Drinking and Driving and Running Red Lights

1. A Return on the Pickup Day

On every commercial job I've worked there is usually a day for picking up rental furniture and other props, and a day afterwards for returning those things. Usually two people do this in a 4-ton truck, one to drive and the other to back the truck in to tight parking spaces. The recent Honda job I worked was no exception. I was at my boss's house, getting the list of the rentals we needed to pick up. The guy I'd be driving with was named Rob. Rob said to my boss "While we're in North Hollywood, we should probably return the car from that other job, right?" My boss agreed that we should.

"Okay," Rob said to me. "One of us will return the car and then get picked up by the other one in the truck. Do you want to drive the truck or the police car?"

"The police car," I said.

Before we took off I tried to get the lights and sirens to work, but either they were disabled or there was some kind of code to stop people who have no business turning on the sirens of a rented police car from turning on the sirens of a rented police car. Whatever the case, on his camera Rob has a picture of me behind the wheel, pretending to look like a stern cop. There's actually a story behind why I don't have that picture, but it can't be posted on the blog, so you'll have to e-mail me if you want to hear it.


I followed the truck to the highway. He went through a yellow light. In my own car, I would have stopped. But I didn't know where we were going. "Screw it," I thought. "I'm in a police car." The light turned red as I went through the intersection.

To understand the sweet release of driving a police car on Los Angeles highways, you have to understand Los Angeles drivers. While you or I might perceive the "self" as the combination of mind and body, the Los Angeleno perceives the self as the combination of mind, body, and car. I experienced this form of consciousness one day when I was walking, and was curious about what was behind me, and instead of turning around, I looked up and to the right, where a rear view mirror would be if I was in a car.

Because of this condition, Los Angeles highways, or "freeways," are the locker rooms of the city, the place that residents express their hopes, dreams, and deep inner rage. They tailgate with their brights on, even if there's an open lane to the left, because they shouldn't have to merge left, you should get out of their way and merge right. But this is tough, because when a Los Angeles driver sees someone about to merge into their lane, it is customary to speed up and close the window into which that person would merge. Allowing another car to merge into your lane is viewed as a sign of weakness.

EXCEPT if that other car is a police car. The LAPD's proud tradition of overreacting, especially when it comes to highway situations, has led to an corollary to the LA be-an-asshole-on-the-highway doctrine, which is back the hell away from cops. Initially I drove extremely cautiously, this being someone else's rental car, but shortly into the trip, I noticed something that I've termed a "Pocket of Freedom." Regardless of the speed of traffic, I could go as fast or as slow as I wanted, and the amount of space between me and the other cars would not change. Even without the sirens, we made the trip from Santa Monica to North Hollywood in record time.

In North Hollywood, I drove past a real police car. I'd wondered about this. My car had a sign taped in the back window that said "Motion Picture Vehicle," but from all other angles was indistinguishable from a real police car. I'm not sure what police procedure says about a person in jeans and a t-shirt driving one of their vehicles, but this officer waved. It could be that he didn't notice my lack of uniform, or that given our distance from the cinema vehicle rental lot, he'd seen a lot of inappropriate driver-to-vehicle relationships. Or maybe this person wasn't a cop at all, but a costumed actor on his way to a shoot who forgot to tape up his Motion Picture Vehicle sign. Whatever the case, I waved back at him, and through this exchange we acknowledged the unspoken power we each felt in our respective black-and-whites.

2. A Pickup on the Return Day

I was helping Rob pack the 4-ton when I got a call from my boss.

"What are you doing?" he said.
"Packing the truck."
"I need you to pick me up at the Standard Hotel in Hollywood."
"Okay..."
"I'm on my way there now, so leave in 5 minutes and we should get there at the same time."


I left Rob to make the returns on his own, and drove to Hollywood. Surprisingly there was a metered spot directly in front of the hotel. As I was parallel parking, my boss pulled up to the hotel's valet, in a bright red vintage-looking Cadillac convertible. He got out and gave the keys to the valet. "Keep it near the front," he said. "Someone is gonna pick it up in a minute." And then, to me, "Come on, let's have a drink by the pool."


I got a Fat Tire, my boss got a Pomegranate Mojito. "I stayed in the Standard once," he said. "The rooms are tiny."

"What was the Cadillac for?" I said.
"Music video. Same as the police car."
"Oh," I said, realizing I forgot to ask about that.
Halfway through our drinks, an Art PA from the music video came to pick up the Cadillac.

"This Mojito's the business," my boss said.
"Really? It's good?"
"Yeah. Sip?" He slid me the Mojito.
"Sure. Fat Tire?"
"Sure."
We traded sips.

We left the Standard. Getting into my Honda Fit, my boss said, "Ouch. Sucks to go from a Cadillac convertible to this!"


On the way home I went through a yellow light. My boss said "I was wondering when you were finally gonna go through one of those. I mean, Jesus! It's Los Angeles!" I put on my signal, and we got on the highway.