LAX CONFIDENTIAL: "I Forget... I Remember... I Forget"

A study of benign hopelessness... in three little acts.

The third in a series.



Act 1: "I Forget..."

Quiet. It’s the sound that swallows every sound that surrounds it. It’s the noise that makes void the voice of every thought.

I don’t remember the last time I drove without the radio on in the car. Okay, that’s a lie... I do remember. It’s that I choose to forget. It was the day my Dad had his last heart attack. I was driving for a living (what else is new), and I remember that on that day when my radio fizzled and cut out for good, I actually prayed that it would work again, just so I wouldn’t have to be alone in an empty car with my own thoughts. Amazingly, mystically, the radio came back to life. An unexplainable resurrection from the dead.

About an hour later, I got the phone call that my Dad had “died” on his front porch, and was being breathed for on a ventilator at Gardena Memorial.

In the years since, driving with noise has become for me a second voice. The sane equivalent of the never ending dialogue of the schizophrenic.

In the aftermath of the miracle of the car radio, I heard a story — an airport story — of two cars, three men, and one question.

The story went like this...

After picking up man number one at the airport, man number two sees a third man in the car next to them — windows down, car radio blasting — the music louder than he could derive enjoyment from. Man number two, being the kind of man who bitches before he thinks, rolled up his window against the noise and complained to the second man,

“What is that guy’s problem? He’s gonna go deaf and take the rest of us
with him. Can’t he hear?!!!”

“He can hear,” the second man said. “What I want to know is, what is it
he hears that he’s trying so hard not to?”

Quiet. I tap the front of the radio, my fingers loud in the unaccustomed silence of my car.

Copyright © 2010 Bill Friday

LAX CONFIDENTIAL: "Living Room"

Unseen, but not unnoticed.

The second in a series.



July, 2005

(1:42 a.m.)...

Lot 7 is quiet. The cue of black Towne Cars that once lined the far wall has been replaced by a shiny strew of Smarte Carts, empty and tossed at odd angles, abandoned. Each one is a lingering reminder of the last cheap, black suit who used it — a three dollar rental dripping with the three dollar stench of salt air and palm sweat and Drakkar Noir.

I park, head in, against the same concrete foundation, a few short steps from the tower of stairs that looms over United Airlines. Inside the Terminal, one last lost parcel waits for me, invisible, even in the face of so many pairs of searching eyes.

I lock my car against the closeness of the moist night air. Against the dark reminder that these walls house more than cars, just as the ground on which they stand is more than just the lines painted upon it. The unmistakable smell — the sweet-hot smell of Type-1 diabetic urine — rising to my nose from the dark patch of soft asphalt underneath my tire, reminds me that I am merely a guest in another man’s home — a tourist, just passing through some unseen someone’s dirty mansion — on my way to somewhere else.

(1:48 a.m.)...

That was easy.

Tucked against the “over-sized” luggage belt was my missing parcel — alone, and obvious, in the empty halls of the Terminal. As I grab my phone to call it in I think,

“How many people didn’t see this here?”

How many...?

Back outside, distant in the quiet of another silent night, a sound — familiar as it echoes in the fog of another graveyard run. The wobbling, scrapping sound of a single shopping cart, fading as it pushes east toward Sepulveda, out of sight — but not out of mind.

I pass through his living room on the way to my car.

Copyright © 2010 Bill Friday

LAX CONFIDENTIAL: "Fog and Darkness"

Is the future just an echo of your past?

The first in a series.



Today...

(90277)

Fog and darkness arrive together, the setting sun hid by dripping, pale gray air. And with it, the one-way, bump-and-go of ten thousand cars, marks the end of another day. I float the other way, free. Free like a dead fish downstream toward gathering rapids, speeding without thought.

Artesia... Rosecrans... Imperial...

Planes descend before me like giants falling from the sky. My windows down, I turn to face them. Overhead they scream — every day the same.

The city, shut tight against the penetrating shroud of encroaching night. A million souls, and more, wrapped in a cold blanket of hope — all settled till the morning.

Except for me.

At times like these, I feel I’ve done this all my life.
Until the whole landscape of your existence shifts, then crumbles, then sinks out of sight; cherished memories become washed out ghosts, fading in and out, as you make your way along once-familiar paths.

I’m sure I lived another life before the one I’m living now. Far away; a recurring childhood dream that, with the passing of years, no longer controls the night—where time and place sparks a brief remembrance of what once was.

Only to forget.

Whatever I was, I am that no longer. And whatever I’ve become, I know will fade as quick in the minds of those whose eyes catch mine, like the faded markers of a life that’s passed are come and gone.

As they are for me, I will become for them — the shadow of their passage through this place, where memory fades and belief gives way to the certainty of doubt.

397 days earlier...

(90045)

8:23... The smell of burning diesel is fresh in the air. One car, at war with a yard full of fifty-three foot monsters. Horns blare — monster versus monster — angry voices challenge for their place in the hierarchy of the night. I fly under the radar of give-a-shit, wanting only to be left alone. Just do my job, then quickly fade away.

8:29... Cargo fully loaded. Clock ticking. Deadline now. I weave between the monsters, each one oddly staggered like a meth cook’s teeth, all in a crooked row. Through the rattling iron gate, onto the waiting street.

And green lights, as far as the eye can see.

8:34... One minute to go. Lock-out in 59... 58... 57. No cops. Hard right. Swerve. Roll the stop... down the ramp... pop the lid. Throw, throw, throw — three bags, four bags, five. Stack ’em. One skid, two.

33... 32... 31.

Up the ladder, running.

The office — no line.

12... 11... 10.

The counter.

05... 04... 03... Call it in — POD.

Reload.

Seventy-two minutes later...

(90045)

9:47... Terminal 7. I walk beneath the canopy of signs and speakers. Floating above me, the voice of Peter Coyote informs the collective unconscious of weary travelers,

“The white curb is for loading and unloading
of passengers only. No
parking; No waiting.
Unattended vehicles will be sighted and
towed.”

9:49... I check with United SPD about the status of flight 715 out of Denver.

Delayed.

9:52... I stand just outside the crush of Carousel #1, killing time, waiting for my parcel to drop. Off in the distance, at the bottom of the descending escalator, stands a grove of out-of-work actors in cheap, black suits — now existing as limo drivers with faces in need of more Botox, all still hoping for their one big break. They hold hand-scrawled signs with names drawn awkwardly in Magic Marker — none famous — just another bad tipper with heavy bags and noisy kids.

Waiting.

10:01... All at once, without warning — somewhere between Carousel #1 and the back door — a surprise encounter. It begins with a glance, a one-way flash of recognition, of the famous by the anonymous. And with it, a single, unvarnished truth that transcends all my two-dimensional memories of the 1990’s right in front of me.

Rail thin, with a face too pale to have just gotten off a plane from Maui. Power-walking, acne scarred TV royalty, ten strides ahead of husband, and nanny, and child.

And I am left with only one thought, screaming in my brain,

“Courteney Cox looks like hell!”

To be continued...

Copyright © 2010 Bill Friday

FIGHT gONe!

Some stunning commentary in the wake of USC's worst home loss ever.

Los Angeles (ground zero).

Today marked the end of the Pete Carroll era in L.A.

Let me say that again. On Saturday, November 14, 2009, on the floor of the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, The Pete Carroll Era is over.

Just a few observations in the wake of USC's 55-21 emasculation at the hands of the Stanford Cardinal.

OBSERVATION #1: There's a (bunch of) new bully(s) in town.

USC, the bully on the block of college football since 2002, just got ass-whupped by a group of young men for whom pocket protectors are a frat party fashion accessory. While parity in the NCAA has reared its ugly head more and more often in recent years (just ask Notre Dame), not since the year 2000 have the Trojans had to look themselves in the mirror and see Steve Urkel staring back at them.

Once feared - always respected - on this day, in the waning minutes of this precursor of the end of the Mayan calendar, Stanford defensive back Richard Sherman (Compton Dominguez HS) looked into a sideline camera and uttered, "Fight on USC, fight on... look at your crowd leaving..." as he and a teammate mockingly made the Trojan's "fight on" victory gesture.

On this day, the bully went home with two black eyes, and a locker room full of badly bruised egos.

And after "bad" losses to former PAC 10 doormats Washington and Stanford, and new conference power Oregon (with UCLA two weeks away), the tagging is already on the wall.

OBSERVATION #2: That hot chick you took to the prom may turn out to be Rupaul in disguise.

At the height of what was once The Pete Carroll Era, the coach used to ask a rhetorical question of anyone who would listen, a rhetorical question (more often than even a Stanford math major could count) that went something like this: "Why would I want to go to the NFL (more on that in OBSERVATION #3) when I can recruit first-round draft choices at every position?"

Those days are over.

Move over All-World tailback Joe McKnight. Meet Academic All-America tailback Toby Gerhart. In 2006, Gerhart (Norco HS) turned down an offer from USC to play outside linebacker for the two-time BCS Champion Trojans. At the time, USC had pedigreed ball carriers piled up at the entrance to Howard Jones Field almost as high as the number of Heisman statues it has piled up inside Heritage Hall. And everyone knows the world of college football is littered with 18-year-olds who never lived up to all their hometown high school hype.

So Toby Gerhart heads to conference doormat Stanford and the rest is (Trojan) history.

As of tonight, Gerhart is 3rd in the nation in rushing yards, and 1st in number of academic units carried this semester by a running back who just left cleat marks on the backs of what used to be the best defense in college football. This semester, the USC reject carried as many Big Brain Academy course units - 21 - as the Little Men of Troy scored against the enormous frontal lobes of the Cardinal defense. And he looked a lot better doing it than an SC offense that can now boast of more All-America Football impersonators than Marilyn Monroe impersonators at Hollywood and Highland.

Joe McKnight, Allen Bradford, and all the rest of the cast at tailback have been exposed for the frauds they are. And for that matter, the entire offensive playbook since the days when old coordinator Norm Chow and the head coach ended their manly pissing contest, and Chow left for Nashville.

And Pete Carroll and all the rest of his recruiting staff have been exposed for a consistent, glaring inability to pick the right date for the prom.

OBSERVATION #3: That wasn’t just a debacle Pete. That was your Golden Ticket.

Pete Carroll has been waiting for this moment his entire life.

Since being better known as the last coach the New England Patriots will ever fire (because Bill Belichick will be the head coach until that pesky Mayan calendar runs out), Carroll was only Athletic Director Mike Garrett's fifth choice for the vacant head coaching position. Two National Championships later and the flood of persistent rumors about The Prince of the City taking another shot at NFL immortality would not stop coming. Coach Carroll was said to have turned down offer after offer, year after year. Rumor had it that he was just waiting for that one perfect opportunity, that one Golden Ticket - autonomy, authority, the final say - all the power he's enjoyed around University Park, but on the biggest stage. The next big offer will always be there. I mean, he is PETE CARROLL. But the next big reason to take it sometimes only comes along once, and this is it. The whole world (Pete's world) has spent the last 5 years playing catch-up with the USC football program.

Mission accomplished.

Because when Stanford hands you lemons, you take that phone call from the San Diego Chargers.

And no one will remember that you, your team, your school, your fans, and all your living room recruiting cred were blasted all to hell on one sun splashed Saturday Homecoming in November.

Grab that Golden Ticket and make your way as fast as you can (after you lose to that other USC, the University of South Carolina) in the Florida Citrus Bowl) down the 5 Freeway to San Diego, or LAX for a flight to Tennessee, or Cleveland, or... oh, who am I kidding, the Chargers are going to hand you the keys to Sea World, Qualcomm Stadium, and most of La Jolla when the clock strikes midnight on January 2nd, 2010.

And what about the once-mighty USC football program? Maybe after Pete Carroll is out of the way, this town might actually get the one thing it truly needs most…

A real live, honest-to-goodness, bottom-feeding, 2-14, NFL expansion franchise to numb the pain of the fading memories of the glory that once was.

C’mon Pete. All you have to do is grab that Golden Ticket...

Copyright © 2009 Bill Friday

Whispers... Believed

Lies... softly spoken. A poem... with disclaimer*.

Brains on the bathroom floor
Gloating
Consciousness above me
Floating
Despair at life unlived
Responsibility relieved
Bucket made of bone
A sieve
Whispers of all doubt
Believed.

This poem is a companion piece for the article "With This Muse You Lose", which first appeared on Broowaha.com on March 28, 2007. This poem was written on March 21, 2009. Obviously, for the author, March is not a very good month.

* DISCLAIMER: Bill Friday does not endorse suicide as a "solution" to the problems of this life. This disclaimer should be read, and strongly taken into consideration (possibly with the counsel of a mental health professional).

Copyright © 2009 Bill Friday