January twenty-first, 1997 was one of the most frustrating days of my life! It all started early in the morning (around 7:15 a.m.) as I headed toward L.A.'s downtown federal building where I had to run a 'quick' errand...

For the first time in about 6 years, I got pulled over and given a ticket (I got caught in the middle of an intersection when the light turned red because the genius in front of me didn't pull forward in a coherent fashion). Smokey was sitting right there and pulled me over. The charge: Gridlock (that was the actual name of the charge)!

Well, since you probably don't know this; my car is registered in my sister's name. We did this because I have some bad credit from years ago still left on my record and I couldn't have gotten the car if it had been put in my name. The address on the registration is in Santa Ynez (where my parents live). Mom has been taking care of the yearly renewals (ain't she sweet?), so I haven't been thinking about that sort of thing. Well, the car was NOT registered in May of 1996 (like it should've been), so the officer also gave me a ticket for driving an unregistered vehicle and...

...HE IMPOUNDED THE CAR!

He took the car to the Rampart Division impound yard. I was wondering why the officer was taking so long to write the ticket! I was also wondering why a tow truck had pulled up behind him. YEE!

He said that he'd call me a cab, but since I was BROKE, I walked my big ass to the subway and headed for the DMV. The subway was clean, efficient and a nice contrast to the New York subway. I got off of the Redline and transferred to the Blueline. The chart on the wall indicated that the Blueline went STRAIGHT DOWN (south) at Grand Avenue. According to the diagram, I would be able to disembark from the Blueline about one block over and 9 blocks down from the DMV.

THE DIAGRAM WAS WRONG!

I ended up in one of the worst parts of South Central L.A. and had to walk approximately 38 blocks to the DMV. I was clicking my heels together and saying, "There's no place like home. There's no place like home."

When my sweaty, sweater-wearing ass finally found its way to the DMV, I felt like the battle was half over.

I WAS WRONG.

After standing in the non-appointment line for about thirty minutes (relatively short for the DMV), I gave the proper forms to the lady (who was quite pleasant) and waited to hear how much it would cost to register the vehicle. I figured that it could be as high as $300.00 or so, due to the deliquency.

I WAS WRONG.

Can you say, "$597.00?" I can! I can even read it to you off of my check book! YEE!

I wrote the check and she said that the car could not be registered completely until a smog check was completed. YEE! How was I gonna smog check the sucker while it's in the pokey? She gave me a special permit which would allow me to remove the car from the impound yard pending the smog check. I thanked her and resumed my Car Trek.

I took a bus to 3rd Street (downtown) and then began walking toward the Rampart Station on 3rd and Union. The blisters on my feet were beginning to taunt me, so I went to a hotel taxi stand and engaged the services of one of my former brethren (I used to drive a cab here in L.A.). When he heard the destination (a short trip and a low fare for him), I saw 'that look' that says, "I've been waiting to take an industrialist to the airport and now I have to take your chunky ass ten blocks into Crackville." I gave him a big tip, percentage-wise (the fare was $3.30 and I gave him a tribute to Lincoln). He perked up a touch and peeled out (presumably to avoid the snipers).

I searched the building for an entrance (no easy task) and stood in line for awhile. The lady at the counter told me that she could release the car but not to me because my license was 'restricted.' Now, my license was restricted a few years prior to this incident, but AS GOD IS MY WITNESS, it WAS NOT restricted then! Funny, she believed her computer over me. She told me that I could get a friend or family member to drive the vehicle off of the impound lot, so I went to the payphone and called my former roommate Eric. The voicemail answered. I hung up and decided to use the adjacent bathroom to relieve the urgent pressure on the inner walls of my bladder.

THE DOOR WAS LOCKED.

I shuffled my husky ass back out the door into Crackland and headed for home. Then, an idea hit me. I decided to call a cab. The plan was to tell the cabbie that I needed him to get my car out of the impound yard (cab drivers have valid driver's licenses and the computer agrees with them). I called L.A. Taxi and waited in front of Vons. And waited. And waited. After awhile, I called the cab company and inquired as to what was up. The operator said that the call had not been assigned. I said, "Oh perfect." I told the guy to broadcast that this was not a little-old-lady-needs-to-get-her-groceries-home-from-Vons call and that a twenty was in it for the first cabbie who got there. So, I waited. And waited. And waited. The entire time I waited, I saw about twenty (no exaggeration) L.A. Taxi cabs speed by and two of them even drove through the parking lot. Also, the entire time, I was eyeing an illegal cab that was sitting next to Vons with a driver slurping his lunch (soup is good food). After about 30 minutes of waiting in the hot sun in my SWEATER (for the cold film vault I worked in at the time), I relented and approached the illegal cabbie.

I propositioned him with the aforementioned proposal (I think he spoke English) and told him that a twenty was his if he helped me. He agreed and we drove the block and a half toward the car gulag.

He put on a shirt and we walked up the stairs to the office. This time, the clerk realized that the last names were the same but the first name on the registration was 'Susan' and the name on my driver's license was 'Jeffrey.' After previously telling me that she WOULD release the car to me, her story changed. I made up a lie about my sister being in the hospital for surgery in Sacramento and she went in the back to talk to her boss. After waiting 15 minutes or so, she emerged and told me that she could not release the car to me without a notarized statement from my sister stating that I had her permission. The fact that the car was taken from me and the fact that I had just payed $600.00 to register the vehicle didn't make a difference. YEE!

So, I payed the illegal cab driver his promised twenty dollars and hiked to a bus stop. I went home and called Susan. She wasn't home, so I left a message outlining what I needed. She called back later and sprung into action to help. The vehicle is registered under the name 'Susan Hollis.' Guess what? SHE GOT MARRIED RECENTLY! Her name is now Susan Delgado. YEE!

She wrote out a statement that a three-year-old could understand, got it notarized and faxed it to Detective Zalba along with her marriage license to show that she is/was Susan Hollis. I called Detective Zalba who had already gone home. I figured that I'd call him in the morning to see if he understood how maiden/married names work.

In the meantime, I had the temporary permit to get the car out of the impound yard without the smog check. The DMV will only issue them for one day, so I was going to have to go back to the DMV on Thursday and get another temporary permit for Friday (when I hoped to retrieve the car from the impound lot).

It was a big house of cards! It all could've come tumbling down at any moment! I missed an entire day of work! Sometimes, I hate my life!

Late Wednesday night, after e-mailing the first portion of my story to several friends (following AOL's 'temporary' inability to send e-mail across the internet), I took a nice hot shower and hit the sack. Since I was planning on taking two buses to work in the morning, I set my two alarms (one isn't enough to wake my non-morning-person ass up before noon) so that I would get up early.

After shuffling off to slumberland, my bedside phone awakened me at 1:45 a.m. Since my 85-year-old grandfather had recently flirted with a serious bout of pneumonia, I hoped that this was not 'one of those calls.' That would've turned an a bad day that I could laugh at into a bitter pill to swallow.

Much to my delight, the caller was the infamous Martha Stroud (a co-worker). She and roommate Bobby (a former co-worker) just had to share their empathy with me about my day and I really appreciated their sentiments. Bobby got on the phone later and offered to have Martha and him take me to work and help retrieve my car. This was a delightful way to end the day. We made plans for them to pick me up and after hanging up the phone, I said to myself, "It's nice to have friends" and attempted to head back into slumberland. Since I was VERY tired, I didn't think that this would be too difficult.

I WAS WRONG.

Starting at about 2:15, someone's car alarm began sounding. "No big deal," I thought. These things happen. "It won't last too long," I presumed.

I WAS WRONG.

The alarm would go through it's four-aural-pattern-cycle and then would stop for four or five minutes, then would recycle itself and sound the same patterns again. It did this over and over and over. The car alarm sounded for FOUR HOURS! The alarm finally stopped at about 6:20. Guess what? My first alarm was set for 6:25 (I am NOT exaggerating)! Since Martha and Bobby were coming to pick me up, I reset the alarms for later and tried to catch a cat nap as visions of me shooting a rocket launcher at the offending Volvo danced in my head.

When I did roll my tired butt out of bed, I called the detective in charge of my 'case' and asked if the authorization my sister faxed to him was sufficient. He answered in the affirmative and he even said that he would allow me to use the expired temporary moving permit which was issued pending the smog check. This would save me a trip to the DMV. Hey! This day was starting out okay!

Bobby and Martha chauffeured me to work and Bobby offered to take me to the impound lot during my lunch break. This would save my ex-roommate Eric from getting up early on Friday to help me out and I gladly accepted Bobby's kind offer. I was certain that we could take care of this matter during my allotted one hour lunch break.

I WAS WRONG.

Bobby arrived promptly at 1:00 p.m. and we headed for the Rampart Detectives Division on 3rd and Union. After standing briefly in a short line, Detective Zalba emerged from his lair and began processing my paperwork. Unlike the lady from yesterday, Detective Z did NOT mention that my license was restricted. Bobby had his license out on the counter and was ready to be the one to drive my car out of the pokey, but this was never mentioned. Perhaps the lady had misread my computer file. Things were looking up. I figured that we would walk outside to an adjacent parking lot and my car would be mine again.

I WAS WRONG.

Instead of handing over the keys to my car, Detective Congeniality handed me a map to a location even farther away from my job. My lunch hour was slipping away.

Bobby drove while I navigated. We headed toward downtown as I chuckled at how life can be an 'adventure.' We arrived at the garage and entered the office. There was no line and the clerk gladly began ringing up the sale. A large sign said, "NO CHECKS!" I wasn't worried because I still had the wad of cash I had withdrawn from an ATM the day before. The officer who had originally towed my car told me that the tow charges would amount to $60.00 and since I knew that I had well over one hundred bucks in in my wallet, I thought that I'd soon be pulling out three twenties and getting my ignition key in return.

I WAS WRONG.

The clerk said that the total charge was $148.90. Now, if you're unfamiliar with that new math, $148.90 is significantly MORE than $60.00. In fact, this is more than DOUBLE what the OFFICER OF THE LAW told me I would have to pay. Bobby and I exhaled audibly when the man behind the bulletproof glass (I wonder why it's bulletproof) asked for the ransom. Instead of doing my Mel Gibson/"Ransom" impression and yelling, "Give me back my car," I smiled at another one of life's obstacles and fished out eight twenties instead of three. The clerk gave me my change and I thought that I would soon be driving my car off of his lot.

I WAS WRONG.

Instead of handing me the keys to my car, he handed me...

...that's right! You guessed it! He handed me another map! This one led even farther away from my job and my patience began to diminish. Bobby was very accomodating and it was helpful to have him along to commiserate with. We headed toward LINCOLN HEIGHTS. This is northeast of downtown. As we drove through Chinatown, I began to dream of the relief that Communist rule would bring to Los Angeles.

When we arrived at the third stop on our journey, we approached the front door to the building. It was locked, so we headed onto a lot containing dozens of cars. An attendant headed toward us and took the information sheet which described the car I would be removing. He asked me what model of Nissan car I had. I said that it was a white Sentra. We walked north and eventually came upon my estranged chariot. I recognized it quickly due to the MISSING HUBCAPS (stolen from my security garage a few months ago). To further confirm that it was my car, I looked inside where the compact disc player USED TO BE (hint--it was taken without my permission). The attendant walked behind the car and began examining the information sheet and looking puzzlingly at the license plate. After some quiet moments of contemplation, he approached us again. I presumed that he would be whipping out my ignition key and handing it over.

I WAS WRONG.

The young man told me that the license plate number on the information sheet did not match the license plate on the car. I smiled and waited for the latest host of "Candid Camera" to jump out of a nearby vehicle. The young man said that he would have to trek back to the office and call his supervisor. The information sheet read '2HSE482.' The actual license plate is '3HSE482.' I guess he isn't familiar with the proximity of the number two to the number three on the world's keyboards and that he couldn't make such a difficult extrapolation on his own. We waited for him to return with some good news.

After five or so minutes, he returned and said that we could take the car. I asked him for the keys. He said that they were in the car. I sighed and headed for the driver's door. Had I known that the friggin' key was in the ignition, I would've risked execution and driven my car off of the lot before the official authorization had been granted.

I dropped Bobby off at his car, gave him a fivespot for gasoline and headed westward. On my way back to work, I had to briefly stop at my apartment and pick up the check my mother had express mailed me the day before. I figured that I'd bound up to my mailbox and whip the express mail envelope out, then deposit the check on my way back to work. I figured that it would be as easy as...

I WAS WRONG.

There was a little yellow slip in my mailbox indicating that the envelope was too large to fit into my mailbox. I had the option of having the envelope redelivered the next day or picking it up the next day myself. Here's the problem: the check I wrote to the DMV for $597.00 would bounce if I didn't deposit mom's bail-out check ON THAT DAY! I called the post office. The man told me that I was out of luck (I could've told him that). I asked if there was any way I could find the mail carrier. I asked the guy where the mail carrier would be right then. The guy said that he would probably be around the four hundred block of a certain three streets. I asked for the carrier's name. "Mr Player," was the reply.

My frustration peaked. I slammed the phone handset onto the receiver. I BROKE the phone. It no longer works. This is not an exaggeration.

I ran down to my car and sped off to track down Mr. Player as my one hour break passed the two hour mark. I zoomed down street #1, then street #2, then street #3. No Mr. Player! I headed toward the post office where, off in the distance, I spotted a large truck with the words 'Express Mail' on it. Eureka! I locked in on Mr. Player's warp signature and engaged the impulse drive (that's a Star Trek reference).

At the post office, I stood in yet another government-induced line and hoped for the best. When I got to the window, I explained the situation to the lady behind the bulletproof glass who disappeared into the bowels of Mailworld. The sweat on my brow thickened. The tension mounted. I repented for a lifetime of sin and hoped Mr. Player was playing on my team (man, that sounded stupid).

After what seemed like an eternity, the lady emerged from the back and was carrying an Express Mail envelope (which could've easily fit into my mailbox). I signed for the envelope and ripped it open. The check was inside! My quest was nearing its end! YEE-HAW!!!

I headed for Wells Fargo and deposited the check. When I got back to my job, I was 90 minutes late from my lunch break. Thank God I worked for the always-magnanimous Jere Guldin (my supervisor). I would have to make up for the 90 minutes and I still had to get the car smog checked and then I had to go back to the DMV for the registration stickers, but the immediate quest was over! As long as I didn't get pulled over between then and the time I that I would get those stickers, I'd be in good shape.

The total cost? Well, let's just break that down, shall we? $597.00 (for the registration) + $148.90 (for the car ransom) + $20.00 (for the cab driver who wasn't able to retrieve my car for me) + $5.00 (for Bobby's gas) + $5.00 (for the cab ride) + $1.60 (for the subway) + $2.70 (for the two bus rides) + $29.95 (for the smog check) + $160.00 (for the gridlock ticket). That brings us to a grand total of a less-than-reasonable $970.15. YEE-HAW! Life is sweet.

I still haven't replaced the broken phone.

I recently had my car towed for parking in the wrong place at the wrong time. This time, it only cost $140.00 to get the car back and $60.00 for the ticket.

Things are looking up.

I love L.A.

THE BITTER END