So the easy thing to do was dive back into a glamorous life of waiting tables at the Topanga Red Lobster. Now, one might think that a Red Lobster is going to be fascinating and inspiring no matter where it's located, but one would be wrong. While Lincoln, Nebraska's Red Lobster felt like a bunch of alcoholic teenagers slinging fish and exchanging sexual innuendos, Topanga's Red Lobster was filled with poor struggling "actors" and people who had pretty much given up on themselves. They were an overweight, joyless staff who drove the general manager to incessant chain-smoking.
But I digress...
One day on my 20 minute commute along the Nascar speedway that is any Los Angeles freeway, something bizarre happened. I was belting the new Blue October CD at the top of my lungs when a loud pop took my breath away. After I felt my heart situate back where it belonged, I rotated the steering wheel back and forth gently, then let it go altogether. My poor little Chevy Cavalier maintained a straight trajectory, so I pulled off the bustling deathtrap into a Chevron.
I drove on to work to find the parking lot occupied by hippies with picket signs adorned with bloody pictures of penguin cadavers. They were all wearing shirts and blocking any car from turning into its spot. When I got out, one smiley protestor came up to my car and calmly handed me a pamphlet. When she saw my white (really off-yellow) dress shirt and royal blue apron, she realized I probably wouldn't be interested. But I talked to her for a while anyway. I pretended to sympathize with her cause. I just didn't want to go to work yet.
I was shaken. Hard. I started hypothesizing any reason that the government would have for hiring a sniper to take me out. I was sure I knew too much. About what, is anybody's guess, but I settled on the Iraq war.
I sat down with the nice motherly Red Lobster assistant manager who reminded me of an overweight nanny from the 50's. She tried to calm me down, before finally saying, "Honey, just go home!" So I did. And when I got there I didn't turn on a single light and laid on my bed so nobody would have a clear shot at me.
Eventually I got over this irrational fear....
But I was still a procrastinator. So three weeks later, after successfully getting hired into the Abercrombie & Fitch training program (dreams do come true), I was trying to pull out of the Northridge mall parking garage following work - shards of glass still packed tight in my seat crevices, the hole in the window still the size of a gumdrop.
But my key wouldn't turn. This had happened several times as the key had been worn rather thin. Usually it was a quick jiggle and I was on my way. This time was a bit different. I shook it and shook it and pounded on the dashboard for a good twenty minutes trying to turn the engine over, until...
"Freeze!" A portly gentleman in a mallcop uniform was standing at my window with a sprayer of mace pointed at me. "Get out of the car!"
I did so dutifully, as they shoved my head on the spoiler of the trunk and asked me why I was trying to steal the car. I remained calm as I sighed and said, "I know how this looks. Can I show you the registration?" He fished it out of the glove compartment himself, and shimmied my own wallet out of my pocket, comparing the two. Reluctantly they gave in and let me go.
It's worth noting that this was the same mall that had been demolished in the 1993 Northridge earthquakes, so it's good to know we have some good mallcops on our side making sure Seismic shifts happen few and far between. I tell you this for your own peace of mind. I think tonight we will all sleep a little sounder.
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