Del Paso Detective

CHAPTER 1

DEL PASO HEIST

I pulled my harvest-gold van into the angled parking spot along side the Artisan Theatre building just off of Del Paso Boulevard and took stock of everything around. The "Decepti-Kon: Fusion of Japanese and American Animation" car was there, as was Danielle's. She must already be inside. She did say she was leaving downtown at 4:30 and it was around 5:15, so the Stage Manager must be on duty by now.

I grabbed up my bags and saw Erin outside the front door of the theatre looking equanimous as always. I sent Danielle a text message letting her know I was outside and greeted Erin, who, oddly, informed me that she'd been trying to get in touch with Danielle for about 45 minutes and that she'd been waiting outside for someone with a key to arrive.

"Her car's here, though," I stated plainly.

"Well that's weird," Erin replied, "are you sure it's hers?"

I nearly responded but instead walked back toward the parking to investigate further. There's usually another red Pontiac that parks alongside this building. Maybe it was that one that I saw and Danielle was stuck in traffic, powerfully obeying the no-cell-phone laws of California. As I approached, however, it was clear that this was, in fact, Danielle's car. Those Kentucky license plates unmistakable. The more troublesome piece of the puzzle, though, was the fact that her bag, laptop, planner, purse and backpack were all inside and in plain view. With hesitation and trepidation I tried the front passenger door.

It opened without fuss.

I returned to Erin.

"I don't want to seem alarmist," I said, trying to seem unruffled, "but it's definitely her car, all her stuff is inside and it's unlocked."

"That's…" she hesitated, as though desperate to disbelieve all the now possible situations we were facing before continuing, "…concerning."

We immediately started calling anyone we could track down with a key. We found some of the Decepti-Kon people and asked if they had a key. We called the building manager, the theater's artistic director, and Danielle repeatedly. Finally, the director arrived and let us in. By this point, we were in an utter panic.

Had she been taken? It's not like her to leave her things in her car, let alone to leave it unattended and unlocked. Had she been hit by a car shortly after exiting her own and rushed to a hospital? Had she gotten inside the theater only to notice something elevated that needed repair, climbed a ladder, fallen and been knocked unconscious? No explanation for what could be happening was pleasant to think on. All we could do was hope against logic that she was inside the theater, safe, and simply unaware of anything happening around her or the calls on her phone.

As I rounded the corner to run into the space behind everyone else, I heard Erin cry out.

"She's here!"

What kind of reaction was that? Panic at finding the motionless, unconscious body of Danielle prostrate on the stage? Terror at the sight of some kidnapper holding her hostage?

"She's here!" Erin cried out again, still unclear as to the emotion behind her verbal outbursts.

"She's in the booth running cues…"

She's in the booth running cues.

This took me a minute to process. Surely that can't be right. She can't simply be in the booth running cues! Her car is unlocked with all of her personal belongings inside it sitting just off of Del Paso Boulevard in North Sacramento across from the single sketchiest Bank of America I've ever been to. Something must have happened to cause her to respond in such a way. And why the unresponsiveness to our calls? Obviously her phone was stolen when she was jumped just outside the theater before she could get inside or call for help. Clearly this must be the case!

"You've been calling? That's weird because I don't have any missed calls or texts from anyone. And I've been here for, like, an hour and a half!"

Unbelievable. How could this be? All that panic. All the chaos. All the phone calls to people we hardly know. All this and she's simply been enthralled by running light cues…

CHAPTER 2

NAME: WITHHELD

Two hours after all the commotion, we opened our show.

Two hours after that we gathered at Craig's house for an after party.

Four hours after that, Danielle's car was broken into on the block where she lives, her backpack, laptop and bag - again left in the car - were all taken.

Six hours later, she moved to a new apartment.

I went over to help her and her roommate, Carly, move. Our mutual friend and associate Tony was also there to lend a hand. We moved all their furniture, built and repaired anything that needed building or repairing, and ate some Mexican food at Tres Hermanas on K Street.

I went about my day until our show that night when, to my surprise, Danielle informed me that the actress in the one-woman show she was working on at another theater had sent her a text message a little while before letting her know that a man had sent an email stating the he had the script to that one-woman show and several books that belonged to Danielle. I was personally very excited by this news since one of those books was, in fact, not Danielle's, but mine on loan to her: The China Study - a nutrition text written from a massive nutrition research project. I asked if she'd contacted him yet, and she said she hadn't. She sent him an email, somewhat terse, saying "I understand you have my script and books. Can I get those back from you?"

Over the course of the next several hours the two of them exchanged emails - apparently all rather laconic in nature - since by the time our show was letting out they were to the point of him saying "I don't know why you're being so inconsiderate and rude when I'm trying to do the right thing and help you." I took over the emailing over the next couple hours while we mingled after the show at a local Leather-Daddy bar called The Bolt where the safest place to pee was the corner of the backyard where they keep firewood. I placated until I got him to leave the items under a car at an address in Midtown. Danielle and I convoyed to the stated location and retrieved the items.

Mission accomplished.

So I thought.

The next day when I went over to hang pictures for the girls' new apartment, I asked Danielle if she'd sent him an email thanking him for returning her items to her. She looked at me with a look half of sheepishness and half of incredulousness. I took her phone from her and sent a very polite but conclusive email thanking him for taking the time to return the items and apologizing for the miscommunication the night before.

Unfortunately, he took too much heart from this email. Later that evening Danielle received an email from him to the effect of: "Hey - no problem. I really feel like we've bonded during all this. Are you on Facebook?"

I was left with no choice but to track him down and learn a bit about him to determine whether or not Danielle should respond to the obviously desperate attempt to connect with a female, even a faceless one. Nevertheless, I would be remiss to deny you, my readers, a peek into the life of this man:

Name: WITHHELD

Gender: Male

Occupation: Southwest Airlines since 1996

Education: BS in Physical Education, Portland State University 1990

Approximate Age: 44 years

Assumed Relationship Status: painfully single

Sorry Patrick. Access denied.

My Sweatshirt, May It Forever Be In Good Hands

I was once given a sweatshirt. And now that sweatshirt is gone. Though the cold I will feel in its absence is harsh, it is nothing compared to the empty void left in its place in my heart; and so to fill that void, in lieu of wearing my sweatshirt one more time, I will tell you all the story of that sweatshirt.

I had worked at the beauty school for barely a month when we had a staff meeting to talk about the new product line release. As part of the new line, we would be selling apparel. American Apparel apparel. The t-shirts were okay, but the sweatshirts were amazing. Solid black American Apparel sweatshirts with the smallest hint of the beauty school's name written down the back right shoulder in side-ways printed vertical type. Very clean. Very simple. I decided that, since I'd always wanted an American Apparel sweatshirt and this one could come straight out of a paycheck, I'd take one. So I did. But it never came out of the paycheck.

The sweatshirt was one size too large for me, and so the sleeves were rather baggy. Well, baggy is the wrong word. They were too long. When I'd wear it with something else, remove the two together and then put them both back on, the sleeves would bunch up something terrible at the wrists. This was evident frequently in my nearly-two years at the beauty school where I wore the sweatshirt every single day. I had one co-worker - albeit she was a little odd - who'd wear it when she'd have a bad day saying that, since I never washed it and it had come to exude a very sublet aroma of cute boy, it was the Man Sweatshirt and it felt like a boyfriend's hug.

That sweatshirt and I handled Seattle together.

That sweatshirt and I handled a roadtrip with my now-ex-girlfriend together.

That sweatshirt and I took on the clubs, bicycling in the streets, trips to Tahoe, day trips to San Francisco, and freezing-cold backstage greenrooms together.

That sweatshirt was what saved me in Shasta Pass heading South at too-early-in-the-morning on my motorcycle heading back to Sacramento from Seattle.

I had that sweatshirt when I met Tugboat.

I had that sweatshirt when I was lost in the cornfields in the darkness.

I had that sweatshirt for almost the entirety of my last relationship.

And now I do not have that sweatshirt.

But the memory of the sweatshirt will live on. Today, I will go to a thrift store and buy a new one to stay warm. But always and forever will I think of that sweatshirt. The free sweatshirt that I wore for three and a half years, washing it only one-handfull of times, and loving it every minute.

Sweatshirt, America loves you, and I salute you.

Love Always,

Andrew

I Feel Like This Should Be Simple

What are the rules of theatre-going audiences?

1) arrive with plenty of time to park, get your tickets from will-call if necessary, find your seats, peruse the program and be ready for the show to begin BEFORE the posted curtain time.

2) dress appropriately (ie. don't wear a bikini to the opera).

3) turn off your cell phone. off, not just on vibrate. we can hear that.

4) don't talk during the performance.

5) applaud at the end of act 1, if applicable, and at the end of the performance.

6) don't walk onto the stage.

7) don't touch the props or set pieces.

8) unwrap any hard candy or cough drops prior to the start of the performance.

Did I miss anything? I don't think so.

Now, these rules are fairly universal. It's not as though at Theatre X you're allowed to talk on the phone while the performance is running while at Theatre Y you're not. You're just not allowed to do that at all. Ever. These rules span all theatres, in all cities, states, countries and genres, from opera to fringe, from garages to stadium arenas. If you are seeing a play, follow these rules.

So how is it that people still miss this memo? How is it that someone, so naive in the ways of being a courteous individual at the theatre, can brazenly walk into a theater that has most of the lights off already, in which there are three people who are obviously cleaning up after a performance, walk past the seats, ONTO the stage, UNCOVER two layers of coverings off a piano, OPEN the keyboard cover of the piano which is onstage and start PLAYING the piano?!

Oh. And P.S. If you're going to be this jackass, at least play something better than only the right hand portion of "Lean On Me."

Tool.

The Brawl

(names have been changed and locations altered to protect the guilty parties involved)

It's a Friday night and my high school buddy, Killer, wants to have a party. Parents are out of town and the house is his. He invites me, some of our other high school alum's and we all invite some others. We end up with a group comprised of me (The Doc), The Bear, The Saint, J-Money and Swat. There are some others who are in attendance early on, but several leave and mostly, only we named few remain. At around 1:00 or so, Killer's sister arrives with some people. Two Persians, a big guy and three girlfriends. The big guy is totally cool and the girls are all alright. But Sister's getting panicked because this fellow, we'll call him Grunt, who has stolen her iPod and a bunch of money is going to come over. We don't like this, so we team huddle.

After our huddle, Sister informs us that the Persians are weirding her out. The Saint takes it upon himself to go outside and smoke with them to feel out the situation. Meanwhile, Sister informs us that Grunt and his best friend, a 250-lb Navy Rescue Swimmer who we'll call Kong and Kong's girlfriend who we'll call Garfield, are all on their way. Team huddle again with The Doc, Bear, Killer, J-Money and Swat. We decide that we will ask him to leave if anything seems suspicious or out of control. Sister begs us to not let the two of them disappear together, and we promise to hold that bargain.

Well Grunt, Kong and Garfield arrive and seem to be nice enough. However, Kong is huge. The first thing I notice is how huge Kong is and I look to Killer and say, "dude. f#$k you."

After a little while of civil behavior, Kong goes to the garage to see J-Money, Swat and The Bear playing beer pong. The Bear extricates himself from the game in order to keep an eye on Kong while the rest of us notice that Sister and Grunt have disappeared behind her locked bedroom door. Swat and J-Money come inside while the other miscellaneous party guests play beer pong and Bear keeps Kong distracted. Killer and I go to Sister's door while Swat and J-Money line the hallway. Garfield approaches and looks none too happy but we tell her to be cool and that it's time for her friends and her to leave. Killer has to threaten to break down the door before Sister will open it and, immediately, Grunt is up in Killer's face. Garfield pulls Grunt aside and Killer and Sister have at it. Meanwhile, I grab Grunt by the collar and say, "It's time for you to go." He tries to stare me down from six inches below my nose so I look at Garfield and say, "You need to gather your boyfriend and your friend here and go home now." She says meekly, "okay."

Grunt and Garfield head downstairs followed by Swat and J-Money. I keep an ear for a minute on Killer and his Sis before the yelling is a little more than I should be hearing so I head down. Just then The Saint walks in the door. I say, "How are the Persians." He says, "Great! They're really nice guys but they heard all the yelling and decided to head out." I say, "cool, man. what're you drinking?" "straight doctor pepper." I look him hard in the eyes. "Switch to water and get ready." He reappears five seconds later with a glass of water and I fill him in.

By this point, Grunt and Garfield have joined Kong in the garage and Sister comes barreling down the stairs looking for Grunt. She blazes right past him, sneaks out under the garage door and opens her jeep's door. The Saint and I hear this and, realizing that a 19-year-old probably should drive after drinking a six pack of mike's hard lemonade, chase her. Meanwhile Killer enters the garage looking for his sister only to find that she's driving off and the Grunt is in his face again. Sister nearly runs both the Saint and I over taking off. He runs back inside before me. When I turn around the first thing I see is Killer's right fist nearly take the Grunt's head off.

My world goes slow-mo as I think, "ooooohh noooo…."

That's about all the time I have before Kong has jumped over his falling friend and blasted Killer square in the face. As I run in, Swat grabs Kong by the shoulders yelling "Stop!" but is stopped himself when the Grunt sucker-punches him from below and jumps on top of him. J-Money joins that fray while the Saint tries to block Kong. I see Kong's right hook wind back and have barely enough time to jump on his arm to stop him from snapping the Saint in half. I drop him to the ground, I'm not sure how, and hold him saying, "Sorry bro. You're out of this fight." Meanwhile, the Saint flies in and tackles J-Money, Swat and the Grunt. By now, the Bear has removed Killer and has returned for Swat. With both of them out, J-Money heads into the house and the Grunt tries to follow him. The Saint blocks the hallway.

"You really wanna get in my way?" yells the Grunt.

"You're not going in the house, man." the Saint states cooly.

Just then, Garfield, out of nowhere, attacks the Saint with claws of furry. Fortunately, the Bear took over blocking the hallway. I throw Kong across the garage and leap into the middle of the room. The Saint throw the Grunt toward Kong and he and I go back-to-back between the Bear and our two enemies, arms out to the sides yelling, "everyone fucking stop!"

Everyone fucking stops.

We line up British Militia style, the Grunt's nose barely a foot from mine, blood pouring down his face over his left eye where Killer and cracked his face open. I say, "Alright everyone be cool. No one is going inside. You three need to leave now, but I would really appreciate it if you'd let me fix up that cut on your face first."

Everyone fucking stops again.

The Grunt starts to mouth off to me but is stopped when Kong looks more at me, the 150-pounder who just took his ass down and kept it down saying, "Man, just let him clean you up." I get my med kit and clean him up. He and the Saint go and have a cigarette while I talk the Sister down, get her keys and send her inside. Kong, the Grunt and Garfield take off and we lock the house down. I send everyone who's bleeding or been bled on to a sink with soap to get cleaned up and we crack open some beers and toast the evening's festivities.

I spend about 15 minutes in the garage scrubbing blood of the floor feeling very much like Ian McShane in the HBO series Deadwood and then head in to finish off the remaining Keystone Lights.

All-in-all, a hell of a high school reunion.

Spin. A short play by Andrew J. Perez

MIKE: Hey man.

ANDREW: Yo, bro. What up?

MIKE: Nothin much (they hug) how are you?

ANDREW: Kinda tired. Think I'm gonna get something to eat.

(Andrew rummages in the pantry. Mike notices that he has two bandages on the knuckles of two of his left-hand fingers and tape on the knuckles of both index fingers.)

MIKE: Shit, man, what happened to your hands?

ANDREW: Oh - work.

MIKE: Work?!

ANDREW: Yeah, I got a job.

MIKE: Doing what? Punching angry cats?

ANDREW: Ha - no. Sign spinning.

MIKE: Are you serious?

ANDREW: Yeah. (he emerges from the pantry with a protein bar, opens it and starts eating)

MIKE: So you dance on a street corner...

ANDREW: yup.

MIKE: twirling a sign around...

ANDREW: more rocking it back and forth in a rhythmic fashion than twirling, but in essence, yes.

MIKE: And someone pays you for it.

ANDREW: hah - yup.

MIKE: And then you punched angry kittens who attacked you and that's why you have bandages all over your hands.

ANDREW: Oh - no. These are from where the sign skinned my knuckles and started rubbing in a blister-making sort of way.

MIKE: Oh... how much do you get paid for this?

ANDREW: minimum wage.

MIKE: huh... do you have to wear a costume?

ANDREW: oh yeah.

MIKE: what is it?

ANDREW: ... Lady Liberty.

MIKE: No shit you're one of those?!

ANDREW: oh yeah. I'm one of those.

MIKE: ha! that's funny.

ANDREW: yeah. but hey, it's paid.

MIKE: word.

(a pause in the conversation)

ANDREW: well, I'm going to go lie down for a bit.

MIKE: alright man. enjoy.

ANDREW: I will. Take it easy.

MIKE: yup.

(Andrew exits. Mike sits on a stool. He checks his phone, puts it away. He ponders briefly and then chuckles.)

Blackout.

Tell It Like It Is

I feel like I've been tricked. I feel like everything that's happened this week has been some kind of a trap to make me believe, for a short time, that I'm on the right track only to pull the rug out from under me.

Now, I fully understand that this is illogical thinking. Rationally speaking, there is no proverbial rug to pull out from under me. There is not even a proverbial "puller" to pull said rug, again, rationally speaking here. However, that's how it feels. And that's what blogs are for, right? To post the drivel and mental ejaculate that arbitrarily becomes a temporarily seeming-reality in the constant uphill struggle?

I digress. I am fully aware that I have chosen a career path that is 99.9% rejection. However, it still sucks. And I wasn't prepared for it. I should have been - I KNEW I should have been - but I had not prepared myself for it. Well, balls.

I think it's because I have led a very fleetingly charmed month. Things clicked so well in my life while I was in Seattle (okay, that's not entirely true. Many things did. Many things did not.) for a week, the show I was in (that I got into almost entirely by accident) was spectacular… the world seemed to finally say, "hey bro - sorry about last year, man. Let me make it up to you!" To which I replied, "it's about fucking time!"

Well as Admiral Ackbar once so eloquently put it, "IT'S A TRAP!"

Today was, to say it like it is, a bummer. I'm just very bummed that the guy I spent the entire afternoon, evening and night training to take care of my brother, turns out to not be the guy from this agency who's going to come in to take care of my brother. Man, that's ten hours out of my life that was, literally, a wasted effort. I trained air. I could have just hung out with my brother instead, had a lot more fun, not been stressed out, not given myself a sore throat from explaining step-by-step what I was doing for the whole darn day… Just tell it like it is, people.

Moral:

If you're not what you say you are, please step out of line and go away.