I got a flat tire on Saturday and when the tow truck took me to this ghetto tire place on Santa Monica, there wasn't room to drop the car because this hot little silver Mercedes convertible was in the way. So we sit and wait and the tow truck driver is this no-nonsense trim little guy with a grim face and suave hair who says "Jesus Christ" constantly on the road in regards to other people's driving decisions.
Finally this man comes out to the car and he's a petite little African-American guy wearing a crisp white long-sleeved button-up shirt with a knotted cravat at the neck and pin-striped trousers that look like the bottom half of a zoot suit. He saunters up to the car, reaches inside, pulls out his badge, clips it on to his belt, pulls out his pearl-handled gun and holster, clips that onto his belt. I say to the tow truck guy, "He's a cop?" and we both start laughing.
Mr. Cop then gets in the car, remembers something, gets back out, reaches around to the front of the windshield and grabs a two-inch stump of cigar, which he clamps in his teeth before getting back in the car and driving away.
I really hope he was FBI.
Inside the ghetto tire shop they had a small glossy picture of J Lo in the infamous green and blue, belt-buckle-and-a-smile dress tacked to the wall.
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I'm imagining your auto shop pretty clearly--I walk by four places just like this when I have to work at football games. Baker Field at Columbia is at 218th Street on the westside...so far away.
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