When we left off, I had just realized I was being followed by some stranger in a beat-up pickup truck with dark tinted windows. If you missed part one you can read it here: The Time Martin Sheen Saved My Life. Part three (the conclusion) coming soon.
Trying to lose the strange vehicle stalking me, I quickly drove around corners and waited for him to pass by. Whenever he realized I was no longer in front of him, he would search the short streets for me. When he’d spot my car, I’d pull out and speed off in another direction. After one such turn, I got stuck in a dead end culdesac with him right behind me! I think it surprised him, too. Oddly enough, he didn’t block my exit, instead backing up to let me out of the narrow dead end.
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, after passing him I sped down another street.
Thinking I’m safer in this small neighborhood of nice houses, I’ve become afraid to return to the main highway that pretty much goes nowhere for 27 miles. But I’m frantically trying to call the police. Cell service on Point Dume? Damn near non-existent.
My calls to 911 kept getting cut off part way through. Unlike the police in Northern California, the 911 operators in LA just don’t give a shit, probably jaded by the many horrendous calls they get. They made no attempt to call me back when we got cut off. None. Had this been Northern California, the 911 operators would have blown up the phone trying to call back a terrified woman cut off during a 911 call. (To give you a little better idea of the police mentality down in LA, if you ever get pulled over for a DUI, just make a $2,500 donation to the police department and there will be no DUI. Heard stories of police brutality? All true. You’re not famous? Oh, no help for you until after your murder. That’s the treatment I was getting from 911. This probably also explains the high rate of homicide in LA: 911 is apathetic to your pleas for help.)
Finally I see a guy about 40 years old out in his yard! Yay!! I’m saved! Fuck LA 911 operators! I pull over, quickly explain what’s happening and ask him to call the police for me.
The son of a bitch refused to call! He just uttered “no”, and turned his back to me, while he stayed standing in his front yard. I’d just told him some stranger was terrorizing me, and I couldn’t get through to 911. WTF? (Mind you, I’m in a nice, mid-sized car, and slightly dressed up. My point is: I don’t look like a serial killer.)
Some strange man is stalking me, and you won’t help?? The mother fucker just ignored me AS IF MY LIFE WASN’T WORTH MAKING A 911 CALL. When the white pickup came down the street toward me, I yelled to the asshole in his yard, “When they find my body you can tell my parents it was the guy in that pickup truck who killed me!!”
Remember what happens to me when I’m panicked? I can be a bit dramatic. That said, if I ever see that son of a bitch again, he’s dead meat. He needs to stay out of his yard for the rest of his life. He’s no longer safe there.
As the stalker in the pickup comes up behind me, I speed off again, driving around the neighborhood looking for someone a human with a soul to help me.
I tried another evasive maneuver, quickly turning a corner onto a street that faced downhill. I parked so my car wasn’t visible from the cross street I’d just turned off. Then I saw the pickup pass by! I couldn’t pull out yet because he’d see me in his rear view mirror, so I waited a few minutes.
I was just about to leave when the stalker came back down the cross street.
I took off again, going away from him, and turned back onto the cross street . And that’s when I finally I saw another car! An SUV, stopped at the corner ready to turn. I was so happy to see another car!
I pulled up next to the driver’s window and immediately blurted out, “There’s this stranger following me and I can’t get rid of him. I can’t get through to 91… ….oh.”
I stop talking right there because I realize I’m talking to Martin Sheen. I immediately recall the last person I asked for help – the asshole a few minutes ago who refused to step back into his house and call the police for me. The not-famous asshole. The nobody who couldn’t be bothered. *stream of cuss words and dark curses on his short life* *inserts more pins into soulless-asshole voodoo doll*
I think to myself, ‘This is Martin Sheen. A-list megastar. Martin. Sheen. He’s not going to want to get involved in some random drama on the street.’
Absolutely crestfallen, I now say to him, ‘Oh, I know who you are. I’m sure you don’t want to get involved. Please try to call 911 for me. Thank you. Here he comes again!‘
And then I zoom off, with the stalker in the white pickup behind me, going the opposite direction from Martin Sheen. I’m now heading away from the only good thing in this whole situation.
I’m a goddam lemming, people (start watching at 01:40 to see what I mean): Driven by panic to keep going even when clear signs of danger are right in front of me. This is a perfect metaphor for The Story of My Life. I wouldn’t know good if it bit me in the ass. Obviously.
I end up turning around again, thinking it’s probably a good idea to go the same direction as Martin Sheen. Yes folks, dim as it is, the light finally came on. Not real bright, mind you, but “on”.
And to think, I used to draw the schematics from which the U.S. nuclear power plant operators trained. Yup. I’ll give ya a minute to let that one sink in.
But I wasn’t the only one who had turned around… Martin Sheen had turned around, too, and was coming back in my direction!! (Bless his soul!)
Martin Sheen and I are now parked, facing driver’s windows together, blocking the small, two-lane street.
Martin starts asking me more questions about what’s going on…
Martin: ‘Is he an ex-boyfriend?’
Lemming (me): ‘He’s a total stranger, I was on my way to my volunteer position at the weekly community event.’
Martin asks, ‘You mean this community event over here at the school?’
Martin: ‘Do you know Ramon?’
Member that dim light, folks? Ya. Just now do I make the connection – the connection I already knew – I’m talking to Ramon’s FATHER.
*zzzzap zzzzap* sparks sound as the light flickers a wee bit brighter.
Dim-witted Lemming to Martin: ‘OH!! I work with Ramon in the kitchen!!’ Every week, folks. I worked with Ramon every. week.
This seems to be the last bit of info that Martin needed to garner his assistance in this bizzaro drama being played out in his neighborhood. And I might add, a drama he’s not being paid for.
Martin and I weren’t the only ones who had turned around…. so had the fucker in the pickup. But now he was driving very slowly up to where Martin’s, and my car were blocking the street: Stalker-boy was starting to realize I had found help.
Famous mother-fucking help. A-list mother-fucking help.
Martin “Superman” Sheen help.
(This post is already 500 words over my limit, and you’re probably asleep or have opted to go back to work. Sorry. The conclusion, where Martin Sheen gets in the guy’s face!, is coming next. I promise. I may be a dim-witted and panicked lemming, but I do keep my promises. I’m also a loyal lemming who will jump off perfectly good cliffs with you.)