Chapter Five

“When you least expect it…”

----------------------------------

It pays to be prepared.  To be ready, for whatever comes your way.

However, there is nothing more frustrating than thinking you are prepared and ‘together’,  only to find out you were sorely mistaken.

It was back in the fall of 1996 when for the second consecutive year I was hired to emcee a traveling showcase for United Airlines and United Vacations.  Travel agents would be wined and dined at one of 6 venues spread across the U.S., and our troop of actors would do our thing, espousing scintillating vacation destinations.  I love ‘live’ emcee work, so I was fully in my Br’er Rabbit’s briar patch.

The shows provided a great opportunity to travel, though time for sight-seeing was rather limited.  Week One we had shows in New York and Washington, followed two weeks later by  shows in Chicago and Denver, followed in another two weeks with shows in San Francisco and Los Angeles.  Whichever show came second in the week, you had a bit of free time there to explore and snoop around thanks to the travel scheduling.

During the last brace of western shows, my week’s layover was in Santa Monica, just blocks from the famed Santa Monica pier.  Given it was around the first of November, crowds were a non-issue and even some seasonal venues had closed until spring.  We arrived at the hotel in the early afternoon, which provided a great opportunity to amble to the pier and stretch my legs.  A little window shopping is always good for the soul, too.

Santa Monica pier must be a sight in the full swing of summer…bit of a ghost town when I got there, though,  as I stood on those well-worn boards, soaking it all in.  I first noticed the paved “Boardwalk” bike path that I knew went for many miles, made famous in just about any west coast entertainment production.  I also noticed a small ice cream stand was open down below, deciding something chocolaty would hit the spot.

Six or seven people were in line with the same idea, as I got behind a couple and a young boy of maybe twelve years.  When he turned around, my jaw smacked the asphalt under my feet.

It was earlier that year in Richmond, Virginia that I had a bit part in the Sinbad movie “First Kid” filming nearby.  That boy was ‘the Kid’, Brock Pierce.  Right in front of me.  He and his mom immediately recognized me as well, so we had a wonderful  talk, almost forgetting about why we were there in the first place.

Small world, isn’t it.  

We soon parted ways with a handshake, and I returned to strolling around.  I don’t remember much else about the rest of the day…after you have such a highlighting ‘coincidence’ take place, you hit the rewind button and mull it over repeatedly.  (By the way, there are no coincidences).

My call time for the following day’s show was not until 5p, so that morning I had already planned to walk down to the other famous destination close by: Venice Beach.  Why I decided to lug my hefty bag of camera equipment I don’t know, except the realm of compact super-zooms were only in the minds of inventors back then.  

I was quite the sight, no doubt. Decided to forgo shaving until closer to showtime later in the afternoon.  I’d also saved my eyeballs from contac-fatigue until the show, sporting instead my glasses along with dapper flip-up shades.  If I’d had on black socks with the shorts and Hawaiian shirt, I’d have been selected for the cover of GQ, hands down.

Venice Beach is interesting to say the least.  Even with minimal foot traffic, there were the ever-present steroid-fed beefaloes pumping iron in the al fresco gym, though it was a little too cool for the bikini fashion show.  I was doing my usual window shopping and looking for photo ops, but pretty disappointed that nothing was really tripping my trigger.  

Figured I’d head over to the beach, which there is rather flatly expansive.  Even the surf was equally as bland.  I figured whattheheck and headed in that direction to take my shoes off, letting a little bit of California sand go between my toes.

It was no surprise the beach, too, was sparsely attended.  I headed down the paved path, ending at the boardwalk beside one of the many bike rental stands…without noticing the grizzled man leaning against the railing to the right.

Dressed in khakis and a khaki jacket, the older man hadn’t shaved in days, had a ball cap slung low on his head just above his Foster Grants, his ears populated with yellow Walkman earbuds.  I didn’t take note of any of that until he spoke.

“Hi.  Wanna go for a bike ride?”

Admittedly, not the kind of thing or situation you anticipate.  I turned to look at this man a mere 6 feet away.  His question hadn’t sunk into my brain very far so I could only feebly respond, “Excuse me?”

“Do you want to go for a bike ride?”

While his question was starting to sink in, it wasn’t making any sense.  Why would a complete stranger want to go for a bike ride?  That was fishy out of the gate.  Something about the man was a bit unusual, I’ll admit, so much so that I flipped up those dapper shades I mentioned earlier…and with a puzzled look on my countenance, I’m sure.

“You look a little bit like David Letterman…”

“I am.  Do you want to go for a bike ride?”

“Or you could be one of those flakes that takes advantage of tourists…”

“JESUS CHRIST, DO YOU WANT TO GO FOR A DAMN BIKE RIDE OR NOT???”

If I weren’t already on my heels and not ‘getting’ any of this, now I really was fully stupefied.

For anyone that knows me, ‘speechless’ is an exceedingly rare condition.  And I was just that, suspended in an icy time capsule.  My mouth simply stopped working.

“FORGET IT!”   And with that he jerked his earbuds out and turned to walk away.  

I should have recognized that snaggle tooth.  I should have noticed the bicycle built for two with a wheelchair sidecar immediately behind him.  I might have raised an eyebrow at the large production van in the parking lot behind the scene, which concurrently began spilling out all kinds of camera equipment and hidden personnel.  It was David Letterman, alright.

Faster than you can say “uh…”  it was over.  A golden opportunity went wafting in the wind.  Wasted. Gone.  Had I been aware that David Letterman was in L.A. for the week, not in New York City, something might have clicked in my brain. 

Alas, the only thing that was clicking was the mental gas pump racking up the gallons of disappointment flooding my every pore as “The Man On The Street” strode away.