Pimping My Ride - Part 10

I tried to remember the 13th, or 23rd, or whichever it is, Psalm, the one about walking into the Valley of Death, as I neared the identity thieves. A couple of them actually licked their lips at the sight of me. Because it’s in Los Angeles, a city in which everyone drives everywhere, even from room to room in their condominiums, the corner of La Cienega and Sunset doesn’t get a lot of foot traffic on an unusually chilly Tuesday night, so they converged on me like flies on a dog’s indiscretion.

One asked with a grin how I was doin’. Another asked for my Social Security number, just for verification purposes, though I had no idea what he was trying to verify. Another, claiming to be doing research for a UCLA psychology project on memory, asked where I did my banking, and if I happened to remember my account numbers. Another asked if I’d ever been to a timeshare presentation. Another asked my mother’s maiden name, and my dad’s middle name. The one who’d asked if I’d ever been to a timeshare presentation said he noticed I was on foot, and wondered if I’d be willing to attend a brief, enjoyable presentation at which there would be delicious refreshments if it meant having a free rental car for the rest of my visit to Los Angeles. Another asked to see my driver’s license, just for verification purposes. The timeshare one asked what if he threw in a free map to the stars’ homes and tickets to a forthcoming Dodgers game, against the Fresno Raisins. Another asked to see my birth certificate, if I happened to have it with me, just for verification purposes. The timeshare one apologized for the map to the stars’ home being outdated; it showed where a lot of game show hosts I’d never heard of lived, but not Eminem, Amy Winehouse, or the cast of Glee.

Through all of this, I kept walking west, crossing Sunset Blvd. and passing what had once been the Sea Witch, a club at which the 2 percent milk (as opposed to the cream, you see) of LA’s folk rock groups played, and later been North Beach Leather. My intention was to get the identity thieves as far as possible from my whores.

When I said I had a question for them, no fewer than half a dozen said, “Shoot!” at once. They glared at each other in embarrassment. I asked how they were able to ply their trade with such temerity. Like many who score highly on tests of verbal intelligence, I commonly try to make those who’d do better on math or spatial relationships tests feel stupid by using the biggest word possible, though I don’t think anyone could argue very convincingly that, at eight letters, temerity is that voluminous.

Fortunately, one of them apparently had one of those desk calendars with a new vocabulary word for every day of the year, and was able to respond to my question. He and his crew were able to operate with impunity — impunity! — by virtue of having stolen the identities of no fewer than three deputy chiefs of police. After the identity thieves threatened to bankrupt them and have their various mistresses deported to Surinam, it became understood in the precinct that officers cruising westward on Sunset Blvd. should turn their heads to the right when crossing La Cienega, while those heading east would turn to the left, perhaps noting who was performing that night at the Comedy Store.

We were almost to what at the time was the Playboy Building when they finally felt they had enough of my personal details, and headed back toward where I hope the whores had been able to make hay while the sun shone. When I tried to buy gasoline the next morning after my daily run at Fairfax High School, my card was refused, and the swarthy foreigner manning the cash register deeply unamused. I have little doubt that if I’d been unable to persuade Marie to come put my purchase on her card, he’d have beheaded me. These people may leave their unspellable home countries, but not their unspellable home countries' brutal traditions.