I am the receptionist for a large building with 5 separate (porn) companies inside. They all either make and distribute porn films, just distribute porn films, run porn web sites, or sell sex toys.
Because of the "adult" nature of the companies in our building, I am asked to answer the phone with the simple phrase, "Corporate office." It's intentionally vague, but pretty much every person who calls is in the porn industry and knows to ask to be connected to a certain company or extension.
If it's a call from someone randomly trying to sell printer ink or whatever, this nondescript method of answering the phone keeps their innocent ears from being sullied by our smut, and also protects our employees from any harassment. A lot of people who work here don't share the nature of their work with outside friends and family. We respect each other's choices and don't reveal private porn iden-titties.
Occasionally, someone will call the main line and say, "someone called me from this number."
I can't say, "well, slut, who do you know in the porn industry?" so I'll say, "There are 5 different companies here- if you can give me a hint as to who you think may have called you, I'll connect you."
I'm not supposed to say which companies they are, or reveal who works there. Them's the rules.
Usually, the caller is in the adult industry, and they quickly realize why I'm being so vague. They then will then state one of the companies' names, or a specific person, and I'll connect them.
If they don't have a specific name, I tell them that I'm sorry I can't help them, but hopefully whoever was trying to reach them will call back.
That usually ends it.
However, yesterday was extra special:
The phone rang.
Me: Corporate Office
Angry Woman: Someone called me from this number.
Me: OK, well, there are 5 different companies here, so if you can give me a hint as to who may have called you, I'll connect you.
Angry Woman: Well who's this?
Me: The receptionist.
Angry Woman: Just connect me to whoever called me.
Me: I don't know who called you, ma'am- it could've been anyone in the building. I really can't help you, but hopefully they'll call back.
Angry Woman: (super angry now) I don't want a call back. Listen. You need to take me off your calling list- or I'll do it myself!
At this point I laughed a little, because she sound soooo angry and had no idea she was calling a pornucopia of dildos and buttplugs, and was demanding something that was completely unnecessary. No one here makes outgoing sales calls. They're not going to cold-call someone and offer them a deal on pornographic film distribution.
Angry Woman: Oh, so now you're laughing at me?!?
Me: No, ma'am, I assure you I'm not laughing at you- it's just there is no "call list;" no solicitation calls come from these companies.
Angry Woman: You were laughing at me!
Me: Nope- I promise. I was laughing because I have no idea how to take someone off a "do not-"
Angry Woman: (interrupting) Yeah, you sound really proud of yourself. I bet you really enjoy your job, don't you?
Me: Uhhh...
Angry Woman: And I bet you're grateful to even have a job right now, aren't you? Hunh? In this economy?
At this point, she was starting to screech, and I was having so much fun listening to her work herself into a froth, I decided to play along.
Me: Oh, yes!
Angry Woman: What's your name?
Me: Shirley. I'm a temp.
Angry Woman: (dripping venom at this point) Who is your supervisor- I want to tell them what a good job you're doing.
Me: Oh! Thank you- but unless you have an exact name, I can't connect you.
Angry Woman: Just give me any Supervisor!
Me: Right away- for which company, ma'am?
Angry Woman: (trying to calm her voice down so I won't catch on to her ruse) Whichever one your supervisor works for.
Me: Well, it's tricky, because I answer the main line for all 5 companies.
Angry Woman: Just give me the first one.
Me: The first one, alphabetically, or in order that they appear in the building's floorplan?
Angry Woman: (seething) Alphabetically.
Me: Right away.
...I then placed her on hold, where she doggedly held the line, listening to our crappy soft rock hold music, for twenty minutes.
She eventually hung up and called back. I saw that it was her redialing and immediately hung up on her.
Ah, the glamourous Adult Film Industry- at the end of the day, it's the little things that make my job worthwhile.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
L.A. Stories- The Wicked Witch of Western Ave.
When I first moved to Hollywood, I came down with the sniffles, and I really needed a doctor for my lady parts. (Don't worry, I won't get too graphic- and if I do, it'll totally be worth it.) As is typically the case when you wish to see a doctor who deals with lady parts, I wanted to see one RIGHT AWAY. After several failed attempts to find a doctor who spoke English and would take new patients, Jay finally found one- near us- on Western Avenue. She could see me that day, so we headed right over.
I took a look at the intensely ratty part of town and was not pleased- and the office was situated in the "Hollywood Cross Medical Plaza," which is a great place to go it you need Mexican phone cards, bail bonds, or waxing. Or, in my case, a gynecological exam. Sigh.
I went upstairs to the office, and was horrified by the filthy lobby. There was actual dirt on the linoleum floors, and cheap plastic folding chairs lazily aligned around cheap fake wood end tables which looked like they'd been chewed on. There was trash on several chairs, including used kleenex and fast food wrappers. There was a small boy scooting a McDonald's toy truck around on the floor, and his knees were black from the filth. My instincts sent up red flags, and I told Jay I wasn't happy- I didn't feel good about the place at all.
He gently reminded me that this was my only option for seeing a doctor today, and if I wanted to be un-itchy, I should suck it up and deal with it. He also reminded me that we were in the city now, and no longer had the luxury of "nice" waiting rooms. I pointed out a crooked picture on the wall, and the "Merry Christmas" sign hanging above it. (This was in July.) I told him that attention to detail is important in medical care, and if they hadn't noticed that it wasn't December, maybe they would overlook things like pharmaceutical interactions or a precancerous mole. He told me that they probably hadn't taken the Christmas sign down because they were busy with patients, and to quit being a snob. That stung a little, so I shut my pie hole and sulked. "I'm not a snob," I thought... am I?
A few minutes later, Jay realized that he'd have to move the car from our metered spot, so he left me in the waiting room while he found a better place. While he was gone, the little anklebiter child dragged his stupid plastic car all over the chairs and floor and tables and eventually across my shoe. I wasn't happy with this. (What can I say- when you're itchy and sick, everything's more obnoxious.) I ignored him but eventually, when he collapsed against my shin, banging my leg against the table and knocking over a stand of yellowed "Diabetes and You" leaflets, I did the unthinkable: I gave his middle-eastern mother an "I'm annoyed with your child" look.
That's right. I stink-eyed the brat's mom. She picked up the hint right away, saw that he'd been climbing on everything, and grabbed him by his elbow- hard. Oops. That wasn't what I wanted- I just wanted her to pay attention to him so he'd quit annoying me. I felt bad.
Then, the poor kid started to quake as his mother marched him over to (presumably) his father, who proceeded to beat the living crap out of him. He slapped (like, really slapped) the child across his face, so, naturally the kid started to cry. Then he started yelling at him in Arabic, and the kid became so scared he stopped crying. The father then slapped the child on his chest and arms, and shoved him while yelling. Buffeted by the blows, the kids knees went out and he curled into a shuddering ball on the floor as his father hit him again and again and again.
...I was shocked- I had no idea what to do, but clearly any interaction or even LOOKING at the kid's dad would've just embarrassed and angered him further. I couldn't breathe and I was tearing up, so I grabbed my purse and ran out of the waiting room before my emotions betrayed me in front of this monster. I didn't want to earn the kid another beating.
When Jay came back from moving the car, he found me huddled in a dirty corner of the upstairs walkway, sobbing. We talked and I cried about how horrible this town was and how dirty everything is. He held me and I calmed down. I was too sick, heartsick and itchy to fight anymore- I just needed a prescription so I could go home. Please, please, just let me go home.
We cautiously re-entered the waiting room- the monster and his wife and child were gone. Eventually, we got in to see the doctor, and she walked into the room talking on her personal cell phone in a language I didn't recognize. She hung up and apologized, placing the cell phone in a loose pocket full of soft, dirty-looking dollar bills. This pocket also held her stethoscope. Knowing how dirty money can be, I was not amused, but her firm man-handshake should've sent me running. At this point I was determined to be stronger in front of my husband, who, thankfully, had accompanied me into the room with this hobgoblin of a doctor.
I told her I was sick and might need antibiotics, and that I was itchy. She asked me what I had. I told her I didn't know, and that since SHE was the doctor I was hoping she could tell me. She asks me if I want an STD test, and I tell her "No, no, there's no way I have any STDs- I think it might be a yeast infection but I want to make sure before I treat it with anything, you know?"
She asks me what kind of antibiotics I wanted, (because apparently it's Patient's Choice at Hollywood Cross) and I told her whatever she thought wouldn't interfere with my other medicine. She asked me what else I was on (which, although I have never been to medical school, I would've asked FIRST,) and then asks me why I'm on it. I tell her the name of my condition and she's never heard of it. Not very reassuring.
I also looked at her shoes- she has size 8 feet stuffed like rectangular sausages into size 6 shoes. The felt slippers were strained, with her knobby hobbit toes clearly outlined in the worn green material.
Finally, she hands me a paper towel and tells me to take my pants off.
"Right here?" I ask.
"Yes, yes!" she answers, and then picks up her ringing cell phone. She talks in her devil-language while I take off my pants, and then hangs up so she can put a glove on. She pulled the glove from the pocket with the dirty money in it.
"Scoot closer," she says. I inch forward. "Scoot, scoot," she croaks at me.
She then jammed what felt like her entire forearm inside me, and it hurt. A Lot. I cried out in pain, and she said, "It's OK, don't jump."
"You're hurting me!"
"It's OK," she says. Tears sting my eyes and I hold my breath. She continues to fish around in what I'm certain are my small intestines, and then says "There's $75 more to do a culture- you want culture?"
Tears are streaming down my face at this point. She's hurting me. Bad.
"You're really talking about money now?!?" I gasp. I was starting to understand how her shoes felt. It felt like my cervix was being branded with a hot iron.
Jay stands up and says, "You're stopping- right now. Just stop."
"Why?" she asks.
"Because you're clearly hurting her!"
I love my husband.
She pulls her meat-hook out of me, and I'm curled up in the fetal position.
"Oh," says Dr. Obvious. "I thought she cried because she is ashamed to be naked. A lot of girls they don't like the exam."
No shit.
She handed me a script for a Z-Pack, the Standard Issue antibiotic, but I couldn't even look at her. I felt like she'd somehow raped me with her fleshy fat hand. I was crying hard at this point. I seriously felt violated.
The office charged us for the culture, and we left. It was an awful day.
Then, when I took my prescription to CVS, they couldn't read her witch-doctor handwriting and had to call to confirm the request. She'd left the office and didn't get back with them for two days.
I hate that woman.
Two weeks later, I was still itchy and we hadn't received the results back from the test. Calling five times produced no results, so Jay and I went back to Barter Town and I demanded either the results or a refund. Miraculously, they produced a sheet of paper that clearly stated that I did not have Gonorrhea. Or Chlamydia. Which, considering I'd gone in with a god-damn yeast infection, was not much of a surprise.
From that point on, I decided to reserve my right to be snobby. My next doctor's appointment was scheduled for Beverly Hills. Why? Because my vagina deserves it, dammit!
I took a look at the intensely ratty part of town and was not pleased- and the office was situated in the "Hollywood Cross Medical Plaza," which is a great place to go it you need Mexican phone cards, bail bonds, or waxing. Or, in my case, a gynecological exam. Sigh.
I went upstairs to the office, and was horrified by the filthy lobby. There was actual dirt on the linoleum floors, and cheap plastic folding chairs lazily aligned around cheap fake wood end tables which looked like they'd been chewed on. There was trash on several chairs, including used kleenex and fast food wrappers. There was a small boy scooting a McDonald's toy truck around on the floor, and his knees were black from the filth. My instincts sent up red flags, and I told Jay I wasn't happy- I didn't feel good about the place at all.
He gently reminded me that this was my only option for seeing a doctor today, and if I wanted to be un-itchy, I should suck it up and deal with it. He also reminded me that we were in the city now, and no longer had the luxury of "nice" waiting rooms. I pointed out a crooked picture on the wall, and the "Merry Christmas" sign hanging above it. (This was in July.) I told him that attention to detail is important in medical care, and if they hadn't noticed that it wasn't December, maybe they would overlook things like pharmaceutical interactions or a precancerous mole. He told me that they probably hadn't taken the Christmas sign down because they were busy with patients, and to quit being a snob. That stung a little, so I shut my pie hole and sulked. "I'm not a snob," I thought... am I?
A few minutes later, Jay realized that he'd have to move the car from our metered spot, so he left me in the waiting room while he found a better place. While he was gone, the little anklebiter child dragged his stupid plastic car all over the chairs and floor and tables and eventually across my shoe. I wasn't happy with this. (What can I say- when you're itchy and sick, everything's more obnoxious.) I ignored him but eventually, when he collapsed against my shin, banging my leg against the table and knocking over a stand of yellowed "Diabetes and You" leaflets, I did the unthinkable: I gave his middle-eastern mother an "I'm annoyed with your child" look.
That's right. I stink-eyed the brat's mom. She picked up the hint right away, saw that he'd been climbing on everything, and grabbed him by his elbow- hard. Oops. That wasn't what I wanted- I just wanted her to pay attention to him so he'd quit annoying me. I felt bad.
Then, the poor kid started to quake as his mother marched him over to (presumably) his father, who proceeded to beat the living crap out of him. He slapped (like, really slapped) the child across his face, so, naturally the kid started to cry. Then he started yelling at him in Arabic, and the kid became so scared he stopped crying. The father then slapped the child on his chest and arms, and shoved him while yelling. Buffeted by the blows, the kids knees went out and he curled into a shuddering ball on the floor as his father hit him again and again and again.
...I was shocked- I had no idea what to do, but clearly any interaction or even LOOKING at the kid's dad would've just embarrassed and angered him further. I couldn't breathe and I was tearing up, so I grabbed my purse and ran out of the waiting room before my emotions betrayed me in front of this monster. I didn't want to earn the kid another beating.
When Jay came back from moving the car, he found me huddled in a dirty corner of the upstairs walkway, sobbing. We talked and I cried about how horrible this town was and how dirty everything is. He held me and I calmed down. I was too sick, heartsick and itchy to fight anymore- I just needed a prescription so I could go home. Please, please, just let me go home.
We cautiously re-entered the waiting room- the monster and his wife and child were gone. Eventually, we got in to see the doctor, and she walked into the room talking on her personal cell phone in a language I didn't recognize. She hung up and apologized, placing the cell phone in a loose pocket full of soft, dirty-looking dollar bills. This pocket also held her stethoscope. Knowing how dirty money can be, I was not amused, but her firm man-handshake should've sent me running. At this point I was determined to be stronger in front of my husband, who, thankfully, had accompanied me into the room with this hobgoblin of a doctor.
I told her I was sick and might need antibiotics, and that I was itchy. She asked me what I had. I told her I didn't know, and that since SHE was the doctor I was hoping she could tell me. She asks me if I want an STD test, and I tell her "No, no, there's no way I have any STDs- I think it might be a yeast infection but I want to make sure before I treat it with anything, you know?"
She asks me what kind of antibiotics I wanted, (because apparently it's Patient's Choice at Hollywood Cross) and I told her whatever she thought wouldn't interfere with my other medicine. She asked me what else I was on (which, although I have never been to medical school, I would've asked FIRST,) and then asks me why I'm on it. I tell her the name of my condition and she's never heard of it. Not very reassuring.
I also looked at her shoes- she has size 8 feet stuffed like rectangular sausages into size 6 shoes. The felt slippers were strained, with her knobby hobbit toes clearly outlined in the worn green material.
Finally, she hands me a paper towel and tells me to take my pants off.
"Right here?" I ask.
"Yes, yes!" she answers, and then picks up her ringing cell phone. She talks in her devil-language while I take off my pants, and then hangs up so she can put a glove on. She pulled the glove from the pocket with the dirty money in it.
"Scoot closer," she says. I inch forward. "Scoot, scoot," she croaks at me.
She then jammed what felt like her entire forearm inside me, and it hurt. A Lot. I cried out in pain, and she said, "It's OK, don't jump."
"You're hurting me!"
"It's OK," she says. Tears sting my eyes and I hold my breath. She continues to fish around in what I'm certain are my small intestines, and then says "There's $75 more to do a culture- you want culture?"
Tears are streaming down my face at this point. She's hurting me. Bad.
"You're really talking about money now?!?" I gasp. I was starting to understand how her shoes felt. It felt like my cervix was being branded with a hot iron.
Jay stands up and says, "You're stopping- right now. Just stop."
"Why?" she asks.
"Because you're clearly hurting her!"
I love my husband.
She pulls her meat-hook out of me, and I'm curled up in the fetal position.
"Oh," says Dr. Obvious. "I thought she cried because she is ashamed to be naked. A lot of girls they don't like the exam."
No shit.
She handed me a script for a Z-Pack, the Standard Issue antibiotic, but I couldn't even look at her. I felt like she'd somehow raped me with her fleshy fat hand. I was crying hard at this point. I seriously felt violated.
The office charged us for the culture, and we left. It was an awful day.
Then, when I took my prescription to CVS, they couldn't read her witch-doctor handwriting and had to call to confirm the request. She'd left the office and didn't get back with them for two days.
I hate that woman.
Two weeks later, I was still itchy and we hadn't received the results back from the test. Calling five times produced no results, so Jay and I went back to Barter Town and I demanded either the results or a refund. Miraculously, they produced a sheet of paper that clearly stated that I did not have Gonorrhea. Or Chlamydia. Which, considering I'd gone in with a god-damn yeast infection, was not much of a surprise.
From that point on, I decided to reserve my right to be snobby. My next doctor's appointment was scheduled for Beverly Hills. Why? Because my vagina deserves it, dammit!
Monday, February 8, 2010
L.A. Stories- New Edition, with more missing limbs!
It used to be, when I'd see or hear a helicopter, I thought, "tourists sightseeing." When I first moved to Hollywood, I assumed their presence indicated some celebrity sighting.
'Lindsay is flashing her vag again, activate AirBeaver Alpha Squad.'
When I was working Halloween Horror Nights, several choppers kept making passes over our maze, and I thought they were filming the celebs at the nearby Igor Awards ceremony- instead, I learned that there was a gang-related shooting at ShittyWalk.
The locals taught me that instead of something positive, Hollywood Helicopters are usually an ill omen. Someone is bleeding, someone is dying, someone is dead, someone is running from the police. It reminds me of a line in a Meatloaf song:
"A killer's on the blood-shot streets."
A Hollywood helicopter always means something is wrong.
Last night, there were helicopters, which is not unusual. There were also cop cars and ambulances surrounding our building, which, sadly, is also not unusual. When they blocked off our street, though, I figured there might be a little somethin' extra going on, and as it turns out, there was!
Someone O.D.'d in our building, (standard practice) which accounted for the first battalion of cops and paramedics, aaaaaaand, a bus tried to make it up the steep hill our street is on, its brakes failed, and it slid out of control down half the length of our street, taking out 5 parked cars and obliterating a scooter before crashing through a cinderblock wall and gate, and finally came to a stop, pinning a motorcycle against what's left of a Ford F-150. Awesome!!!
The debris and carnage is still there this morning- it's pretty exciting if you're into debris and carnage!
My neighbor told me the story as we walked to the Farmer's Market this morning. She and her girlfriend had heard the crashes and gone out to investigate, and the cops told them the whole story.
They also told her that earlier in the week, a three-car accident on our block had caused a car to go up on the sidewalk, pinning a woman to a building. The police said that the woman lived, but they had to amputate her legs.
For those of you playing the Home Version of our game, that makes a total of FOUR SEVERED LEGS since I moved to Cherokee Street.
With a bag loaded with tangelos and kale, I walked from the Market up our street with Courtney to see the mangled bus and the destruction. It was a bright sunny day. Most of the vehicles had been towed, but the bus, motorcycle, F-150 and chunks of wall and gate remained. At some point, someone had parked their car (perfectly legally) along the curb, but it was blocking part of the crash site so no more towing could be done.
Someone had placed a note on the driver's windshield:
"Move your F*cking car you idiot, can't you see you're in the F*cking way?"
Ahhh, Hollywood.
'Lindsay is flashing her vag again, activate AirBeaver Alpha Squad.'
When I was working Halloween Horror Nights, several choppers kept making passes over our maze, and I thought they were filming the celebs at the nearby Igor Awards ceremony- instead, I learned that there was a gang-related shooting at ShittyWalk.
The locals taught me that instead of something positive, Hollywood Helicopters are usually an ill omen. Someone is bleeding, someone is dying, someone is dead, someone is running from the police. It reminds me of a line in a Meatloaf song:
"A killer's on the blood-shot streets."
A Hollywood helicopter always means something is wrong.
Last night, there were helicopters, which is not unusual. There were also cop cars and ambulances surrounding our building, which, sadly, is also not unusual. When they blocked off our street, though, I figured there might be a little somethin' extra going on, and as it turns out, there was!
Someone O.D.'d in our building, (standard practice) which accounted for the first battalion of cops and paramedics, aaaaaaand, a bus tried to make it up the steep hill our street is on, its brakes failed, and it slid out of control down half the length of our street, taking out 5 parked cars and obliterating a scooter before crashing through a cinderblock wall and gate, and finally came to a stop, pinning a motorcycle against what's left of a Ford F-150. Awesome!!!
The debris and carnage is still there this morning- it's pretty exciting if you're into debris and carnage!
My neighbor told me the story as we walked to the Farmer's Market this morning. She and her girlfriend had heard the crashes and gone out to investigate, and the cops told them the whole story.
They also told her that earlier in the week, a three-car accident on our block had caused a car to go up on the sidewalk, pinning a woman to a building. The police said that the woman lived, but they had to amputate her legs.
For those of you playing the Home Version of our game, that makes a total of FOUR SEVERED LEGS since I moved to Cherokee Street.
With a bag loaded with tangelos and kale, I walked from the Market up our street with Courtney to see the mangled bus and the destruction. It was a bright sunny day. Most of the vehicles had been towed, but the bus, motorcycle, F-150 and chunks of wall and gate remained. At some point, someone had parked their car (perfectly legally) along the curb, but it was blocking part of the crash site so no more towing could be done.
Someone had placed a note on the driver's windshield:
"Move your F*cking car you idiot, can't you see you're in the F*cking way?"
Ahhh, Hollywood.
L.A. Stories- a Downtown Psuedomugging
The subway systems here are confusing- and if you miss a switch, you're screwed. Especially around 12:30 AM. Jay had to take a taxi from one dead-end back to a downtown L.A. train station where he could catch a rail back to Long Beach, where we were staying.
As he got out of the cab, he tipped the driver and the cab vanished down the empty streets. Jay took off walking down a deserted sidewalk towards the metro. Well, almost deserted...
A large imposing-looking man approached Jay as he was putting his wallet away in his pocket.
"Hey, man, do you have any spare change or some money I can have?"
"No, sorry" said Jay. "I need my cash for the train."
"Aw, that's too bad, see," says the scary man. "I'm just trying to not have to rob nobody tonight."
"Ok, well, good luck with that!"
Jay was lucky to make it home alive that night.
As he got out of the cab, he tipped the driver and the cab vanished down the empty streets. Jay took off walking down a deserted sidewalk towards the metro. Well, almost deserted...
A large imposing-looking man approached Jay as he was putting his wallet away in his pocket.
"Hey, man, do you have any spare change or some money I can have?"
"No, sorry" said Jay. "I need my cash for the train."
"Aw, that's too bad, see," says the scary man. "I'm just trying to not have to rob nobody tonight."
"Ok, well, good luck with that!"
Jay was lucky to make it home alive that night.
L.A. Stories- "You have to arrest me, there's blood everywhere!"
Near the corner of Hollywood and Highland, there's a large billboard featuring a stylized graphic of a cop car with lights blazing, an intense-looking cop, and bright swatches of crime scene tape. At first, I thought it was advertising a TV show, but it is, in actuality, an ad for the CRIME SECTION in the Los Angeles Times. At first I was slightly disgusted with the sensationalism, but hey, it's Hollywood. Then, I got to call the LAPD myself, and now that I know how truly awesome it is, I'm totally sold! Go cops go!
Here's what happened:
Shortly after Jay and I moved into our apartment on Cherokee Street, I went for a walk and saw some police hanging out on my corner. I told them I was new in town and asked if they could give me an idea about how safe the neighborhood was. They both burst out laughing, then stopped abruptly.
"Like, safe in terms of how," one asked.
"Like, 'can I go for a walk by myself at night' safe?"
They exchanged a 'look.'
"Naahhhh. I wouldn't do that." He answered.
"Stick right on Hollywood Blvd. and you'll be OK but don't go anywhere else," said the other cop.
"Stay away from the side streets."
"Or take someone else with you."
Yikes.
Due to the city noise, I'm now in the habit of sleeping with earplugs in. A couple of nights later, at 4:30AM, I awoke because I heard a woman screaming. I took out my earplugs- yup- definitely a woman screaming. Not just "yelling," full-on terrorized "NO! STOP!!! NOOOOOOO!!! GET AWAY FROM ME!!! NOOOOO!!!!" I immediately reached over to grab Jay, but he wasn't in bed.
Next I reached for the phone and dialed 911. The screaming had mutated into a howling at this point. Someone was dying.
"911 what is your emergency?"
"I'm at the X Building on Cherokee St. and a woman is screaming bloody murder."
"What is she screaming, ma'am?"
"Nooo, stop, get away from me- can you please come rescue her???"
"Is she being attacked?"
"I dunno- it sounds like it."
"Can you see her?"
At this point I hear a slamming sound and glass exploding. It sprinkles onto the concrete sidewalk in our courtyard like demonic rain.
"Can you please just come? Glass is shattering everywhere and I think she's dying."
"The police are on their way- is there a gate to your building?"
"Yes."
"If it's locked when the police get there can you make sure it's open?"
I hear more slamming popping sounds- gunshots?
"Ohhhhhkay..."
I hang up and go out to the living room where I find Jay looking out a window. I'm a totaly wreck.
"What is happening to her?"
"I dunno," he answers. "Cops are here."
From outside someone shouts "Gimmie the key, gimmie the key" and our gate flies open and at least seven huge LAPD shadows race across our darkened courtyard. Broken glass crunches under solid boots.
Several tense moments go by- more yelling and screaming, punctuated by staccato barkings from the officers. A few cops come out and stand in the courtyard.
Jay decides to go out and learn what's going on. Terrified, I stay put on the couch. I'm convinced bullets will fly at any moment. Paramedics arrived and trooped a medical parade through the courtyard.
Jay later told me that he saw one of our neighbors in handcuffs, saying, "you have to arrest me, there's blood everywhere."
From my window, I saw an older man being marched out through our courtyard by the cops. They had him in some ninja-grip, but he was doubled over and sobbing. Shortly after him followed the paramedics, who had folded a gurney into a wheel-chair position, and the person in the chair was handcuffed to its armrails- the person was wrapped from the neck down in white sheets stained with bright red blood, and from my vantage point, I swear to god, IT LOOKED LIKE HER LEGS HAD BEEN CHOPPED OFF. Dark red stains seeped down the front of the sheets. The woman in the chair lolled her head around and stared vacantly, moaning softly.
Jay finally came back and relayed what he'd seen- he said the cops were laughing and joking around after the arrests. Another night in Hollywood.
After not getting back to sleep and a long day at my internship, I came home, saw the broken glass in the courtyard still and saw a shattered window on the thrid floor. I wondered if he'd tried to push her legs-first out the window and that's what caused the gashes...
I went to the apartment complex's office in the basement of my building. I wanted to know what had happened. The people down there are perpetually rude, but I was freaked out. I didn't feel safe.
When I got down to the office, I was met with the typical blank stares of the Morlocks who work there. "Hey, I just wanted to know if there was any resolution to what happened this morning."
Blink blink. "What do you mean what happened this morning?" asks an irritated woman.
"You know, the screaming, possible gunshots, the police?"
"Ma'am nothing happened here at this building."
I'm amazed- is she denying this? "There was a woman screaming bloody murder- we all heard it."
They look around at each other, sheepishly.
The woman finally rolls her eyes and says, "There was a domestic disturbance, that's all. No big deal."
"Ah, so something DID happen."
She doesn't like being called out. "It's really none of your business."
"None of my business? No big deal?!? There's broken glass all over the courtyard,and I had to call 911 at 4 in the morning. I think that qualifies it as 'my business.'"
"Well, it doesn't concern you, it won't happen again, so you can go back upstairs." Wow she was a bitch.
"OK, well, it concerns me if there's some psycho in our building- I think I have a right to know whether or not I'm safe in my own building."
"It's a domestic disturbance, which means it's not random- and it happened on the third floor- you're on, what..." she pauses.
"The first floor," I answered.
"See," she said, throwing her hands up. "They're not even on your floor."
I'm more than a little sarcastic at this point. "So if they're firing gunshots at each other, it wouldn't even hit me?"
"Exactly."
"OK, well, I feel better. Thanks so much!"
Two weeks after that, I awoke to news vans literally lining our street. A reporter was just wrapping up her spot, and as her cameraman wrapped cables, I asked her what happened. "One of your neighbors was found dead this morning. He was naked and tied to a chair, stabbed over thirty times. Care to comment?" The camera man flips his camera to his shoulder and starts recording, and suddenly a microphone is in my face.
"Uh, no. No thank you."
I'm not worried at all- it didn't happen on my floor.
Here's what happened:
Shortly after Jay and I moved into our apartment on Cherokee Street, I went for a walk and saw some police hanging out on my corner. I told them I was new in town and asked if they could give me an idea about how safe the neighborhood was. They both burst out laughing, then stopped abruptly.
"Like, safe in terms of how," one asked.
"Like, 'can I go for a walk by myself at night' safe?"
They exchanged a 'look.'
"Naahhhh. I wouldn't do that." He answered.
"Stick right on Hollywood Blvd. and you'll be OK but don't go anywhere else," said the other cop.
"Stay away from the side streets."
"Or take someone else with you."
Yikes.
Due to the city noise, I'm now in the habit of sleeping with earplugs in. A couple of nights later, at 4:30AM, I awoke because I heard a woman screaming. I took out my earplugs- yup- definitely a woman screaming. Not just "yelling," full-on terrorized "NO! STOP!!! NOOOOOOO!!! GET AWAY FROM ME!!! NOOOOO!!!!" I immediately reached over to grab Jay, but he wasn't in bed.
Next I reached for the phone and dialed 911. The screaming had mutated into a howling at this point. Someone was dying.
"911 what is your emergency?"
"I'm at the X Building on Cherokee St. and a woman is screaming bloody murder."
"What is she screaming, ma'am?"
"Nooo, stop, get away from me- can you please come rescue her???"
"Is she being attacked?"
"I dunno- it sounds like it."
"Can you see her?"
At this point I hear a slamming sound and glass exploding. It sprinkles onto the concrete sidewalk in our courtyard like demonic rain.
"Can you please just come? Glass is shattering everywhere and I think she's dying."
"The police are on their way- is there a gate to your building?"
"Yes."
"If it's locked when the police get there can you make sure it's open?"
I hear more slamming popping sounds- gunshots?
"Ohhhhhkay..."
I hang up and go out to the living room where I find Jay looking out a window. I'm a totaly wreck.
"What is happening to her?"
"I dunno," he answers. "Cops are here."
From outside someone shouts "Gimmie the key, gimmie the key" and our gate flies open and at least seven huge LAPD shadows race across our darkened courtyard. Broken glass crunches under solid boots.
Several tense moments go by- more yelling and screaming, punctuated by staccato barkings from the officers. A few cops come out and stand in the courtyard.
Jay decides to go out and learn what's going on. Terrified, I stay put on the couch. I'm convinced bullets will fly at any moment. Paramedics arrived and trooped a medical parade through the courtyard.
Jay later told me that he saw one of our neighbors in handcuffs, saying, "you have to arrest me, there's blood everywhere."
From my window, I saw an older man being marched out through our courtyard by the cops. They had him in some ninja-grip, but he was doubled over and sobbing. Shortly after him followed the paramedics, who had folded a gurney into a wheel-chair position, and the person in the chair was handcuffed to its armrails- the person was wrapped from the neck down in white sheets stained with bright red blood, and from my vantage point, I swear to god, IT LOOKED LIKE HER LEGS HAD BEEN CHOPPED OFF. Dark red stains seeped down the front of the sheets. The woman in the chair lolled her head around and stared vacantly, moaning softly.
Jay finally came back and relayed what he'd seen- he said the cops were laughing and joking around after the arrests. Another night in Hollywood.
After not getting back to sleep and a long day at my internship, I came home, saw the broken glass in the courtyard still and saw a shattered window on the thrid floor. I wondered if he'd tried to push her legs-first out the window and that's what caused the gashes...
I went to the apartment complex's office in the basement of my building. I wanted to know what had happened. The people down there are perpetually rude, but I was freaked out. I didn't feel safe.
When I got down to the office, I was met with the typical blank stares of the Morlocks who work there. "Hey, I just wanted to know if there was any resolution to what happened this morning."
Blink blink. "What do you mean what happened this morning?" asks an irritated woman.
"You know, the screaming, possible gunshots, the police?"
"Ma'am nothing happened here at this building."
I'm amazed- is she denying this? "There was a woman screaming bloody murder- we all heard it."
They look around at each other, sheepishly.
The woman finally rolls her eyes and says, "There was a domestic disturbance, that's all. No big deal."
"Ah, so something DID happen."
She doesn't like being called out. "It's really none of your business."
"None of my business? No big deal?!? There's broken glass all over the courtyard,and I had to call 911 at 4 in the morning. I think that qualifies it as 'my business.'"
"Well, it doesn't concern you, it won't happen again, so you can go back upstairs." Wow she was a bitch.
"OK, well, it concerns me if there's some psycho in our building- I think I have a right to know whether or not I'm safe in my own building."
"It's a domestic disturbance, which means it's not random- and it happened on the third floor- you're on, what..." she pauses.
"The first floor," I answered.
"See," she said, throwing her hands up. "They're not even on your floor."
I'm more than a little sarcastic at this point. "So if they're firing gunshots at each other, it wouldn't even hit me?"
"Exactly."
"OK, well, I feel better. Thanks so much!"
Two weeks after that, I awoke to news vans literally lining our street. A reporter was just wrapping up her spot, and as her cameraman wrapped cables, I asked her what happened. "One of your neighbors was found dead this morning. He was naked and tied to a chair, stabbed over thirty times. Care to comment?" The camera man flips his camera to his shoulder and starts recording, and suddenly a microphone is in my face.
"Uh, no. No thank you."
I'm not worried at all- it didn't happen on my floor.
L.A. Stories- the Lakers Game and Subway Shennanigans
Jay and I had attended our very first game at the Staples Center! Magic vs. Lakers! As two out of the total of seven Magic fans in attendance, we did our best to help the Magic out. Jack Nicholson was there, with his famed court-side seats, and sitting next to him was Adam Sandler, who looked really pissed off for some reason. The Lakers Girls came out and danced in sexy outfits sponsored by Carl's Jr. Weird. Oh, look! Hot girls! ...Let's get fast food!
There's an option to send text messages to the jumbotron, and we tried consistently to send messages like "Pau Gassol, your headlights are on, please leave the Staples Center and tend to your car," but no success. We should have known the man can't read. (Although Jay managed to sneak in some "I love you Jaime, Go Magic" messages, so I can cross "Jumbotron Romance" off my bucket list.)
Although we were up by 10 points in the third quarter, eventually the Lakers caught up and forced their way into the lead. They won, but, at the Staples Center, if the Lakers score over 100 points and they win the game, the WHOLE CROWD (even the Magic fans) get 2 free tacos from our good friends at Carl's Jr.- remember them from the Laker Girls' titties? Yeah! Tacoooooos!!!! It was the only thing that made the loss bearable.
Throughout the game, and at the final Lakers victory, the Staples Center's loudspeakers wold blast the chorus from Randy Newman's 80's classic "I Love L.A." The fans were in a pretty good mood after the game, and, surged triumphantly out of the Staples Center, spilling into the night with Randy Newman echoing throughout the arena: "I Loooooove L.A.!" "We Love it!"
By now, everyone should know how much I despise the Metro system. (See my previous blog "L.A. Stories-The Korea-Town Spaceman for my truly excellent reasons why.) However, tonight was a perfect Metro situation. There were trains which went right next to the Staples center, so, minimal walking, and only one train switch. It cost us $10 to take the train, whereas parking and gas would've been $30 or more.
So after the game Jay and I headed over to the train platform with around 50 Lakers fans. Bastards. We're waiting for the train, and feeling pretty sure of ourselves when some out-of-towners asked US if they were waiting for the right train. We confidently assured them that they were. Seconds later, a muffled announcement blasts through the Metro's speaker- the teacher from Charlie Brown now works for Transit Authority, and has proclaimed an indecipherable edict. Suddenly the crowd panics and rushes towards the train approaching on the side of the tracks.
"Is this going to Union?" No one is sure. As a confused mob, some people were certain enough that a train switch had been made- we followed the pack and stuffed into the train en masse. At some point, another mumbled announcement was made and enough people understood it to spread reassurance around, and the cacophony of disoriented public transportaion died to its status quo dull roar- except for the wailing...
Somewhere outside the train, and then inside the train, and then sort of floating from car to car was a very distressed person. It was the typical kind of schizophrenia-induced anguished cry of rage one hears occasionally from LA's homeless, but this was really bad. It was a wounded animal sort of howl- at once piteous, gut-wrenching and terrifying. The gnashing and raging continued, and then the raving began. I'm going to be perfectly honest here- at this point I thought, "Is that Adam Sandler?" It totally sounded like him for a fleeting instant.
As whoever was making this noise moved like a banshee from car to car, everyone became totally silent- you could see a wave of people clearing a path, but the Wailer was either small, hunched over or crawling, so I could only see where the sound was coming from but not the person making it.
Everyone on the train was silent and tense. We'd just left a frivolous sporting event and were headed back to our homes- here was someone who had nothing, and hence, nothing to lose. I always envision shattered glass and slashing to follow, and in a crowded subway car... I could tell by the widened eyes and white knuckles around me that I wasn't the only one who was frightened.
After one of those long moments which feels like forever, the crazed Phantom left us, and the doors closed. A tacit yet palpable collective sigh of relief went up in the sill silent subway car, and then,
"I LOVVVVVVE L.A.!" sings out my husband.
Too soon? Maybe so. Judging from the 60 or so dirty looks we got from the still-rattled riders, L.A. don't Love You. No wonder they make t-shirts that say as much. Later on, someone was courteous enough to reach out to us by shouting "The Magic SUCK!"
There's an option to send text messages to the jumbotron, and we tried consistently to send messages like "Pau Gassol, your headlights are on, please leave the Staples Center and tend to your car," but no success. We should have known the man can't read. (Although Jay managed to sneak in some "I love you Jaime, Go Magic" messages, so I can cross "Jumbotron Romance" off my bucket list.)
Although we were up by 10 points in the third quarter, eventually the Lakers caught up and forced their way into the lead. They won, but, at the Staples Center, if the Lakers score over 100 points and they win the game, the WHOLE CROWD (even the Magic fans) get 2 free tacos from our good friends at Carl's Jr.- remember them from the Laker Girls' titties? Yeah! Tacoooooos!!!! It was the only thing that made the loss bearable.
Throughout the game, and at the final Lakers victory, the Staples Center's loudspeakers wold blast the chorus from Randy Newman's 80's classic "I Love L.A." The fans were in a pretty good mood after the game, and, surged triumphantly out of the Staples Center, spilling into the night with Randy Newman echoing throughout the arena: "I Loooooove L.A.!" "We Love it!"
By now, everyone should know how much I despise the Metro system. (See my previous blog "L.A. Stories-The Korea-Town Spaceman for my truly excellent reasons why.) However, tonight was a perfect Metro situation. There were trains which went right next to the Staples center, so, minimal walking, and only one train switch. It cost us $10 to take the train, whereas parking and gas would've been $30 or more.
So after the game Jay and I headed over to the train platform with around 50 Lakers fans. Bastards. We're waiting for the train, and feeling pretty sure of ourselves when some out-of-towners asked US if they were waiting for the right train. We confidently assured them that they were. Seconds later, a muffled announcement blasts through the Metro's speaker- the teacher from Charlie Brown now works for Transit Authority, and has proclaimed an indecipherable edict. Suddenly the crowd panics and rushes towards the train approaching on the side of the tracks.
"Is this going to Union?" No one is sure. As a confused mob, some people were certain enough that a train switch had been made- we followed the pack and stuffed into the train en masse. At some point, another mumbled announcement was made and enough people understood it to spread reassurance around, and the cacophony of disoriented public transportaion died to its status quo dull roar- except for the wailing...
Somewhere outside the train, and then inside the train, and then sort of floating from car to car was a very distressed person. It was the typical kind of schizophrenia-induced anguished cry of rage one hears occasionally from LA's homeless, but this was really bad. It was a wounded animal sort of howl- at once piteous, gut-wrenching and terrifying. The gnashing and raging continued, and then the raving began. I'm going to be perfectly honest here- at this point I thought, "Is that Adam Sandler?" It totally sounded like him for a fleeting instant.
As whoever was making this noise moved like a banshee from car to car, everyone became totally silent- you could see a wave of people clearing a path, but the Wailer was either small, hunched over or crawling, so I could only see where the sound was coming from but not the person making it.
Everyone on the train was silent and tense. We'd just left a frivolous sporting event and were headed back to our homes- here was someone who had nothing, and hence, nothing to lose. I always envision shattered glass and slashing to follow, and in a crowded subway car... I could tell by the widened eyes and white knuckles around me that I wasn't the only one who was frightened.
After one of those long moments which feels like forever, the crazed Phantom left us, and the doors closed. A tacit yet palpable collective sigh of relief went up in the sill silent subway car, and then,
"I LOVVVVVVE L.A.!" sings out my husband.
Too soon? Maybe so. Judging from the 60 or so dirty looks we got from the still-rattled riders, L.A. don't Love You. No wonder they make t-shirts that say as much. Later on, someone was courteous enough to reach out to us by shouting "The Magic SUCK!"
L.A. Stories- Advice From A Drunken Life-Coach
I'm at Cinespace in Hollywood- it's a great little nightclub down the street from my apartment, and my amazing friend Carlos is a bouncer. Carlos hooks us up in a beautiful way- I stroll past the line which wraps around the block, Carlos smiles at me and the rope drops. Then I'm all up in that club.
In the most superficial way possible, it's a good feeling. It's also nice because it's coooold out here!
Last night, my friend Tiffany came as well, and brought her small entourage along. She's friends with a promoter, so they strolled right in as well. This is especially nice when cover at Cinespace can run anywhere from $20-$40. It's insane.
The club was packed and at the end of the night, 5 separate fights broke out. It became like the wild west- one fight in one corner, then suddenly everybody starts swinging. Some guy got so excited about a fight breaking out he threw up on the wall, and a girl jumped away from it which started a hair pulling wrestling match with another girl. I expected a piano player to break out the rag-time music as bottles break and someone gets shot and falls through the railing. Fortunately, though, no one smuggled in any guns or pianos.
Early in the night, a couple of guys instantly attached themselves to our group, but they were pretty fun and good-looking enough for the girls to be pleased that they were around. They danced with us and we had a good time. As the night wore on, though, they drank more and more. Tiffany, on a mission, took a girlfriend and one of the guys outside for a second leaving me sort of stranded waiting with his friend on the stairs. I noticed he was wearing dogtags, and like the sexy club bunny I clearly am, asked him if he know that the smaller loop of chain was meant to go around the toes of a soldier as a toe tag if the soldier was wounded. He looked confused, and then explained that his dog tags were GUCCI. "Ohhh." I say. "Well, that explains that." (???)
I joked around with him about starting his own fashionable military unit, until this little exchange occurred:
Him: So what'd you do today?
Me: Hunh? (It's a nightclub, after all)
Him: Like, how'd you spend your day?
Me: Oh- well, today was kind of a sucky day.
Him: Why?
Me: I don't wanna go into detail- let's go dance!
Him- No no no- What did you PHYSICALLY DO today?
Me- laid around in bed...
Him: Why?
Me: I don't wanna talk about it, dude.
Him: No! It's Okay! I'm a part-time lifecoach!
At this point I decided to indulge him, because I had a suspicion it would be awesome. It was.
Me: Okayyy, I laid around because I was really sad.
Him: (exploding) That's bullshit! Do you know how beautiful it was outside today?!?
Me: Yeah.
Him: It was 84 degrees on the beach- it was sunny- there were lots and lots of people.
At this point he begins touching me with his index and middle finger, in my chest, every time he says the word "you."
Him: You (touch) need to be around people- you (touch) need to be in sunshine! There's vitamin D and shit out there, and you (touch) absorb that shit, right, because you're (touch) a human being and you (touch) need (touch) to (touch) be (touch) in (touch) the (touch) sun! (touch!)
His touches are getting sloppy and several of them find their way to my actual breast and nipple. Then he gets deep on me.
Him: Why were you laying in bed when it was so sunny outside?
Me: Because I was in a bad mood- people self-sabotage when they're in a bad mood.
Him: No no no no no! Self-sabotage? You know what the worst kind of sabotage is?
Me: What.
Him: (triumphant) SELF-Sabotage!
Me: Ahhh.
Him: The good things in life go to whoever's working for them. So if I lie in bed for one day, someone else is gonna get what I want, because I'm not working for it.
Me: So it doesn't matter what kind of person you are- you can be a complete douchebag but because you're working for something you'll get it? Like a job as a part-time lifecoach?
Him: (oblivious) Exactly! Think about it! Just think for a second and answer honestly- why are you so lazy?
He's now touching my temple and forehead, for some reason, and oblivious to my open smirk.
Me: I dunno, I guess I thought I could take one day off.
Him: No no no no no! You can't! Because if you lie in bed all day and don't get out of bed, you're lazy and you deserve the bad things.
Me: So what about people who can't get out of bed? What about quadriplegics?
Him: (pause) Quadraplegics? Well that's just bad luck!
At this point I'm openly laughing at him. He sees this as encouragement and presses his forehead against mine. It's gross but sooo worth it for what he says next:
Him: It's their bad luck, man. Quadri-pah-legics. If they don't have any arms or limbs or whatever, you know, they just gotta get out there- they just gotta work harder than the other quadri-legics. ...They can still have roles in the movies.
Thank youuuuuu, Hollywood!!!
In the most superficial way possible, it's a good feeling. It's also nice because it's coooold out here!
Last night, my friend Tiffany came as well, and brought her small entourage along. She's friends with a promoter, so they strolled right in as well. This is especially nice when cover at Cinespace can run anywhere from $20-$40. It's insane.
The club was packed and at the end of the night, 5 separate fights broke out. It became like the wild west- one fight in one corner, then suddenly everybody starts swinging. Some guy got so excited about a fight breaking out he threw up on the wall, and a girl jumped away from it which started a hair pulling wrestling match with another girl. I expected a piano player to break out the rag-time music as bottles break and someone gets shot and falls through the railing. Fortunately, though, no one smuggled in any guns or pianos.
Early in the night, a couple of guys instantly attached themselves to our group, but they were pretty fun and good-looking enough for the girls to be pleased that they were around. They danced with us and we had a good time. As the night wore on, though, they drank more and more. Tiffany, on a mission, took a girlfriend and one of the guys outside for a second leaving me sort of stranded waiting with his friend on the stairs. I noticed he was wearing dogtags, and like the sexy club bunny I clearly am, asked him if he know that the smaller loop of chain was meant to go around the toes of a soldier as a toe tag if the soldier was wounded. He looked confused, and then explained that his dog tags were GUCCI. "Ohhh." I say. "Well, that explains that." (???)
I joked around with him about starting his own fashionable military unit, until this little exchange occurred:
Him: So what'd you do today?
Me: Hunh? (It's a nightclub, after all)
Him: Like, how'd you spend your day?
Me: Oh- well, today was kind of a sucky day.
Him: Why?
Me: I don't wanna go into detail- let's go dance!
Him- No no no- What did you PHYSICALLY DO today?
Me- laid around in bed...
Him: Why?
Me: I don't wanna talk about it, dude.
Him: No! It's Okay! I'm a part-time lifecoach!
At this point I decided to indulge him, because I had a suspicion it would be awesome. It was.
Me: Okayyy, I laid around because I was really sad.
Him: (exploding) That's bullshit! Do you know how beautiful it was outside today?!?
Me: Yeah.
Him: It was 84 degrees on the beach- it was sunny- there were lots and lots of people.
At this point he begins touching me with his index and middle finger, in my chest, every time he says the word "you."
Him: You (touch) need to be around people- you (touch) need to be in sunshine! There's vitamin D and shit out there, and you (touch) absorb that shit, right, because you're (touch) a human being and you (touch) need (touch) to (touch) be (touch) in (touch) the (touch) sun! (touch!)
His touches are getting sloppy and several of them find their way to my actual breast and nipple. Then he gets deep on me.
Him: Why were you laying in bed when it was so sunny outside?
Me: Because I was in a bad mood- people self-sabotage when they're in a bad mood.
Him: No no no no no! Self-sabotage? You know what the worst kind of sabotage is?
Me: What.
Him: (triumphant) SELF-Sabotage!
Me: Ahhh.
Him: The good things in life go to whoever's working for them. So if I lie in bed for one day, someone else is gonna get what I want, because I'm not working for it.
Me: So it doesn't matter what kind of person you are- you can be a complete douchebag but because you're working for something you'll get it? Like a job as a part-time lifecoach?
Him: (oblivious) Exactly! Think about it! Just think for a second and answer honestly- why are you so lazy?
He's now touching my temple and forehead, for some reason, and oblivious to my open smirk.
Me: I dunno, I guess I thought I could take one day off.
Him: No no no no no! You can't! Because if you lie in bed all day and don't get out of bed, you're lazy and you deserve the bad things.
Me: So what about people who can't get out of bed? What about quadriplegics?
Him: (pause) Quadraplegics? Well that's just bad luck!
At this point I'm openly laughing at him. He sees this as encouragement and presses his forehead against mine. It's gross but sooo worth it for what he says next:
Him: It's their bad luck, man. Quadri-pah-legics. If they don't have any arms or limbs or whatever, you know, they just gotta get out there- they just gotta work harder than the other quadri-legics. ...They can still have roles in the movies.
Thank youuuuuu, Hollywood!!!
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