When I moved to Los
Angeles in 1995, my mother was moving to the area as well. She and my
father had just gotten divorced, and she was starting where she had left off
when she married him in the ‘60s, Loma Linda. I had met some people who
promised to help me get my career started; I just needed to get out to Southern
California.
My mom and I were
driving in a two van caravan; her in a big mover, me in our family van.
This was the days before cell phones, so when we wanted to chat, we either
needed to pull over, or I had to run over to her at a red light. At one
of these interchanges, I accidentally locked myself out, and when the light
turned green, I couldn’t get in. Luckily, my mom had a spare key, and as
cars drove by honking, I ran over and got it from her.
I was listening to
audiobooks along the way, and as we pulled into Vegas, I was finishing The
Diary of Anne Frank. Great material for Sin City. As such, my mind
was wandering and I was looking down at the sidewalk rather than up at the
bright lights. I remembered something from Schindler’s List and was about
to say to my mom “In Schindler’s List…” when I smelled something rank. I
stopped, looked up, and found myself face to face with a drunken stranger I had
almost run into. He was talking to someone beside him as he stared at me,
wondering why I had almost plowed into him. He was wavering a little on
his feet, and had clearly drunk a lot. The smell I had detected was his
alcoholic breath. And it immediately dawned on me. This was Steven
Spielberg.
I froze in place,
unsure what to say or do. My mother hadn’t noticed. She was further
down the sidewalk unaware what I was doing. Then the light turned green
for Spielberg and his friends and they walked across, leaving me behind.
At that moment my mom finally realized I wasn’t with her, and came back to me,
asking why I was slack-jawed. I pointed at the street, at the man in
white pants, and said, “Spielberg.” She looked and recognized him and
said, “huh.”
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