I fling on my lap top, scoop up the envelopes, and haul ass out of my boss's backhouse-turned office. I fly toward the Volvo - and directly into a yellow police line.
A grisly crime? On Miracle Mile? Couldn't they wait until after rush hour? I find the police that came with this line and demand answers.
"Hi! My car is on the other side of this line, and I really need to get home. Is there anyway you can just let me slip by? I have a show tonight, and I still have to straighten my hair."
I wink and shift my Fed Exes flirtatiously. He crosses his arms and nods his head 'no' with that shit-out-of- luck smile they must teach you in cop school.
"Sorry. It's a potential bomb,"
For the love of -- a potential bomb?! Potential bomb just means some idiot kid thought it would be funny to prank call the police from a pay phone. I know because I was friends with those idiots growing up.
(*Side note to the friend who shall remain nameless because I don't know if there's a statute of limitations on terrorists threats -- Thanks again for calling in that bomb threat to Camarillo High in Spring of '99. On behalf of all of us, thanks for jeopardizing your right to live as a free man so that none of us would have to, like, go to Chemistry that morning.)
What am I going to do now? I have to get to my Volvo. I turn away from the cop and power walk in the opposite direction.
Two blocks down, three blocks up, and one block over (the LA equivalent of running a marathon), I end up at another intersection with another cop, and another piece of police tape standing between me and my car.
I flag down cop number two. "Hi! Look, I know there's a 'bomb threat,' but -"
"Why are you putting quotes around 'bomb threat', ma'am? Do you hear that beeping?This thing is real."
"But - "
I stop and listen just to humor him. Sure enough, there is a persistent beepbeepbeep in the background.
"Really? That's from a bomb? Like, for real?"
"For real. Now, I don't want to blow up, and I certainly don't want you to blow up, so I'm afraid I can't let you past this line,"
Oh my God. I'm going to have to walk all the way around to the other side of the intersection. It is now five-forty-five. My timeline is officially shot. I hurry up the street. My lap top beats repetitively against the side of my leg. I'm sweating all over the damn Fed Exes. And the beepbeepbeep reminds me that I might die a fiery death this evening.
I finally get to the other side. The sun is setting. It is now six fifteen. There's nothing I can do now but wait and/or explode. I call my cohost and tell her I'm going to be late/and or blown to smithereens, and I resign myself to sitting on the curb and waiting for this catastrophe to finish already.
Suddenly, a giant truck marked BOMB SQUAD pulls up. It is as tall as a house and is made out of the same material as Arnold Schwarzenegger's Terminator costume.
Its back door opens. A ramp unfurls, and out rolls none other than an actual legitimate robot.
A cute one. We're talking like a Wall-E or an R2D2 situation.
The little guy wheels his way down the ramp and up to the front door of the bomb house. His skinny robot arms grow longer, and he picks up the bomb! Just when I think I couldn't be more worried about his little robot safety, a trap door opens on his stomach, and he throws the bomb into it. The door closes. The beepbeepbepping stops. The entire neighborhood rumbles in the sunset as the bomb detonates inside the robot.
And that's that. Seriously. I really saw this.
I tell you all about it because I learned a valuable lesson that day:
Sometimes, you may come across obstacles in life that seem frustrating, but don't allow yourself to freak out. Sit back and relax - maybe, just maybe, you're about to see a bomb exploding inside a robot.