In light of yesterday’s post about Jews and guns and the vigorous, articulate comments from our readers I am republishing my three-part series about the LA Riots of 1992 in which Karen and I and the children were caught. We were unarmed. The police were, um, absent, and the bad guys owned the streets. It was a defining moment in my life.
Hollywood is burning.
Karen and I lock every door in the house, shut tight the windows, we move through the house switching off all the lights.
Gazing from our bedroom window we watch orange flames lick at the darkness, pillars of black smoke climbing into the sky. We can actually smell the acrid odor of burning rubber.
“Look how close they are,” says Karen.
“Just past La Cienega. Maybe eight blocks away.”
Karen gives me a long penetrating gaze:
“What do we do if they come here?”
My mind is racing away. The truth is we are defenseless. Unless I get crazy inventive like Dustin Hoffman in Straw Dogs.
“After this is all over,” I vow, “I’m going to buy a pistol.”
Karen says: “How about a shotgun?”