So, LA without a car is a complete impossibility. In this city, you don’t got wheels, you don’t got shit.
Due to my impending fame, I know that very soon I’ll be pimped out with a Porsche with “YOU WISH” licence plates, but in the meantime I buy this little beater that I dub “KITT”, in an ongoing tribute the Hoff. Even though he lied about the weather.
Kitt is a 1993 Honda Civic with no dash lights, no air con, one speaker and a paint job that looks like what a car would look like if it could get skin cancer. I figure it’s my “first 6 months” car.
So I drive around LA trying to get to know the lay of the land. And it’s then that I am just cruising along minding my own business when I almost run over this dog that darts out in front of me. I wait for its owner to yell that they are going to sue me. But there is only the sound of the Mexican guys cutting the lawns next door.
No owner, dog running, no tags. This poor puppy is lost.
So, loving my new city hard, I decide to slow down and get this dog to a shelter. This is where I run into the first problem. It’s a girl. And she is on heat. She’s not lost; she’s dug her way out of her back garden and the first male she finds with four legs is going to win the lottery.
I don’t discover this until I have her in the car and the air suddenly is thick with the smell of electric oysters. And she’s spotting all over the backseat of my car. Not having a clue what to do I drive to the nearest police station. Ironically, I’m the one with my head out the window.
I park, make my belt into a makeshift lead and take the hormone raging hound into the cop shop. And then it all goes really weird.
I tell the bloke on the front desk the whole story to which he replies that they can’t take the dog since they only pick people up off the street. Instead, he goes and gets the Sarge from out the back.
Sarge comes out and confirms that I have to take it to a shelter, but he does offer to Mapquest it for me. Since I have a highly animated, man seeking bitch on a lead in his nice clean police station he hurriedly hands me a pen from his top pocket to write down my details.
The pen has “The Faultline” written down the side of it. That’s a gay bar here in LA that I’m very fond of. I probably should just say nothing.
Me: Let me guess, you were in a hurry for work this morning and picked up the first pen up off the dresser?
Sarge: Um, yeah….how did you…?
I show him his pen. His eyes go wide, he snatches the pen out of my hands and looks to see if anyone noticed.
Me: It’s ok, I go there too.
Sarge: (Surprised, due to innate non faggy manliness that I exude from every pore) Really?
Me: Yeah, really.
Cop: I’ve never seen you there.
Me: I keep a low profile (why I said this still escapes me, but whatever, it seemed solid)
Cop: Well, look, here’s my card (sliding it across desk that has no doubt had dangerous criminals bleed on it under his justice dealing paw) and that’s my cell number right there. Call me and let me know how you go with that dog.
Me: Can do. Officer.
I wink and leave and DON’T look over my shoulder.
Picked up by a cop in a police station in LA. I should have my own fragrance line.