I have to protect my family.
I’m pretty sure the mob outside is dead serious about breaking in and getting down to some serious violence.
Not to mention liberating some pretty major karats. At the reception, I noticed huge diamonds whose glitter could induce seizures; watches: at least a dozen Cartier Tanks; I could not count the Rolex Oysters, and no doubt there’s enough loose cash to make your average L.A. rioter reasonably satisfied. This is, after all, an affluent Hollywood crowd.
Armed & Dangerous With a Swiss Army Knife—Just Kidding
I have to protect my family.
In my pocket, as always, a little Swiss Army Knife.
“I’ve never yet seen an eyeball who felt that the Swiss Army Knife was not a dangerous weapon.”
This charming and somewhat gruesome comment, advice really, was given to me by my Israeli buddy, a grizzled tank commander who, one drunken evening, cheerily listed for yours truly all the common, everyday objects that have lethal potential. My friend was a big fan of the ordinary Swiss Army Knife and its zillions of nifty attachments.
So: it is pitch black, rioters are gathering outside the DGA building, and to make matters even worse, women and children in the lobby are yelling, sobbing—every moist and yucky sound imaginable—in panic.
I feel like announcing:
“People, shrieking does not help. Really it doesn’t.”
But, why bother? It’s a mob mentality and there is no reasoning with such people. Unless maybe you’re Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird.
Which I am not.
Anyhoo.
I’m busy formulating a plan, trying to figure out a way to escape this building before the rioters break in, before they figure out a way of crashing through one of the numerous doors.
Interpolation:
Karen does not scream or yell.
Unnaturally calm is the love of my life. Even as stones—where do the rioters get rocks?—thwack sharply against the front doors, Karen does not even flinch.
It’s almost eerie. Basically, everyone else is losing their collective minds, but Karen’s expression just builds into this magnificent wall of serene composure. Her posture goes taut, as if a steel rod is welded into her spine and molding her into an incredibly cute Marine.
Ten-chun!
I have this really weird urge to lift her sleeve and seek out the Semper Fi tattoo. And then there’s her lovely face. All the open and generous softness has receded and been replaced by a look of, well, the only way to describe her expression is —
Napoleon at Austerlitz.
— have you ever seen those military paintings of 17th Century generals? You know those huge canvases where you get to see a full battle, say Austerlitz, or Waterloo, thousands of men are fighting, dying, blood and guts strewn about, rearing horses with eyes wide as saucers, but the general, the reason for the painting in the first place, well, he’s usually sitting on his white horse, on a hill, watching the battle, and his expression conveys, determination, resolve, bravery, a self-assurance that says to the viewer: Look, believe me, I know exactly what I’m doing.
Anyway, that’s what Karen looks like tonight.
End Interpolation:
“Karen,” I whisper, “I think we should get to the car and get out of here.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
I’ve been in love with Karen since third grade and have come to the realization that she’s one part Antigone and all Patton.
“Everybody, everybody! Attention, please! We cut the lights. We don’t want them to be able to see inside. Do you understand? We shut down the power. Not them.”
There is a collective buzz as a rent-a-cop repeats this vital announcement.
“What are we supposed to do now?” People shout.
“We’ve called the police,” comes the weak reply.
More nervous buzzing.
“Please, ladies and gentlemen, just wait for the police to arrive.”
I’m thinking: famous last words.
Offspring #2 is still in my arms, still glued to my hip, and though seven-years old, she has regressed and jammed her thumb in her mouth; she trembles mightily, as if freezing. I can actually hear her teeth chattering.
Karen and I edge our way to the staircase; we are not going to wait for the police. We are not going to sit here like victims.
We are going to make our way down to the parking garage, jump into the car, and drive home. We are going to take our fate in our own hands.
The cavalry, I’m pretty sure, and with all apologies to John Ford, is not coming to the rescue.
The Police Are Coming—But Not Really
“Where are you going?”
A rent-a-cop is posted at the staircase.
“To our car,” I tell him.
“That’s not a good idea, sir.”
“We think it is.”
“We’ve called the police.”
“Where are they?”
He says nothing.
“How long before they come?”
“Any minute.”
I gesture to the rioters doing their hostile little dances outside the DGA building:
“What happens when they start throwing Molotov cocktails?”
Rent-a-cop takes a deep breath.
“The police are coming,” he insists.
“Excuse me, we’re going to our car. You can’t stop us.”
The rent-a-cop has about 200 lbs.—all muscle—on your truly and I’m terrified that he’s going to challenge me.
Thank G-d, he steps aside, murmurs something about not being responsible for our safety.
No kidding.
Poor guy. He’s trying to do his job, but he no longer knows what his job is.
Robert’s Rules for Driving Through a Riot
1. Do not stop for anyone or anything.
2. Not even to help someone. My first responsibility is to my family.
3. If rioters try to blockade the car, drive straight through.
4. If the car stalls, don’t leave the car.
5. Unless the car is on fire.
These rules flash through my mind in a split second.
The Fashionable and Magic Backpack
The stairwell is pitch lack. Not good. In fact, it’s bad, very bad.
Suddenly, a golden beam of light slices through the velvety darkness.
“Look,” says Ariel, “Mommy has a flashlight.”
The children are delighted.
Me too.
Karen carries an extremely cool and very feminine leather backpack. It’s something of a joke in the family that the backpack is magic. Whatever you need, whenever you need it, it’s gonna be in the backpack.
Except for a pistol.
Sigh.
Cautiousl
y, looking for signs of the rioters hiding in the garage, we make our way to the car. I’ve definitely seen too many movies. I almost declare: The coast is clear.
I snap Offspring #2 into her car seat. Ariel, 11, also sits in the back with his younger sister. He is pale with fear and confusion. I touch his arm and murmur: “Everything is going to be fine.”
Ariel gives a weak smile and nods his head.
Our children trust us to protect them.
The burden of parenthood has never felt more grave.
Starting up the engine, I realize that I am drenched in sweat, my shirt clings to my body.
Karen reaches into the glove compartment, pulls out the Thomas Guide to Los Angeles.
“We may have to find a different route home,” she says.
“Right.”
Using commencement-of-production bonus money from my last film, we bought a Lexus outfitted with a massive eight cylinder engine. It was a good move. The Lexus is a gas guzzler, but who cares. It’s our Centurion.
And as we cruise up the ramp, my breath catches in my throat for there are a dozen rioters milling about the exit.
Oh man, am I going to be able to put pedal to metal and smash through a bunch of real live human bodies?
My Israeli friend, the tank officer, had something like sixteen kills in a Sinai tank battle during the 1973, Yom Kippur War. When I complimented him on this huge kill ratio he waved it off and said:
“It’s no big deal killing an Egyptian tank. They have this habit of hunkering down and using their tanks as artillery platforms. All wrong. Picking them off was a bit too easy. Remember, always fight an offensive battle. Most people are cowards so if you keep coming at them, chances are they will retreat.”
Okey-dokey.
Louise Brooks, ready for a riot.
Next Chapter: Part III, Gauntlet. In which we manage to escape from the parking garage, only to discover that the route home is, um, a minefield.
Note: I’m frequently asked how I’m able to remember incidents in such detail, including dialogue, from so many years ago? It’s simple. I do not rely on my memory. I have been keeping a detailed diary for over 20 years. This post, as so many others, is based on my diaries. If there are gaps in my entries, I check with Karen. She was also keeping a diary, plus Karen has a phenomenal memory.
BTW Robert, this is awesome!
…Of course in London we wouldn’t have the security guards alert enough to lock the doors, the police wouldn’t answer the phone and a Swiss Army knife is classified as a lethal weapon if carried in the locked trunk of a car…
As for concealed carry – only the gangsters have those.
Wonder why we have appeasing governments in Europe?
Jeremiah:
Hey, I know that woman; worked with her on my last film. She’s a really good stunt woman. Doubles for Sylvester Stallone.
Kishke:
I’m glad you were not there too.
I’m also sorry we were there. It was a horrible experience — that, er, does make for a pretty good blog.
Pearl:
The only object that did we were not able to pluck from Karen’s magic backpack that night was–a gun.
Tamara:
My thoughts exactly. We should also give Ariel ZT’L and Offspring #2 plenty of credit. They were incredibly brave and composed — in contrast to the other shrieking, flailing children.
Joannah:
It’s amazing how vivid your memories are. It was such a terrible time. I remember thinking at one point: How dare these people scare my children like this! The Pres. of your bank was a wise man. He reacted quickly and appropriately. Thank G-d no harm came to you or your family.
Melissa:
Thanks so much for your kind words.
Ari:
You ask: “Promise?” (To deliver Part III tomorrow)
I answer: I’ll do my best.
You know what is kind of ironic?
There was the Intifada and then the first Gulf War, and five months later in 1991 I was in Israel for my junior year at Hebrew University. Lots of people were nervous.
And so my friends on campus are watching some of the news from LA and saying, “man, that is nuts over in America!” So you just never know..
Oh, no, don’t stop there…..the suspense is killing me!
Hi Robert,
It is hard to believe that the riots happened so long ago. I don’t think about them too often, but when I do it is not hard to remember the chaos.
And chaos is a central part of my memories. I remember the people who took the moment as an opportunity to shed societal restraints.
I remember the fools I saw smiling for the television cameras as they looted the stores. I remember the violence that I saw on television and that which I witnessed in person.
The advantage of having been a single guy in my twenties was that I never believed that I would get hurt and I did get stuck in a couple of situations.
I had a 1977 Powder Blue Camaro. It was the last year of the steel bumper. I loved that car and spent hours driving that all over LA. I don’t think that there is a freeway that we didn’t cover. It really felt like a part of me.
Anyway, I relate to your checklist of driving through a riot because on my way home I had to go throw several groups.
It was unpleasant. I didn’t realize how lucky I was until many years later because like I said, in my twenties I felt bullet proof.
I was directed to your blog from another message board a couple of months ago. It has become another of my daily web stops as I surf through my day. Thank you for sharing with us. You certainly have a gift.
“Tomorrow: Part III.”
promise?
Being calm in the ‘storm’ is a quality that is rare (I can tell you from working in the emergency room), but it makes a world of difference, as everyone else is losing their heads. Good for Karen.
I liked the rules for driving through a riot. You have the priorities down, Robert; save your own. You can only do so much in the world, with anything, and we tend to spend our time and energy wanting to do everything for everyone…and when we have the luxury to do so, great…but otherwise, look to our own first. Hmmmm….some kind of lesson there.
I don’t know how you still get work in Hollywood, Robert. Your values in the face of danger run against the grain of movies like War of the Worlds or A History of Violence or Blood Diamond.
If you were a lesbian still getting your leg strength back after a car accident in which a straight “white trash” guy in a pickup truck had run you off the road, and you’ve just picked up your Central American-born adopted daughter from a bilingual day care center *after* picking up your pet ferret from its acupuncture treatment at a wholistic veterinarian’s office — then, then I can see you bragging about wielding a Swiss Army Knife and preparing to plow your Lexus (no, more likely a Subaru station wagon with a bumper sticker that says, “Eracism”) through a mob. But you’re not, so … I guess that’s what the blog is for.
Maybe I’ve repressed the memories from that night, but what is most vivid in my mind is how terrible the movie was, how interminable it was, and what a relief it was to finally get out of the theatre- and that was before the riot started!
Very suspenseful. Glad I was not there. Sorry you were.
Gripping ending. Just like those old-time radio serials.
You have a movie script right in this story.
Karen & her knapsack should have been on the old Monty Hall game show, “Let’s Make a Deal.” In the closing segment, he used to offer audience members $50, $100 or even more if they had some named obscure item in their purse or pocket. Sounds as if Karen might’ve made a killing on that show.
My first thought is, Karen rocks.
My second thought is, thank goodness for solidly built 8 cylinder cars.
What a horrible experience for you and your family!
I was working at a the corporate headquarters of a bank in Signal Hill, and from the top floor we could see some buidlings in downtown Long Beach afire. From my office window I watched the National Guard advance down Cherry Avenue in their tanks and humvees. It was surreal! I hadn’t seen anything like it ever before.
I was SO grateful when the president of the bank told us to close up and head home. I was relieved to make it through the “Orange Curtain” that night as I was still living in OC with my parents.
The next day, a coworker brought in a videotape he took of the looting that took place in his neighborhood. I was just disgusted by it. What a time that was.