candy canes & the l.a.p.d.

originally posted 02.20.07

fuck you, santa.

******

january, 2006. i was living in what surely must have been a budget brothel in east l.a.

the rent was cheap, and i moved in to this sleazy pit because my best lain plans for moving into a spot with a modicum of class fell through. so there i was – living in southern cali’s version of hunt’s point (bronx new york stand up) while freezing my ass off in a storage closet sized room. roaches crawling over my sneakers and shit. it was a mess. needless to say, i was not jolly.

at the time almost all of my old school friends lived west of the 405 in california. trooping across town to chill with my crew was a hassle (and may i say that nary a one of them kicked it on my side of town…pussies). despite the distance i could be counted on to spend most weekend days around the west side. however, my story takes place after spending the evening trolling venice beach on a week night.

it was 1:15 a.m. a wednesday, which i remember only because i had just got home from having drinks and watching “lost” on showtime’s fly 42″ hdtv (lucky bastard). i had to work the next morning, so while trudging through the door i looked forward to getting to sleep as soon as possible. i clouded up the room/apartment with cigarette smoke (winknudgewink) and tucked myself under the covers.

less than 10 minutes later a wild banging noise flung me out of bed. i staggered to my feet and cracked open my door. before my mind was able to wrap itself around the fact i was staring three police officers in the face, one had already screamed:

PUT YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM RIGHT NOW!!

2 exclamation points, even. instantly, i snapped to attention and did just what the officer said. “my hands are right here!” and i waved them frantically in his face. one of the cop’s buddy’s held my apartment door open and i was asked to step into the hallway.

right about now is a good time to mention what i was wearing when i answered the door. i was pulled out of bed, so naturally i was wearing my boxer shorts while under the covers. keep in mind, this was january in los angeles. not exactly bitterly cold, but its certainly never going to be confused with south beach in mid-july. due to the chill in the air i was rocking the warmest socks i owned – a pair of black woolly santa claus prints with tiny candy canes embroidered along the side.

don’t laugh, you jackass. i was in bed and cozy.

anyway, there i am – in the hallway of my whorehouse/apartment building – wearing nothing but sky-blue boxers and a pair of santa socks while being interrogated by the police.

good times.

whatever you say, officer.

the cops got down to business:

PIG: who has been calling 911 from this address?
J.R.: say what, now?
PIG: you heard me. three 911 calls have originated from this apartment in the last couple of hours. is there anyone in the apartment with you?

the cop who had been holding open my apartment door was now scanning the walls of my darkened hell hole with a flashlight. looking for the corpse of a dead hooker, i suppose. as he did so the beams of light shone through the thick cloud of cigarette smoke (coughwinknudge) that hung in the air. the phrase “holy shit, i’m fucked” flashed before my eyes. i mustered a bit of poise.

J.R.: nope, there’s nobody in this room but me. no way i have been calling 911 from this apartment because i only keep a cellphone. if there is a phone outlet in this apartment, i couldn’t even tell you where it is.
PIG: well, we have had multiple calls originate from -
J.R.: and thats another thing. i *just* got home less than 20 minutes ago. the shady characters out front of the building can probably verify that for you. nobody has been home, and nobody has been calling you.

i felt justified in my outrage at this intrusion. the cops at my door seemed to fall back from bewilderment, and eyes of my annoying neighbors – spectators for this entire calamity – brightened with approval. the confused policemen put their heads together to discuss the issue, instantly reminding me of a gang of football officials carefully deliberating a pivotal call. arms crossed, i stood there – indignant – waiting for them to concede their mistake.

finally, the first cop broke the huddle.

PIG: OK sir. Please be sure to inform your building supervisor that there may be a problem with the phone line in your apartment. We will ignore any further 911 alerts from this address for the remainder of the evening.
J.R.: (snidely) Thank you, officer. I’ll do that.

the 3 little pigs began to shrink away, and the officer who had been holding open my door allowed the knob to slip from his hands. as a heavy, steel reinforced door it slammed shut almost instantly. unfortunately the door locks automatically. i stood there in my ghetto hallway, wearing nothing but my sky-blue boxers and festive santa socks, in front of a locked door with no key.

“umm….officers?”

the other two cops ice-grilled the dopey ass pig who let my door close. he was clearly the “chief wiggum” of the crew. while the cops were contrite, i could sense that they were on some level amused by what happened. surely they had acknowledged the fact that i was fucking with them only seconds before. without exchanging a word we all rolled down to the super’s apartment (1A, of course) to ask for the key. nobody home (with my luck, that was to be expected).

we were in a bind. the landlord’s private number was painted on a sign outside the building (which is useful when the property you own forever has vacancies due to the high turnover from dead heroin addicts). the dopey cop jotted this number down on a scrap of paper and hypothesized that the next best course of action was to contact the owner to let me in.

so did any of them have a phone? despite this being the 21st century, the answer to that question is no.

and with a shiny new quarter in my hand, the three cops formed a triangle formation and escorted me – wearing nothing but sky-blue boxer shorts and happy little santa socks adorned with candy canes – down a ghetto street in east l.a. during the dead of winter to the nearest pay telephone.

no, i am not lying. no, i am not joking.

45 minutes later, yari the landlord (who i always have suspected of being a pederast) rolled through in his sketchy kidnapper van with the key to my apartment. he let me in, the cops broke down the whole sordid tale to him, and i finally got to bed.

i wish this story had a moral. sadly, it does not. no valuable knowledge can be extrapolated from this tale other than the fact that the lapd sucks sweaty balls. also: don’t call 911 too many times or you’ll be forced to roam the streets half-naked while searching for the nearest pay phone.