Two nights ago, my friend Benny, a cook, was taking a break at my house of employment. He stepped out the side door to make a phone call, have a smoke, drink a beer…whatever. Three men approached. They asked about the food, the scene, cornered him against the wall of our pricey Beverly Hills boutique hotel. One of the men pulled a gun, pressed it against his forehead, took what he had.
No shots were fired.
As they drove away, Benny picked up one of our buffed deco stones and threw it at the fleeing car. And missed.
Los Angeles has long been known for its outstandingly bloody history. Our true pillars of violent excellence take up residence in the East and Southern lands. Bloods, Crips, Latin Kings...
But Beverly Hills? Our steaks go for 45. Martinis come in at 15. And about 20 yards from a table of two with a two hundred dollar check, some shithouse with a gun was taking Benny’s breath away. The math? Pretty fucky fucky.
It all started me thinking. I thought about dying…again. I thought about the idea of a drifting soul, one with the consciousness to look back on a life. I thought about the possibility of losing mine to men like this, after cooperating, after doing everything they asked of me. It made me want to scream, put my fist, face and foot through a wall. It made me want to tear the world apart.
I don’t know what I would have done if Benny and me swapped spots that night. Suppose no one can. But I imagined it. I imagined myself with a knife, the same pocketknife that sticks out from the wood in my desk, inches from my fingers that type as we speak. I saw this man on me with a gun...
He looks away for a second and I stab him in the neck. I put the knife away as he goes down, clutching his gaping and blood-spewing throat. But I don’t call for help…and I'm not exercised. I take his gun, turn it around and smash his face over, over, over. I get bored. I pull my clicky pen, the same pen I use to take orders and I stab his thighs, puncture them until the pen breaks. I go through a dozen pens. Then I stand over him, spit onto him until I can no longer. I kick dirt in his face, into his wounds before washing them clean with my urine. Out of breath, I call for help, to save him…so he can feel it all.
I’m not an angry person.
