Hollywood is Burning, Part II: Get-a-Way

I have to protect my family.

I’m pretty sure the mob outside is dead serious about breaking in and getting down to some serious violence.

Not to mention liberating some pretty major karats. At the reception, I noticed huge diamonds whose glitter could induce seizures; watches: at least a dozen Cartier Tanks; I could not count the Rolex Oysters, and no doubt there’s enough loose cash to make your average L.A. rioter reasonably satisfied. This is, after all, an affluent Hollywood crowd.

Armed & Dangerous With a Swiss Army Knife–Just Kidding

I have to protect my family.

In my pocket, as always, a little Swiss Army Knife.

“I’ve never yet seen an eyeball who felt that the Swiss Army Knife was not a dangerous weapon.”

This charming and somewhat gruesome comment, advice really, was given to me by my Israeli buddy, a grizzled tank commander who, one drunken evening, cheerily listed for yours truly all the common, everyday objects that have lethal potential. My friend was a big fan of the ordinary Swiss Army Knife and its zillions of nifty attachments.

So: it is pitch black, rioters are gathering outside the DGA building, and to make matters even worse, women and children in the lobby are yelling, sobbing–every moist and yucky sound imaginable–in panic.

I feel like announcing:

“People, shrieking does not help. Really it doesn’t.”

But, why bother? It’s a mob mentality and there is no reasoning with such people. Unless maybe you’re Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird.

Which I am not.

Anyhoo.

I’m busy formulating a plan, trying to figure out a way to escape this building before the rioters break in, before they figure out a way of crashing through one of the numerous doors.

Interpolation:

Karen does not scream or yell.

Unnaturally calm is the love of my life. Even as stones–where do the rioters get rocks?–thwack sharply against the front doors, Karen does not even flinch.

It’s almost eerie. Basically, everyone else is losing their collective minds, but Karen’s expression just builds into this magnificent wall of serene composure. Her posture goes taut, as if a steel rod is welded into her spine and molding her into an incredibly cute Marine.

Ten-chun!

I have this really weird urge to lift her sleeve and seek out the Semper Fi tattoo. And then there’s her lovely face. All the open and generous softness has receded and been replaced by a look of, well, the only way to describe her expression is —

— have you ever seen those military paintings of 17th Century generals? You know those huge canvases where you get to see a full battle, say Austerlitz, or Waterloo, thousands of men are fighting, dying, blood and guts strewn about, rearing horses with eyes wide as saucers, but the general, the reason for the painting in the first place, well, he’s usually sitting on his white horse, on a hill, watching the battle, and his expression conveys, determination, resolve, bravery, a self-assurance that says to the viewer: Look, believe me, I know exactly what I’m doing.

Anyway, that’s what Karen looks like tonight.

End Interpolation:

“Karen,” I whisper, “I think we should get to the car and get out of here.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

I’ve been in love with Karen since third grade and have come to the realization that she’s one part Antigone and all Patton.

“Everybody, everybody! Attention, please! We cut the lights. We don’t want them to be able to see inside. Do you understand? We shut down the power. Not them.”

There is a collective buzz as a rent-a-cop repeats this vital announcement.

“What are we supposed to do now?” People shout.

“We’ve called the police,” comes the weak reply.

More nervous buzzing.

“Please, ladies and gentlemen, just wait for the police to arrive.”

I’m thinking: famous last words.

Offspring #2 is still in my arms, still glued to my hip, and though seven-years old, she has regressed and jammed her thumb in her mouth; she trembles mightily, as if freezing. I can actually hear her teeth chattering.

Karen and I edge our way to the staircase; we are not going to wait for the police. We are not going to sit here like victims.

We are going to make our way down to the parking garage, jump into the car, and drive home. We are going to take our fate in our own hands.

The cavalry, I’m pretty sure, and with all apologies to John Ford, is not coming to the rescue.

The Police Are Coming–But Not Really

“Where are you going?”

A rent-a-cop is posted at the staircase.

“To our car,” I tell him.

“That’s not a good idea, sir.”

“We think it is.”

“We’ve called the police.”

“Where are they?”

He says nothing.

“How long before they come?”

“Any minute.”

I gesture to the rioters doing their hostile little dances outside the DGA building:

“What happens when they start throwing Molotov cocktails?”

Rent-a-cop takes a deep breath.

“The police are coming,” he insists.

“Excuse me, we’re going to our car. You can’t stop us.”

The rent-a-cop has about 200 lbs.–all muscle–on yours truly and I’m terrified that he’s going to challenge me.

Thank G-d, he steps aside, murmurs something about not being responsible for our safety.

No kidding.

Poor guy. He’s trying to do his job, but he no longer knows what his job is.

Robert’s Rules for Driving Through a Riot

1. Do not stop for anyone or anything.

2. Not even to help someone. My first responsibility is to my family.

3. If rioters try to blockade the car, drive straight through.

4. If the car stalls, don’t leave the car.

5. Unless the car is on fire.

These rules flash through my mind in a split second.

The Fashionable and Magic Backpack

The stairwell is pitch black. Not good. In fact, it’s bad, very bad.

Suddenly, a golden beam of light slices through the velvety darkness.

“Look,” says Ariel, “Mommy has a flashlight.”

The children are delighted.

Me too.

Karen carries an extremely cool and very feminine leather backpack. It’s something of a joke in the family that the backpack is magic. Whatever you need, whenever you need it, it’s gonna be in the backpack.

Except for a pistol.

Sigh.

Cautiously, looking for signs of the rioters hiding in the garage, we make our way to the car. I’ve definitely seen too many movies. I almost declare: The coast is clear.

I snap Offspring #2 into her car seat. Ariel, 11, also sits in the back with his younger sister. He is pale with fear and confusion. I touch his arm and murmur: “Everything is going to be fine.”

Ariel gives a weak smile and nods his head.

Our children trust us to protect them.

The burden of parenthood has never felt more grave.

Starting up the engine, I realize that I am drenched in sweat, my shirt clings to my body.

Karen reaches into the glove compartment, pulls out the Thomas Guide to Los Angeles.

“We may have to find a different route home,” she says.

“Right.”

Using commencement-of-production bonus money from my last film, we bought a Lexus outfitted with a massive eight cylinder engine. It was a good move. The Lexus is a gas guzzler, but who cares. It’s our Centurion.

And as we cruise up the ramp, my breath catches in my throat for there are a dozen rioters milling about the exit.

Oh man, am I going to be able to put pedal to metal and plow through a bunch of real live human bodies?

My Israeli friend, the tank officer, had something like sixteen kills in a Sinai tank battle during the 1973, Yom Kippur War. When I complimented him on this huge kill ratio he waved it off and said:

“It’s no big deal killing an Egyptian tank. They have this habit of hunkering down and using their tanks as artillery platforms. All wrong. Picking them off was a bit too easy. Remember, always fight an offensive battle. Most people are cowards so if you keep coming at them, chances are they will retreat.”

Okey-dokey.

Next Week: Part III, Gauntlet. In which we manage to escape from the parking garage, only to discover that the route home is, um, a minefield.

To read Part I of Hollywood is Burning, please click here.

Note: I’m frequently asked how I’m able to remember incidents in such detail, including dialogue, from so many years ago? It’s simple. I do not rely on my memory. I have been keeping a detailed diary for over 20 years. This post, as so many others, is based on my diaries. If there are gaps in my entries, I check with Karen. She was also keeping a diary, plus Karen has a phenomenal memory.

Copyright Robert J. Avrech