You know what this is...

 You know what this is...

                                                                 

     It was during the doldrums of my 20's when I endured a trauma that completely shocked me out of indolence while leaving an emotional scar that took many years to heal. I was wandering listlessly through the days of prime youth and had managed to get fired from UCLA, lose my apartment, scare off a nice girlfriend and become mired in a funk that was only partially alleviated when my father put me to work in his ticket office. On one hand I knew I did not have the guts to take over his business which required no bullshit gumption. I had very little ambition but I needed money to survive and the Ticket Office offered me just enough to get by and stay high. My heart was never in it but I could do the basic office requirements while not being trusted to buy tickets or set up deals. It was 1975 and the ticket business was beginning to turn toward rock and roll shows to make up some of the money lost in tougher to get baseball, football and Laker tickets. So the idea was I was going to help hip up the Coliseum and Arena Ticket Service and allow the old man to retire. In reality that was a decade away and something happened that put an end to any possibility of my becoming a ticket broker. The office was in the big Victorian house at  538 Santa Barbara next to a service station on Figueroa and right across from the Sports Arena. The Lakers move to the Forum in 1967 and a downturn in availability of a friendly ticket manager at Dodger Stadium put more of an emphasis on USC  and Ram football. The football season was over and I was spending a lot of time in the office just trying to fill up the hours until sales became active again. The Lakers were mediocre, even after trading for Kareem so we were marking time until Dodger season tickets would create some cash flow. The only event in the neighborhood at the time was a concert at the Sports Arena of "the Spinners" which was a black show that drew crowds who bought seats at the box office and did not use ticket broker. I passed the time reading books from BC's sports collection, trying to do Tai Chi and occasionally getting visits from old pal Greg.  One afternoon a very atrractive young black woman appeared at the counter and in a freindly way asked about the Spinners show. We were not carrying them so I directed he across the street. A few minutes later a very imposing looking black man opened the sliding front doors and took a long stride toward the counter. I was standing up and greeted him but in a split second he raised his long leg and hopped over the gate, landing inside the inner part of the office as I stepped back confused. He reached in the front pocket of some continental bell-bottom slacks and showed me a pistol while saying "you know what this is!" After all the movies I had seen with a victim snatching the gun or slugging a robber I just sort of turned to jelly and said nothing. My youthful arms were like limp noodles. He demanded money and I emptied the very small amount of cash in the register and handed it over. He was wearing a tight polyester shirt and I could smell his sweat as he drew closer.  At this point the gun was pressed agains the back of my head and I started thinking about my sister's wedding in two weeks and the chance of me being killed or badly injured by a blow to the head. He began demanding I open the safe and while there was a safe in the back of a  closet, I knew kneeling down in front of the thing would be the end of me. I shook my head and he marched me around the office that was full of valuable collectables. However, in looking him in the eyes I saw a yellowish tint and realized cash for dope was his objective. This went on for about 10 minutes that seemed like an hour. In sizing up possible escape routes I told him that there were gold coins in a desk near him. He looked down and I took two long strides and leaped up and over the high counter, landing on all-fours near the mostly closed sliding door. I thrust my hands into the small opening and pushed myself out onto the landing and then jumped over several steps, expecting to be shot at any seond. I was wearing gum soled shoes that offered good purchase on the asphalt.  I ran a zig-zag pattern through the parking lot looking back after maybe 20 yards and seeing him sprinting toward a Ford Pinto with the good-looking black lady at the wheel. I then bounded into Fernando's Mexican  Restaurant while shouting "help! call the police! I have been Robbed!" and no one made a move since they had no idea what the gringo was saying in English. I had kept myself from being shot but my mind was wounded in a profound way. The robber looked very much like an NBA basketball player named Clifford Ray but since Ray was like 6'10" it was the face only. Later LAPD came with mug books and the staggering number of criminal pairs witht the same MO made me realize I did not want to work in that office another day. 

                                                    two weeks later