i’m a civilized man. intelligent, educated, compassionate, even, some might say, sophisticated in the ways of the world. i’ve traveled a good deal of the planet, survived cancer; i have a good job at a major university, i married for the 1^st time at 54 years old; hell, i have a lot to be grateful for. then why, oh why, dear shiva-allah-buddha-yaweh-whoever the fuck is in charge, is my goddam temper still on a such a short leash, threatening to explode in the most unpredictable, humiliating, and inopportune times? am i a fool? or am i just cursed?

it’s a good day. the boys are in town for my “when i’m 64” birthday “pahty”. you know, “will you still need me, will you still feed me, when i’m 64?” sounded pretty ridiculous back in ‘67 when we were barely 20 and didn’t trust anyone over 30, but now the time’s actually here, even though john and george aren’t with us anymore, and sir paul is just filled with sweet formaldehyde these days. but like i said, it’s a good day. dr. ben and the fat man are already here, staying at the nearby super 8, and we’re all rolling to the airport in my RAV4 to pick up the reaper on united flight 127 from la guardia.

doctor ben’s had a hard year. he had his prostate and half his bowel removed, then was forced into early retirement from an infection in one of his neck vertebrae. he’s a got a metal pipe in there now, has lost about 40 pounds, but we’ve never seen him look so relaxed and carefree. like i always said back when i had cancer in ’89, “takes a good life-threatening illness to make you really appreciate what you have in life.” the fat man, the one non-semite amongst us, is going in the opposite direction, successfully lawyering in the arizona desert, eternally falling into exotic threesomes, and still getting younger by the day. and the reaper? well he’s not so grim anymore. he’s switched up his wives and girlfriends from spanish and south american to straight-up filipino, and he’s looking at an unforced retirement on a sandy beach in luzon, where… i hope to join him with my indonesian wife… one day in the near future.

 

i’ve dropped dr. ben and the fat man at united arrivals to greet the reaper at baggage claim, and i’m waiting in the car for all three to come out so we can start the birthday weekend. i’m excited and impatient, but i know the routine: no parking or standing at the curb; i’m keeping my eye out for parking enforcement. plus, it’s been just a few minutes and look, there are 2 other cars sitting there for… well… at least longer than i have. i look in my rear view mirror, and i see a motorcycle cop pull into the arrivals circle, not far behind me. shit, i guess i’ll have to drive around and come back. i start to pull out, when, a dick in a mustang convertible pulls right in front of me. i can’t pull around him.

i tap my horn politely at him, that’s what we do in new york, saying, “look out, buddy, i’m right behind you and i need to pull out”. the cool mustang dude neither sees me, nor budges, but my horn tap does get the attention of the motorcycle cop, who pulls up right behind me. no problem. i see him, nice and clear, and i give him a hand signal, indicating that “i’m stuck behind the mustang but i’m gonna move as soon as i can”. it’s a good hand signal, if i do say so myself. i mean, i used to be a professional clown, so my mime, and non-verbal communication, are both excellent.

the blue uniformed cop gets off his bike and walks up to my window. he’s a big black dude. what the fuck? didn’t he understand my gesture? i mean, he can see clearly that i want to pull out… but the mustang has me blocked in, right? i roll down my window and before he can say anything to me, i blurt out, “you’re not gonna give me a ticket, are you?” he sort of does a double take, like he actually sees me for the first time, and says, “what did you say?” ooops. looks like i’ve gotten off to a bad start. “i mean, sorry, officer. i know the rules, ‘no standing’, but i’m just waiting to pull out here. i’m stuck behind the mustang. look.” i point. he looks… and he takes out his citation-writing pad. fuck!

 

we discuss the matter a little further. i mean, there used to be a time, when i could talk my way out of any ticket. youthful charm, genuine naiveté, but… that time is long past. too much baggage. anger. resentment… at the long arm of the law. especially in LA. c’mon, new york cops – they’re there to “serve and protect”. we genuinely like the boys in blue in manhattan; we feel safer when they’re around. but these stiff-ass fascist LA cops… LAPD… ok, they have a tough job… but c’mon, whenever i see one, i cringe… especially when i’m in my car.

so, unfazed, officer krupke writes me up a citation. shit. it’s about 400 bucks in LA for running a red light; i wonder how much for not moving your ass through a no standing airport zone.  but… i bite my lip and go into my curled-up fetal position, sitting there in the driver’s seat, trying to contain my rage at this obvious miscarriage of justice. i mean, the cop seems to have taken more offense at my “tone” than to my driving offense. i’ll bet if i was some hot or pathetic babe, he already would have sent me off with a happy face warning and a “have nice day”. but i’m not, and he hasn’t.

he hands me the ticket. i sign for it. he walks off.

i can’t just let things go, can i? accept reality, move on? except… that wasn’t reality. i was stuck behind the mustang. he gave me a ticket for my “tone”. fuck.

i yell out my window, “officer, what’s your name? and your badge number?”

krupke doesn’t even turn around. he keeps walking off, without so much as acknowledging my question(s). ehhh! ehhh! ehhh! red alert! red alert! he can’t just do that! walk off without answering my question(s). i’m a citizen here. my taxes pay his fucking salary. he just gave me a bogus ticket. it’s completely unfair. ehhh! ehhh! ehhh!

i’m suddenly on the other end of my busted jaw situation a few years back: i’ve just parked my little red MG on bronson for the olympic arts festival. some frustrated, hydrant-built accountant thinks i’ve take his parking spot. he’s furious. he gets out of his car. slams on my driver’s side window demanding i move, relinquish my parking space. his parking space. i completely ignore him. don’t even roll down my window. stan, yeah, that’s his real name, runs around the passenger side of my car and starts kicking my right rear fender, like a convulsive, epileptic troll. i get out my car, run over to his car, kneel down and  start writing down his license plate number, when the next thing i know, stan has run up to me and smashed his fist into my still-kneeling face, breaking my jaw.

yeah, i got a nice settlement in court, but i also learned that being ignored… causes a lot of rage.

so now officer krupke has reversed the tables on me. walked away from my question(s). karma, my friends. karma. i swing open my RAV4 door and get out of the car.

i march right over to krupke. he’s already sitting back on his motorcycle. i don’t even know if he even sees me. i stick my face right into his chest. i read his name. “collins.” not too far from krupke. i have my pen and paper ready. “your name is collins. did you hear me ask you for your name, collins?” “yes, i did, sir.” “then why didn’t you give it to me?” “what was the point, sir?” “the point, collins, is that i asked for your name and you didn’t give it to me. i want your name and your badge number so i can see you in court.” “that’s your prerogative, sir.” “i know that, collins. i know my rights. i just want to know why you didn’t give me your name when i asked for it, and why you walked away from me when i wasn’t done with you, and why you gave me a ticket in the first place when i was just sitting there waiting for my friends, blocked behind that dick mustang, trying to pull out….”

“moosehead!”

i turn sharply away from collins in the direction of the “moosehead”. that’s the name the 3 jokesters from high school still call me. “moosehead.” i hate it. but for some reason, for which i have absolutely no understanding, the name has stuck. “moosehead”.

i turn my face, which has been about 2 inches from officer collins’ face, to my friends, the fat man, dr. ben, and the reaper. they look like the 3 stooges, larry, mo, and curly. i can’t tell if they’re laughing… or crying, maybe both. i notice that i’m standing next to a large black motorcycle cop, and that i’ve been screaming at him, my face in his face for i don’t know how long. no doubt he’s been smelling my rancid, aggravated breath, two inches from his face.

 

“what seems to be the problem, officer?” the fat man has run up to us, one of two lawyers on my childhood team. the other two trot up behind him. i give a sheepish, chaplineque hand waive, “hi”, to the reaper; i haven’t seen him in 2 years.

“uh, no problem, gentleman. your friend here just seems to be a little hot under the collar.”

“yeah, he gets that way every once in a while, officer.”

 

i’m still seeing red. adrenalin is still coursing through my veins. but finding myself standing there with this motorcycle cop and… my three friends who know me since i’m 12… who have seen my travis bickle act way too many times before…. well… i’m also… just… a little… mortified. i know exactly what they’re thinking: “fucking moosehead, he’s done it again. just like down in tijuana in that bar when he almost got us killed for ranting at those mariachi players who he thought ripped us off. just like on the schoolyard basketball court when his birchwood team lost the game and he threw the ball through the chain link protection and broke the window. just like…. how many other times, moosehead?

“i know. i know, boys. i’m sorry. really…” they’ve gathered me up from officer collins and gotten me back in the car. we’re rolling home to our birthday weekend and… they’re triple teaming me. all – laughing so hard they’re crying. giving me the beating i so richly deserve. “do you know how close you were from spending the weekend in jail, moosehead?” “yeah, about two inches, fat man.”. “whooo hooo hooo. ha hah ha. that was the funniest thing i’ve seen in years. you were great, moosehead. can you imagine the 3 of us walking out to the curb, seeing you screaming at the top of your lungs at that poor cop?” “no, reaper, i can’t.” “that was worth the price of the whole weekend already.” tears are running down the reaper’s face. he has that problem when he laughs too hard.

 

“i don’t know why that cop took your moosehead lip, moosehead. you realize you could have ruined the entire weekend for all of us before it even started?” “i do now, dr. ben.” “what were you thinking, moosehead?” “i was thinking that the stupid cop gave me a ticket for fucking nothing. that i was blocked in behind the mustang, and then he had the nerve to ignore me when i asked for his name and badge number.” “moosehead!” they all say in unison….

and it finally hits me. i’m an asshole. a 64 year old rage-aholic who constantly flies off the handle in self righteous acts of self destruction. who screams at innocent telephone operators when he doesn’t get his way. who cuts other cars off on the freeway when he thinks they’re driving too slow. or too fast. or too whatever way he thinks they are. who wants to teach everyone in the world a lesson, even when he’s not supposed to be teaching anymore. whose temper is one day finally going to teach him the ultimate lesson – like losing his job – or – getting himself killed.

 

“ok, boys. i fucked up… again. i’m sorry.”

“it’s ok, moosehead. we love you anyway.” i don’t know which one of them said it, but i swear, it was all three. at the same time.

“thanks, boys. i love you too. now let’s go to barragan’s and get us some margaritas.”

“will you still need me, will you still feed me, when i’m sixty four????”