Death Threat

This is the forty pages story on a true event. I will not leave it on long but it will be in my new book.

 

The Death Threat

 

 

       It was a rainy Tuesday morning on the North side. I got a call from the crazy Brit, who wanted me to meet a friend of hers. The Brit only associated with Hollywood nobodies and her connections lead nowhere, but to minor-league players in the entertainment business. She knew a producer also in Long Beach, deep on the Northside, almost on the boarder with Compton.

     I wasn’t saying I was familiar with all the movers and shakers, but one thing I knew was they didn’t reside in the ghettos of Long Beach. She informed me her friend was trying to get into the video making business and was searching for a director. The Brit had mentioned me and set up a meeting, while already doing voice over work for him. She stressed the importance and didn’t want me to miss the opportunity.

      At the time, I was living in Bixby Knolls with my kid’s mother. Everything in my life had stalled, since moving from the Valley to the LBC. She was passively forcing me to quit everything that I had sacrificed plasm and sweat for. The former LA graffiti artist swore on a stack of Gideon’s: she knew what was hot and who as not. Apparently I was neither.

     The insane English woman wanted to pick me up at the Condo. I said that would be a negative and waited for her at the nearest coffee shop, so my whereabouts couldn’t be traced. We were supposed to meet on that Wednesday on Long Beach BLVD. I was always nervous when riding with the Brit, due to her bouts of spontaneous rage. I thought the people of England call them spastics. From nowhere she would throw fits, foam at the mouth and curse the world uncontrollably. Most time, I hid in plain site. On that day I made it a point, to tell her any explosions of madness and I would leave right away and would exit stage right quicker than a David Beckum dribbled passed a flatfooted Brazilian.

     She agreed: surprised I set her straight, but the rage storing as we spoke. I told  my kids mother the plan and she thought it was cool but with tongue in cheek. The wall painter was another who swore they knew the people in the industry from her days as a vandal and could hook me up with one of her spray can cronies. I had double doubts. I didn’t expect anything from the meeting, every hook up in the city of angles led to nothing but frustration and false promises.

     I walked up to the popular chain Café on the corner of Long Beach BLVD and San Antonio. She pulled up a few minutes in her newly bought, old car. She traded in her beaten, weathered mustang for a beaten weathered BMW, which fit her beaten weathered body. She called me again: lost and the aggravation in her voice rising. I warned her again: I would leave if she pulled up angry. She calmed immediately and would be there in a few minutes. The new drizzle assaulted my forehead, as I stood outside the shop.

     The BMW rode up and I jumped inside. We exchange salutations and were on the road. She turned up Artesia avenue, I remember that street from my days of subbing at Jordan high school. After a couple miles, she drove to a worn, square building sitting next to an auto mechanic’s shop. This is the producer? I felt another goose chase of epic proportions on the horizon.

     The cloudy, cool day added to the pessimistic visions playing in my head. The tall midget exited her car and put a British handicap plaque in her window, then led me to the chipped paint, dingy front door.

     The Brit knocked on the door and a fat, light skinned black man of around thirty, probably over six three, with a double chin and wooly hair opened. He shook my hand firmly and spoke gruffly. He had almost the same accent to his voice as the people posed back home. It turned out he supposedly from Philly. He said his name was Ry and to vall him rip. The music man seemed friendly enough, as he led us into the plain and dirty kitchen.

“I need my coffee before I start the day. You want some?”

I declined but the Brit wanted some coffee.

 An English person drinking Coffee? I heard it all.

     He put on the brew, returned to us and started ranting about the Earthquake in Japan was causes by HAARP: a secret machine the government created to control the weather. I listened, while glancing around the humble, dusty surroundings. I noticed a recording studio in the next room.

“Yeah man the government is trying to run this world. Me and you!”

Rip disappeared for a few minutes and came back with an assault rifle. Our host flicked on a button and a strobe light flashed on the end of the weapon.

“This is what the feds get if they come through the front door!”

     He tried to do a show and tell then handed me the gun. I declined the touch and feel invitation. I didn’t want to make myself an instant roommate to some Seven-Eleven owner housed at the Guantanamo bay military hotel. The English midget grabbed the weapon like some cartoon action figure. The red flags should have been waving in the hurricane winds of distrust, but I wanted to see the camera.

Let me see the camera!

     Our host put down the weapon and drank coffee. I stood in place and listened to him and the Brit spew all sorts of non-sense back and forth.

      After some final sips, we all made our way the recording studio. It was fully modern with a professional Soundboard, a recording booth and three monitors through out the room. It was something that one would see during a music video. I was impressed; it was top of the line.

     He took me to a back room showing me his green screen and three point profession lights: everything was top of the line. The music man was all about business.  

     We returned to the recording studio where he showed me the camera: it was a Canon EOS. Everyone and their mother shoot with those photographic marvels. They were regular middle of the road digital cameras, but the company made the video system in the camera superior to all low-end digital cameras on the market. They affordable and could be used easily.

     I was hooked and wanted to see this low budget cinema fad. The Brit ran out to her car due to a tow threat. The producer and I chopped it up a bit without the English pest. The Brit told me before he was from Philly and we might have some things in common so I tried to find that bound. I liked meeting from the East Coast people on the West Coast.

     I liked the East Coast mentality even though after someone was out west for 6 month they changed, either intentionally or unintentionally. It was a gradual poising of the blood: so natural and sick. Like the flu, you didn’t sense infection until back in your native settings. He seemed a good guy at first, not bitten by the Hollywood bug and seemed humble for the most part. Rip was soft spoken and seemed like a team player. I thought this might work. Egos were a common parasite that flew in the LA air affecting all.

     Rip told me he wanted to film a music video something futurist: with him being a man from the future wearing a white robe, who crashes on a post apocalyptic Earth. I thought the concept was good. Our host showed me the camera purchased off Craig list.

     The Jersey boy had an excellent Poker face and could shake my head up and down, smile and Amen all day. That didn’t mean I was on your side. That didn’t mean we were friends. That never meant I was going along blindly with any plan. Within the first thirty seconds of a conversation, I knew my limits and how far I would go and how much I would take.

       I had done a little research before to prepare for the meeting. After handling the camera, I found out it was as advertised. A regular film camera but had the bells and whistles. The producer had all the lenses, the steady cam and everything needed. So we exchanged number and I exited with the Brit.

“I knew you two would hit it off being from Philly and all. See don’t I know people!”

    The way she patted herself on the back almost brought my lunch up. She dropped me off near where I was staying. I didn’t want her to know my living situation the evil could be sensed. She had a dark side and one could never let their guard down.

     Rip called me the next day and wanted me to come by. He asked if I wanted to do some shooting to get used to the camera. I thought that was an awesome idea.

One of the best I had heard in a while. I would be there in an hour with size twelve bells on. It was a cloudy sunless day on the North side again; three days in a row.

     The clouds were a soupy, silver jumbo in the sky. I jumped into the Burgundy Nissan and was on my way. I made it to the North side in record time, parked two blocks down and walked to the Studio. I passed young, rough black men on my way to Rip’s place.

“Hey cop.”

They said with scanning stares, but I minded my own business and concentrated on the left, right and the space in front. I knew the rules. Rip opened the door and I walked inside. After some small talk, I came out and asked him.

“What do you want to shoot?”

He pauses and stated in a gentle matter of fact voice.

“Lets go shoot the BP plant. We can use the footage for the video.”

The only words I heard were shoot and video. I should’ve paid attention to the rest of the conversation. We grabbed the equipment and walked to his car parked out in the alley: an alley I would never walk through during dark hours. We slid into his wreck on wheels and made our way from North Long Beach to Paramount and took detour: he again needed his coffee.

     We stopped in a local Starbucks and he grabbed a large coffee, then circled back and parked directly across the street from the BP oil refinery. The two of us removed the equipments from his car and set up on the shoulder of the road. I tried to familiarize my self with this new device, because it was hard to think of a film camera as a video camera.

     The front gates of the oil plant had security cameras everywhere: hidden and open. Huge oil trucks passed in and outside the gate. A bad feeling instantly arose inside my gut. This didn’t seem like the best idea we could have conceived that day.

      Rip was cool as cold cucumbers. I on the other hand started to rumble inside. I thought nothing good could come from this practice session but had to keep it calm. I had to keep it together. The sun seemed to peek through the curtain of gray clouds, as though she was looking through her fingers. She too knew nothing reasonable could come from the impromptu video shoot.

     I looked through the lens but couldn’t concentrate and kept thinking at any moment this whole thing could go wrong. As though my mind pictured that very vision, a white truck pulled out from behind the gates. It drove up and parked behind the Rip’s junk car. The man whom stepped out of the passenger seat was a tall Mexican man with a muscular physique wearing a white company shirt. He asked what we were doing.

 Rip jumped to his defensive Philly posture,

“We are filming. What do you want?”

“Well I already called the cops they are on their way.”

He mumbled something on the Walkie Talkie, then jumped back into his truck and returned back behind the gate.

Rip turned to me with a humble confused look in his eyes,

“What do you want to do?”

“We have to stay.”

I knew that if we exited quickly that would appear criminal, yet if we stayed it also looked sidways. Our only advantage of not catching a beating or being caught in an extremely hostile situation was the surveillance cameras beaming down on us. If we did catch a beating, at least we might be well civilly compensated.

     We stayed outside staring at the front gate. The reality of the situation had finally sunk in deep. It was post 9-11 and we were outside of BP oil during the spill in the gulf. In less than five minutes the police pulled up behind us. The dread formed in my belly.

      Long Beach PD: a group of bullies that did nothing but to make worst events worst. The first police officer out of the squad car was a tall, Indian cop over six-foot with a brown completion and light colored eyes. I had never seen an SE Asian with light colored eyes before. I was slightly intrigued. He’s didn’t seem to be the rough, vicious cop type but my heart dropped when I saw the next officer: a small, chubby, white officer step out of the driver-side.

     He strutted like the stereotypical a*s kicker from every bad police flick ever made in the eighties. Even worst he worn sunglass and a frown pulled off the face of TJ Hooker. I knew this had the possibility of being combustible.

     The short, elf cop commanded us both over. I could feel the anger arising in my bowls. The police and I have never been friends. I never had a police officer treat me as a man, during my entire life.

 I was always a suspect. I was always a criminal. Always up to something.

     I caught an attitude right away. Somehow deep down inside, I didn’t think it mattered if the both of us were complaint or non-complaint, we were going to receive the LBPD treatment.

“Get you hands out of your pockets!”  

     He hollered in his loud cop cadence. I was already offended and ready for war. I could not hide the expression on my face. It beamed like a flashing orange light. Attitude. Attitude. Attitude.

     Rip went along with the orders peaceful as a chubby lamb. He seemed like a big, soft ugly, teddy bear. I was a stiff rebellious soul with no intention of making this experience joyful. These two officers wouldn’t sit in the police locker room boosting of a beat down. They were going to earn the money toward their pension.

“You come here”, said the tiny cop, “Let me see some identification.”

     I reluctantly pulled out my ID and handed it to the Indian cop. The little officer grabbed it with his tiny hands and stared through his dark sunglasses, then turned his attention to Rip.

“You mind if we pat you down?”

The chubby lamb complied. The Indian police officer felt his soft, fat belly then massaged him up and down each leg them his arms. He found a medium sized knife. Officer Khan held it,

“So what are you in school?”

“Yeah I go to Cerritos College.”

Who was this guy! First he was tough with security! Now he is like a boy scout! What party of the rough and tumble streets is he from! This young Beluga whale! It was my turn for the touching party and officer sub five feet was itching to dance!

“Put you’re hands behind your”, he said with venom coursing from his little speak hole. I put my hands behind my head, as he got on his tippie toes to secure me. He grabbed my wrist but I still felt self-control.

“Spread you legs”, he commanded.

I barley opened them beyond my shoulders. He kicked at my ankles,

“I said spread you legs!” he yelled.

I moved my legs a little more,

“I have a bad knee”

“Yeah come on man he has a bad leg” said the plump Philly lamb.

The Elf officer whispered in my ear,

“I will dump you!”

I heard the joy in his tone. This little man would have felt like a super hero with me on the ground, while staring at the grey cloud with the tiny policeman peering down at me like a hunted deer. I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

     I opened my legs as he roughly searched me. Hands in pockets. Hands on chest. Hands grabbing my c**k, and pausing (in my opinion a little too long.) He released me and circled like a sand shark.

“What your problem man?”

He said sticking his chest out like an aggressive baby baboon.

“I don’t like the way you spoke to me.”

“Stop being a baby”, chimed in officer Bombay light pupils.

“I don’t like the way you spoke to me. You’re going to speak to me like a man.” Or something like that maybe those were not the exact words, but don’t remember. I was done rendering under the humiliation from the boys in blue. I had endured a life of abuse and that moment was my Hadrian’s Wall moment.

“I don’t know where you think you are! This is Long Beach!”

     Sang officer Booster seat. I saw in his eyes he was going to make the situation worst. I knew he was looking for that stellar police moment in his career. Not a Rodney King event but close. A moment told to his wife and kids or his male lover at the local cop bar.

      I could imagine: him in a tight wife beater over a grill during a back yard barbeque. Telling tales of whipping two criminals, across the street from the BP oil refinery in North Long Beach. Saving the world, from their violence and sassing ways.

     I watched my words and refrained from raising my voice any louder, but I saw this might get crazy. A storm was brewing. A storm we wouldn’t win.

“How about we seize your stuff. You’re not allowed to shoot outside of this refinery.”

“Oh man! Come on man!”

The black, baby Huey displayed a man sized tantrum.

What part of Philly was he from? All the people I knew from Philly had some back bone and some heart.

I had an ace up my sleeve from my days living in the Valley, being a student of  routine police harassment.

“Let me get your Badge number.”

They froze and their faces dropped.

“Let me get your badge number and your supervisor”, I repeated.

     Officer Napoleon ran to my left and stood on a small hill to the back of us. He rattled off his number at super sonic speed three times. I then said I wanted to speak with their commander. The other officer jumped on his Walkie Talkie and called for the supervisor. The smaller officer threatened to call the FBI on us.

I walked over to the sad, chubby driver and said under my breath,

“My bad.”

My bad but you are caught in a war! I am walking away a man this time. I will not run. I will not hide.

“We can take all your s**t! All this can be ours!”

      As he made motions with his arms, like he was scooping in the world. His partner stood to the back, calmer and didn’t want any trouble. Under the circumstances, he was still a cool guy. I guessed he had to balance out the action of his better half.

     In about five minutes the sergeant pulled up in a police truck. He stepped out of the vehicle and was about five nine, medium brown skinned, with an athletic frame and blonde hair. His mouth spoke friendly words but his eyes said, ‘I will take you down in a second.’ I knew to take the sugar verbs approach with him. I didn’t want to see his bad side.

     He stepped in front of his officers with a huge smile attached to his chiseled face.

“What the problem out here? Everything okay?”

The officers explained their side and we told him our side. He walked over then investigated the camera, turned around and smiled again at us. I told him I liked his hair and basically he was my hero. Not in those words, but close. He had officially released us and returned from where he came.

     The tiny patrol man steamed then jumped on the phone attempting to reach the FBI. My chaos theory had worked and turned them against each other, cause confusion and mixed knowledge of the law with passive resistance. I was a walking and breathing Kent state (bad example I know.)

      The little cop again threatened to confiscate the equipment and yet again send the music producer into a tizzy of juvenile emotions.

I again asked his partner to call the sergeant back, because they were not following the commanders instructions.

     He reluctantly jump on his should mic and summoned his supervisor. The small, blonde sergeant drove back. This time he jumped out of the police truck with a serious expression on his face. He tried his best to remain calm, but was probably pondering why his order was not followed.

      The supervisor scanned over his two officers and then the two of us. I explained the little, blue one had kept us and wouldn’t let us return to the music producer’s studio. The blonde/brown police officer looked into the lens of the camera again,

“I don’t see any problem.” He turned back to his officers and offered them a serious stare, “Let them go.” My silent prayer has worked, yet I was almost positive this was not going to end in our favor that some ticket or taking of equipment was on the docket.

     The brown, blonde cop exited and the other two stood there with egg on their faces. I could feel the tiny one seething. The heat was coming off his little, plump body. He was so mad he shook while grabbing the phone from his pocket and dialing.

“Come on man Sarg told us to let them go.” His partner said with a trace of worry in his voice. The Micro cop stood stupidly on a small him behind us: one hand on the phone, the other on his hip and a small frown on his face.

      After his phone call to national security, they allowed us to leave. We all exchanged hugs and kisses and went to our separate world: them back to donuts and beating minorities. The Philly Marshmallow and me headed back to the dilapidated apartment.

     He passively admonished me for my brash behavior and suggested to kill them with kindness. He hinted being part of a moment and wasn’t supposed to take any heat from the Heat. I agreed with him so he would stop talking.  

     Rip acted as if this was my first dance on the thin blue line. Why kill them with kindness if I knew my rights? Any other American with red and blue blood would have acted the same way. Why should I choose the softer path because my blood was housed by tan skin?

     I dismissed the speech and adjusted my mind back to the project. We pulled up to a red light halfway back to the studio. A jet black car pulled up besides us. The driver was a sunglass clad, big black man in the driver seat staring at us with great interest.

“It’s the Feds!”

     He said in a muted tone, half with gloom and half excited. It seemed as if we had gotten some ones attention. It shook me slightly but I recovered, there was nothing in my past or future the Federales could use.

    The black car pulled off while we went straight. The two of us made it back to the destination and talked for a few minutes, again him teaching me how I should deal with the police.

“You need to act like a lamb but be a wolf. If you are nice and do what they say you can get the jump and take them down,” he spouted easily from his obese wind hole.

Take them down? Wolf? Lamb?

     This time I was slightly alarmed. Yes, indeed I talked back to the little boys in blue, but I never had the intention to enact a violent scenario. Planning harm against the fuzz was an instant ticket to ICU or the morgue. That was a battle mortal men would not win: thus my frustration.

     I was mostly talk even though the thought of whopping an off duty officer brought warmth to my groin and peace to my skull. My chubby partner had a secret aggression he wanted itched. I exited the dwelling and drove back home. In my head I weight the decision to stay or leave the project.

     On my way to the corner of Cherry, I saw the two officers driving past me on the way to Rip’s studio smiling. I found this odd. Something was amiss. My mind was made up. I would see where this adventure took me.

     I went back to the condo and hit the Macbook. I started looking up the capabilities of the camera. I told the Salvi about the experience. She listened but didn’t soak it in. She put on her best pseudo Ebonics twang and joined in my bashing of Long Beach finest.

    Rip sent me an email the next day and I responded with a phone call. He wanted me to stop by the studio and I agreed. He wanted to scoop me up, but I rebuffed his offer: the jersey boy would stay a mystery.

     I dropped the Salvi off at work and promised to stop by for a late dinner in the parking lot, were we would dine on fast food and everything fattening. We parted ways in the Hospital parking lot, she worked in the city of Paramount and North Long Beach was around the corner.

      I went by his place and parked. The locals again called me an under cover police officers. ‘Hey cop’ they would say as they past by with wide, suspicious eyes focused on me. I straightened my shoulders and played the roll with my theatrical cop walk: shoulders straight and stick in my a*s, acting as if the world was mine to rule with a badge and attitude.

      I knocked on his door and he let me in. I noticed a new haircut on his large head and he was feeling pretty. I stepped inside and he took me to the green screen in the back room, then asked me what I knew about the green screen. I had done a little work with them before and the whole medium intrigued me. We went back to the studio and he showed me his Beat Machine, a Kanye West video and a Martial arts grip to break a mans arm.    

     Again he told me, I should have handled the police situation better. The more he reinforced his view the more the heat rose internally. I hated being preached too especially, when the sermon was wrong but I took it: for the chance to shoot.

     I informed him that the officers drive to his house after the altercation. He paused and said they dropped off his knife. I found this odd again. Why would the two officers who wanted to have us face down on the black top return his knife? I didn’t know the police returned thing. We just made them eat crow and they give door-to-door service to give back a weapon.

      I put on my poker face but my mind was buzzing. It was all so weird to me. There was something deeper here: I could feel it in the air. If there was no movie maybe there was a story. We parted ways: me still feeling good about the project.

      Since being in Long Beach, I had given up all hopes of Hollywood dreams. I thought it was over, yet this opportunity was the spark in the darkness. A new joy filled my soul and interrupted any thoughts of a potiential set up. I drove to the hospital and had dinner with my kids mothers. The Salvi was with our child and I liked to make sure she didn’t eat alone. This was the better times until the storms that consume men and women that would overtake us.

      I pulled into the dark Paramount lot and text her. She came out in her hospital scrubs then sat in the passenger seat. We drove to the Mexican eatery down the street and feasted on tacos. I dropped her back at work and returned to Bixby Knolls to sleep. I would pick her up in the morning.     

      Before sleep, I forced myself to the beach and ran on the sand. My only company was the ocean and the random nighttime fisherman, with their lines in the harbor dreaming of fish, glorious salt water fish.

     The next morning we met up again in the studio. It was Rip, A heavy set, often smiling black man with salt spread through out the pepper hair, A rail thin chisel faced, dark skinned man with a classic hat and thick rimmed glasses. He brought a pretty, healthy, raven-haired, white woman that stayed faithfully by his side.

     She sat silently as the men talked. Fat Rip leaned by the Beat Machine making dry, predictable jokes that brought me back to the frequent run ins with the citizens of Brotherly love. I stood back watching the interaction. The singer had started working for a car dealership. The small talk was making my stomach hurl.

What was I doing here? It all stank like mediocrity. I could feel the struggle and bullshit.

     Rip informed the other Producer I was a filmmaker and we wanted to make music videos for the singer. The Producer dug for his best line he had ready. He mentioned something about his money being low, than asked if he could see something. I saw his eyes. They were the eyes of a lying man. I had seen bigger and better fibbers and knew this was another journey into nothing. I numbed myself for the reality, as the fat producer spun around in his seat with a stupid look on his face,

“You got anything to show him?”

No you obese blob! I have nothing to show him! You were supposed to seal this!

     I really did but knew this a Mango route. A Mango route was what the name for a wide receiver route that was ran in sandlot, tackle football. The receiver was to keep running and not stop. The problem was: the Quarter back had no intention to throw him the ball. You were never even going to get a shot. So any mission that went nowhere, the Tampa boys called a Mango route.

     I had run mine and was done, but there was the plan B. Who this fat boy really was! I patted him on the back and returned to my Plain Jane life in the condo that sat on the other side of Million dollars homes and a country club that cut deep into the six figure neighborhood. He said cool and told me to come back later that night.

     On my way home, I again weighed the option in my head and reasoned there was still his video to make. I had nothing else to do and hope cost nothing.

I would return.

    I began to ponder my existence and purpose. The movies had all failed and I was in Bixby Knolls from the Valley, trying to comprise a novel of short stories, while reading about James Franco attempting to be the new Kerouac.

     I could taste the bile rising to my mouth. Knowing I was in the age of the Super Ego, where everyone wanted to do everything. Even if they were average at best, their celebrity gained critics praise. No more were the days, of those who specialized in a craft. You had to be a jack of many trades and average at most but just really good in that one.

     I shouldn’t have complained. What was talent anyway? It was subjective. Who was good and who great? The average seemed to be immortal, while the great ones died broken and crazy. That was the world after the womb. We are born crazy, kicking our legs, seeking breath and keeping the bright light from burning our pupils. Even as adults, we kicked our legs screaming. Screaming at the world. Screaming at injustice. Screaming at God. Screaming at the Devil. Screaming at us in the mirror.

     I wrote to escape the flat-line of my present life, but this Rip guy was a blip, a rising. He had other motivations for our meeting. I could feel it in my gut, the place where I filtered all people. I was being brought in for a video but not really. I was being felt out and being bull shitted by a C level Bull shitter. You cannot Bullshit a writer, that is what we live by: our stories about who we are and what we thing-Bullshit.

     I was used to sitting by passively and letting another regurgitate their life stories to me. Wiping their mouth on the collar, then looking at me to see my reaction. It was always the same. I had the best poker face. Emotional would never seep, through unless I wanted it too.

     We had planned on the next meeting and I would let my opinion shine through. The Jersey boy wasn’t the bump on the log he thought. His sales pitched hadn’t hooked me. I wanted to see what was under this poser’s sleeve. The line in the sand was about to be drawn for us to see.

     He called me again asking me to come over, this time around Three AM. I didn’t want to be in his neighborhood at that time, and didn’t desire searching for parking down the dark side streets, which led to darker alleys.        But my curiosity snatched the keys, and we were on way. When turning down Artesia, I saw nothing but horrible bars with the stench of death and harm seeping out into the night air. I tried to imagine what the locals did inside theses bars. It had to be locals: theses were not watering holes for the average masses.

     I picture huge Samoans making smaller men buy them quarts of beer, as shifty eyed Mexican gangsters scanned the bar for easy marks. I imagined the bartender was some aged Motor cycle gang member: with the tattoo of the devil on his fore arm and a twelve gage under the bar, cocked and ready to blow the hole in a would-be robber and I bet my life their were maybe a handful of potential robbers in that place.  I  cruised by happy that my car didn’t break down on the way. It was clean sailing into the notorious North.  

     I was lucky there was a parking spot only a few blocks away. I parked the Savli’s small, silver car and made my way to the studio. I knocked and he was up at ready. No trace of red in his eyes, but he was drunk on insomnia. A Philly vampire who sucked up beats and rhymes.

     The conversation started with my distain for the producer. I disliked the BS Hollywood types and wondered why he wasted my time. I could’ve been sleeping or sleeping some more or looking for a job then sleeping.  Rip’s expression turned into a scowl. It was as if he sucked ten sour lemons at once. His eyes squinted as he showed his teeth. I could see he was displeased.

“Naw he ight? They all work for me.”

     It didn’t seem that way. It seemed as if everyone was brought together like a surprise party, put in the small room hoping magic and money would happen. My radar went up.

     He went on to talk about another project he wanted to attempt. The music video idea had evaporated.

I felt the hustle, but what?

     He told me he wanted to go out and film homeless people and asked them why they are homeless. I knew now this would be the time,

“Because they don’t have a home.”

“Naw man it’s the government.”

I went on to explain to him that this was a terrible idea and why the hell would you want to go out on the streets and film bums. It was controlled insanity. He wasn’t pleased with my response.

      He went on to inform me about his membership in an anti government Native American militia. Their plan was to take Old Uncle Sam. I found out in his past he used to be the second half of a Hip Hop group who’s Anti- government based lyrics littered Youtube.

     I saw their videos and must admit they were well done, even though I also have to admit I had never heard of them in my life and I’m from that part of the country. He later went on to tell me he and his friends are trained by Native American former special forces in: hand to hand combat- The submission move he showed me earlier, Sleep deprivation-thus the staying up late, that little far blood sucker and bomb and explosives.

     The explosive part sent shivers up my spine. He went on the computer screen and showed me a tribe of Native Americans. They were standing in a living room devoid of smiles but decked out in Military garb. Rip said they were training for a Domestic Revolution.

What did the crazy Brit get me into! I was just supposed to make some corny music video. The next thing I knew I was being asked to aide him in videotaping bums. Now I was being recruited. Did I look like the mindless type? The suicide bomber boy?

I was slightly offended but still highly interested.

“Hey I want to train in hand to hand and sleep deprivation.”

“I have to run it by my people.”

He went on to talk about the New World Order and how the government was going to put us all in camps with microchips in our foreheads.

     I was trying to think whom he was talking about: Native Americans? ‘Cause that ship sailed. Blacks? The fat, fake, Philly boy look more Negro than Geronimo or did he mean all of us? All of the red blooded, stupid Americans, with our TV brains, video game dexterity or our thirty-second sound bits.

     The Chubby producer put on an episode of GI Joe (the eighties cartoon) with glee. He wanted to show me how even the kids cartoons were conspiracy laced. He was right! GI Joe had us all fooled! Again! We would be in camps standing in line like 1984 or 1985 because the brothers would of course be late. I was intrigued, yet at the same time felt as though I heard enough.

      Once he started the mis-information about Marcus Garvey and the Great Halie Salasi: I had to correct him several times. I went in with my indisputable information. He stood back shocked. The mindless filmmaker was up on his knowledge all the time. Listening, was the greatest form of communication.    

     He then took it where most extremists do: to the racial element. Even though he boasted being Native American, the traitor wanted to turn to against the fair skinned American brethren. This was the point that brought me to the greatest point of the debate. I had been raised in a white family. Was I supposed to turn arms against them for this hate monger who had a bi polar identity? Wrong guy.

     Even with the horrible experiences of my youth, I knew a few things. One: A modern, violent revolution will never work. I told him as mush. That’s what the man wants. He has something called the: US Military who are trained to kill and have a billion dollar budget.

The second point: no movement in this country has ever been moved by violence and it takes all of us of all colors, faiths and genders to change the world. Not one group killing another. His thoughts were barbaric and archaic.

     I dismissed his speech yet carefully; I remembered he had a large gun somewhere and a legal, five inch folding knife. My mind was steel; there was no way I would ever join him. He said the organization was wolves and every one else was a sheep.

I remembered that line from Training Day: when one starts quoting movie lines the rational conversation was almost up. Then when I thought I had heard it all, I heard these words,

“You can take the blue pill or the red bill.”

My internal, insanity meter started clicking; my visit was about to end. At that point, realization hit that I had walked into something strange. I knew my limits and reached them. I tired to diffuse the conversation, which was getting tense and to the point of loud words. I accepted some of his statements as plausible: to make it out of the studio with all my pieces. He told me to watch Alex Jones if I didn’t believe him. I nodded, then shook his hand and was out.

“I’ll give you a call.” He said

I will not answer; I thought.

     I made it to the car safe and sound. It was close to five o’clock and the sun was pulling off her covers. The cool morning air was my coffee. I had to pick the Salvi up from the hospital. There would be no running on the beach that dawn. I already dismissed the obese, music man with the hate streak running though his light, brown veins. She worked close, by so I made a turn and got her. 

     I tried to tell her about my night but her eyes were too heavy. I thought that would be the end. I went back to the condo and slept for hours.

I hadn’t heard from him in a few days. I saw that he called but wouldn’t answer the call instead let it go straight to voice mail.

    To me our business was done. I heard one of his messages and it basically stated he wanted a call back. He wanted to know when we were getting together. I desired no sip of the Kool Aide he was stirring.

No thanks. I have enough trouble.

     I went back to jogging on the beach and writing my collection of short stories. The Salvi said I would never get published, but her mind was based in her own failed reality. I forgot about the producer nut thought he was a fake who came to LA to get into music and when that failed he wanted to get into war, to take out his misguided career on the poor American masses.

     His organization would attempt a domestic civil war and take back the stolen land for the Native Americans that look like African Americans. The next message said an FBI agent wanted to speak to me about the BP incident. My face got cold. I had no intention on calling the FBI, CIA or PBR; I was all the way out.

      Then the next morning, I got a call from the Agent himself ( I'll change the name so he can’t sue me), Agent Castro. His voice seemed peaceful enough. He said he was sitting next to Simon (Simon? Who names a hardcore guerilla Simon?) and really wanted me to reach out. Again, my mind spoke to my mouth-no! Sitting next too? Snitch!

     The next day the Crazy Brit sent me a manic email. It seemed have a great amount of urgency laced with fear. I knew her be an emotional Kamikaze. She asked me via email: why I was not answering Rip? I felt the anger rising in my heart.

How could she ask me that! She set me up with a manic that wanted to control the country and force all the people to take colored pills but what does the Brit know? She still followed a queen. I called her and remained as cool as possible.

      I told her the whole story seemed shady and shouldn’t trust him. I put it all together. The cops. The knife. The training. The music. Alex Jones. My senses told me: Rip had to be some sort of undercover rebel, worried that I might have spilled the beans. Castro was probably one of his crew trying to find out what was going on and where I was, so they could extract me and pull my toe nails all the way off.

    It all made sense and from the beginning red flags rose. The midget simmered down once I explained it all calmly. I wasn’t going to let anger get the best of me. I was trying my best to walk the path of Lord, so I choose not to make rage an option, but was starting to get a little worried.

      The Brit said she would look up agent Castro. I gave the number to her and she was off to the Internet. That was where she found the producer: on Craigslist. She found her men, money and gigs on the other end of a keyboard. Truthfully, I first met her on the World Wide Web, but she didn’t look like her picture and her teeth were…well very English.

     She looked him up and said he existed at the Twin Towers in downtown Long Beach. Concern overwhelmed me.

What the heck did I get myself into? I was just a simple filmmaker, far, far from the land of movie dreams where reality and illusion both collided in the Mosh pit called life. I was in the land of Ghettos to the North, Country clubs to the east, and Hipsters to the south. I stood frozen in my mind. Who was this guy?

     I saw that he had called several times along with agent Castro. My nerves were getting the best of me and paranoia took over. Everything and everyone seemed part of the conspiracy. Crowd stalking? I didn’t want to call agent Castro; he was the Fuzz himself.

      I had a natural thing against cops even though we needed them. I was friends with the criminal element that roamed the streets, during day and night time hours and I am happy they have the men of Blue to shot at rather than myself. I cursed the police loudly, but silently gave prayers of thanks, until they pulled in back of my car with siren blazing, then my prayer went to the Lords.

     The bi polar thoughts raced inside the Gray matter. I kissed the face of hypocrisy square on the lips and decided not to call agent Castro. A couple days later I was at my Mac, opening my emails and had gotten a strange one from Rip. It shook me at first, having never received a death threat from an organization before. I felt important, yet at the small time maybe I crossed the line.

     I still didn’t want to concede and call the FBI. Why would an anti government organization want me to call the Fed? It was a brain buster, but I started to conceive my own theories. For one maybe there was more to this guy than the music. Maybe, this whole beat and video thing was a rouse to trap starving artist and make them communist Guerilla fighters like Che’. Was he the new Argentinean? Leading the crossers of the Bearing Straight on a quest to steal back the stolen land? Only Alex Jones knew the answer and he was in Austin talking about Owls.

     I slightly panicked but didn’t want the Federal Government and the Indians after my scalp. I pondered my choices out loud with the Salvi. She was down for the cause and ready to leave on the drop of a time. Maybe to AZ maybe to OC, either way she had my back, as long as my front was running. I wasn’t a runner but this was foreign. I had receiver verbal death threats in the little river town but never scripted in an Email:

Re: my email

Show Details

From

0.Sylvester Sessoms

0. 

To

0.DMJ

yo give me a call the feds came to my crib just for a stupid a*s interview they want to interview you over the phone. I showed them my crib let them see the studio and my photography set up everything is cool but until you get in contact with me so I can give their number then they are going to keep calling me asking for you, remember you are the one who brought all this attention to the whole situation all you had to do that day is play the game with them pigs and they would have told us we had to leave and we could have just bounced but now look how far s**t has gone, I got the f*****g feds coming to my crib and calling. They would leave me the f**k alone as soon as they do their regular procedure a 2 minute interview with you. This s**t right now is drawing big time your causing major security issues with my life and my folks. So i'm asking you nicely call me so I can give you the feds number so you can do the stupid a*s interview so they can close their case and leave us the f**k alone.

 

Fare warning!

If you don't call me and these mutha f****s start digging into my life because of you being reckless and not thinking about our conversations that we had. Then Fam that will show me your true colors that you don't give a f**k about me or my folks, so you know what that means? The wolves will be coming and these wack a*s feds will be the least of your worries. You should have some kind of f*****g clue to how we get it in.!

 

     That was next level. The Balls! Right here in plain sight for me to show all. I asked the Salvi if I should tell the Fed and she gave me two schools of though. One: Don’t be a snitch. She wasn’t one for running to the Police, even though she had called them on me in a heartbeat. Two: there were children in the home: two there and one on the way. That sealed it. I couldn’t risk the kids.

      I could picture the rebel force coming into the Condo and making an serious example. I didn’t want to see that example. I decided that it was better to be safe then sorry. I wrote his number down from the voice message. He seemed like a really cool guy.

     I guessed maybe he was from Florida, Castro being a popular Cuban name. I imagined him a short, tan skinned Cuban with short, conservative black hair and dark, coffee eyes. His voice was that of a small man. I can always tell a small man’s voice.

     I fearfully walked along the Los Angeles River, which stretched to the downtown LBC. It was like one giant cement gutter. I first witnessed the LA river in the movie Grease, then in various chase sequences in eighties adventure flicks.    

     It was a man made run off for rainwater but LA called it the perfect river. A hard, canal playing the part of a River: action!

I strolled along the side slightly depressed. What had I gotten myself into? Where was the success? Why do much pain and trouble?

      I put my hands in my pockets and surveyed the black top for answers. She gave me mile markers and stencil graffiti. I was facing a new foe and wanted to resist and too hold out but there young ones thrown in the middle. I had to call: my mind commanded my soul. It was the right thing: plus you owed the fat b*****d nothing!

There was no video. No film. No hope. Just games. More games. I hated games.

I must make the fake Philly boy pay. Uptown! There was no uptown Philly! What part was this! Liar! I want his fat head on a plastic platter!

     After breakfast at Louis on Long Beach Blvd, between a chicken omelet and a small coffee I pressed the digits and switch to the other side of the law. Informant! Snitch!

     I had come in contact with a variety of weirdo and members of the fringe population. I listened to their stories in late afternoon coffeehouse. I heard their rants on semi crowded streets corners and indulged the manic conversation, while sharing a bus seat to all destinations poor and hard.

     The harbor city was filled with tales from the broken and the lonely. The addicts. The sex fiends. The ones that lost everything due to someone else’s fault and now their problems.

     Stories in Long Beach were different. They were verbal blurbs from people who had faced life head on and absorbed it’s blows. Like being wiped out by a large wave, while standing in a shallow surf and when attempting to stand, another vicious water fist dropped the swimmer to their knees, as they struggled for air, unaware another one was right behind.

      That was life: When struck by one problem another would soon follow, bigger and meaner than the one before. Those were the masses I knew in the LBC. So it was not a shock, to come across the bumpy rebel and his story, which felt like the inside of a steel drum. I couldn’t wrap my mind around him.

Was he a cop? A fake? Or option C.: an actual anti government, modern day sitting bull who mad mediocre knowledge of everything historical. Was he another actor without a gig?

     I never feared him yet never underestimate anyone. That was the quickest way to ones demise, was to over look the enemy at your knees, ready to take by your mid-section and jump on your neck. I was a chess player of life. Everyone was a piece; even pawns could beat you if you let it get deep enough. Even worst if a pawn gets into your Kings row, it could transform into a powerful piece.

     I had transformed myself from time to time, taking down all those who made the mistake to lose sight of me. So, I wouldn’t dismiss Rip or lose track of him. I would get to the bottom and make sure he was at arms length. I wanted so badly to sing to some Mexican gang bangers and tell them he had weapons in his unguarded abode. I didn’t and never wanted the situation to get out of hand too the point of bloodshed. I couldn’t live with myself if the innocent were sacrificed in this incident. I grabbed for the forgiveness seed planted in my chest by the most holy, but that didn’t stop me from investigating.

     I walked to the pay phone, down the street far from the condo. The one next to the liquor store, with the rancid, macaroni salad and carpeted floor, which smelled like the lobby of a run down casino. I checked a piece of paper torn from an LA Weekly with the number on the bottom corner. The phone rang twice and a woman’s voice answered announcing the FBI office. It was true! The real FBI!

     I asked the operator for agent Castro. She paused for a minute and patched me through. Castro jumped on the phone, chipper and ready to hold a conversation. He asked me about Rip, but kept using his real name as if he was a dear friend. It seemed strange and red flag rose. I told him about the pictures, Rip and I meeting and the purpose for everything. I told him everything with the exception of the email. I didn’t want to have the computer words turned on me. I neglected to mention the electronic letter but I let on that something might be wrong and didn’t want to be involved.    

     I told him Rip and me weren’t friends and just together because of a video. I didn’t tell him about the conversations that we had, but the agent didn’t seem that concerned. It was like filling out a survey.

“If there is anything else you want to tell me or if anything is wrong let me know.”

     He spoke to me childlike and mentioned Rip as if he was some schoolyard chum. It reeked. I had become paranoid.

 What if Rip was planning something? What if the Indian organization was on my tail? Was I being watched? Followed? Trailed by my footprints? Did they know my scent!

     The Brit called me later and asked me if I called the agent. I told her yes and she was relieved. The little coward had gotten me into something, but as long as she was free and clear, I guessed the roses smelled a little more fragrant on her side of the planet.

      The crazed midget was never to be trusted, yet again because of desperation and inner thoughts of failing, I fell again on the wide path to nowhere. A path she was the tollbooth keeper. Her head was always in the clouds, while on Earth she proclaimed herself a fallen angel, which if I am correct are demons and she was every bit the spawn of Satan in a pocket sized way.

     I walked the pathway beside the LA River. It could be accessed from a small wetlands area maintained by the city. I had walked it before all the way to Compton and the opposite end lead to the harbor, threw many homeless tent communities scattered on the banks of the man made waterway.

      I strolled with my shoulder slumped and the sensation of solitude coursing through my inner man, feeling abused and punked by all. I called my brother but he offered no advice, just a trembling voice and two-dollar South Jersey Philosophy. I reached out to Dean, my friend from back home, who himself was a police officer. He offered the sage advice only a law enforcement officer could give,

“Don’t lie to the police.”

That was the best piece of information I had received up to that point. I thanked him and hung up the phone quickly. The Feds might have me tapped from a satellite, with a Drone on the way to finish me off. I looked at the sky and then at the trickle of water flowing through the center. I paused and called the Agent Castro’s personal number he gave me. After two rings, Rip answer the phone,

“Hello?”

I hung the phone up quickly and remembered, during another phone called where Agent Castro left a message on my voice mail. He didn’t hang up the phone correctly and I heard a cartoon playing in the background, with the Tom and Jerry’s theme music.

      Shocked, I pushed the event out of my head. I didn’t want to know anymore. It had gone too far. The adventure was now the root of confusion and discord. I was done and would return to my life with long walks through the North side.

      Boredom and hopelessness once again filled me. I borrowed the car and head down to Bixby Park searching for a chess game. In the Valley Chess was my salvation, it sucked up great chunks of time and no matter a win or loss I felt completed.

     I went to the park: in the Gay Ghetto, on the Southside of Long Beach, by the ocean. I searched the park and found no games in progress: just a skate park, work out area, and a new strong spirit. A couple years later I would live in that same park…

 

 

         

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

It's a lot to read. For all thos who try. Thank you. Comments and conversation always desired....from Backfiefengesict.....

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

It was a lot to read. But I couldn't stop reading the story. I didn't know making a video was so dangerous. I like the Brit. I met one like her in Monterey. Loco woman are best to meet in a public place. No weakness in the amazing story. Thank you for sharing the tale.
Coyote

[Judas Hammer]

Thank you coyote for the read, it was I lot I must admit. Yeah it was thw rong time wrong place.

[Judas Hammer]

I really want to thank everyone for there time and any notes are helpful. This story is very raw....

[Zachary_James]

This was a lot to read, I honestly tried to wrap my head around it but found it extremely difficult to do so. The idea of making a video about death threats, was a little bit outrageous in my opinion. But the main character Brit was fascinating to read about. You write some amazing stories, Therefore I really enjoyed this, minus the small setback. Great job!

[Judas Hammer]

Thank you for the read and review. I am thankful for your time. Any advice on how to make it clear or where I lost you?

[Marie]

I did try. But you lost me. This could make a good story, and the idea about a video becoming a death threat is intriguing. But there's too much to process.

[Judas Hammer]

Thank you for the read anyway. Always a pleasure to receive you comments...