Oh, Hollywood

I’m too old to look like a cop anymore, though that used to come in handy. You don’t get fucked with when you look like a cop, not even by cops. Hell, not by anybody, I had gang bangers apologize for what I don’t know, and the crackheads in Hollywood never came near our Chevy Celebrity. It never got broken into even in the skankiest neighborhoods. But the high point had to be the time I sent a few Motown execs into a coked out panic when they thought I’d caught them doing lines in the men’s room at the Soundcheck. Old timers will remember the place, on Sunset Blvd just this side of Vine, a couple doors down from the Motown offices. Texacala Jones waited the tables slowly and silently. Anyway, one crowded night I pushed open the door to the men’s room and startled three suits in the middle of a conference. They freaked, three cats dressed to the nines in gold and expensive suits frantically wiping the evidence off their noses. I assume they tossed the rest of the blow into the waste basket. I just came into piss, I said, I’m not a cop, which only meant I was a cop, and it took another minute before I could convince them that I probably wasn’t a cop and as I stood there at the urinal they kept spluttering apologies to me and one shook my free hand. Oh, Hollywood….

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