voice on the other end of the phone means business.

“Hello Bridget, this is Detective Smith from the Santa Monica Police Department…”

Holy shit. I knew it.

“…we just wanted to have a few words with you about the shooting you witnessed…”

Ohhhh. Right. That. Yeah, in May of 2009, I witnessed a gang shooting. For obvious reasons I couldn’t write about it then, but I suppose enough time has passed…

But that’s another story for another day. And folks, I’m sure most of you think I am just a giant, pathological liar, but for those of you who don’t--if you still aren’t starting to believe that you probably shouldn’t get on a plane with me, maybe now is the time to start--BECAUSE THIS SHIT ONLY HAPPENS TO ME.

I just hope these odds work for the lotto one day. Or, better yet, selling and creating a hit television series.