I was in LA over the weekend. I took the train cross country to get there. I'll tell you about that later. In LA, since everything is in a mall, it's a major ordeal to get anything, a fucking apple you have to go to Macy's for. There's no Korean Mafia for some reason so no convenience store on every corner, and no bodegas. It's a major pain in the ass. You have to plan really well. Buy all your stuff and pack rat it in your car since when you leave the house you might not be home for 10 hours as your day stretches you out over the sprawling smog land for centuries.
And if you forget something and need it spur of the moment but don't have an hour to kill by driving to the Beverly Center, parking in a behemoth concrete structure, remembering you're in the orange section, on level P4, area B134-AC, taking the elevator down to the main floor so you can take escalators up to the floor that is home to rubberbands or socks or apples, battling middle America disguised as trendy as you go, you must go without.
But having solved this conundrum, I was good to do my drive - to - the - Santa - Monica - promenade - to - sit - and - watch - the - ocean - for - 10 minutes - before - a - pitch - meeting thing I like to do. I had all my supplies,
Summoning all my cab driving skills of which I have many being an excellent driver I managed not to die among the completely lost drivers of LA and made it to Wilshire and Ocean but FUCK! I forgot the quarters! Fucking quarters! Fucking parking meters! I just couldn't bare to go into another garage/tomb. I like to park right on Ocean at a meter. I found an empty spot as I always do having outstanding parking Karma and sat in the car thinking for a second.
I don't like to take "no" for an answer and always, ALWAYS believe there's a way around it. And usually there is. I checked my pockets again, the cup holder, nothing. A Starbucks two blocks away was my only choice but I didn't want to give up the parking spot and didn't want to risk the walk back and forth since the little meter maid cop scooters where like vultures and smell a kill this easy from miles away. I looked to the left and nirvana!
A bank. Oh my God, I'm a genius. I would go into that bank and get a whole roll of quarters and never have to bother with this shit again. And I could watch the car as I did. I bolted across the street, of course causing chaos with the three drivers who were so unused to jaywalkers in LA that they thought the crazy suicidal actor had had enough and wanted to end it all at the expense of their BMW's front end which is why they slammed on their breaks and honked with vitriol, not because they were concerned for my safety but only their cars'. And they don't understand that they should keep driving and you'll cross after they're bye you like in NYC. You take one step into the street and you can shut down the 405 at rush hour.
The bank was super elite, had no line and had to buzz me in the front door. There was no partition and the tellers were dressed casually. A nice middle aged Asian man was my helper today. I was excited by my smart idea. I love coming up with inspirational problem solves, no matter how small. I loathe inefficiency.
"Hi. May I have a roll of quarters please?" I put a twenty on the counter.
"Are you a customer of the bank?"
"No."
"Oh I'm sorry, we don't do that for non-customers."
I paused and looked at him blankly, as if I hadn't heard him just tell me that his BANK had no money in it. Or if it did, wouldn't exchange any for me.
He looked at me, smiling nicely.
Beat.
Pause.
"Hi. Can I have a roll of quarters please?" I said exactly as I had in take one. I was glad the director was allowing a second take, I knew I could do better.
"I'm sorry. We don't do that for non-customers." He was an excellent actor. The nuance of slight empathy I thought a wonderful choice for his second take. I stared at him blankly again for a moment giving him a chance to change the script and break into a big laugh and apologize for his bad joke and give me my quarters. But nothing. I looked around the bank. There wasn't a sole there, no one in line waiting impatiently. Empty. And it was a bank. I confirmed this by spotting some banking brochures and such around. The art director had done a tremendous job. Yup, this was a bank all right. I looked back at my teller and then decided to go another way. I sighed deeply, put my face in my hands and rubbed it as if I was having the hardest day in the history of days, even though I wasn't. I looked up and to the left, searching for my tact in this maddening moment. By this point I could feel the stare of neighboring tellers. Was this crazy staring man who wouldn't, who couldn't understand their policy on changing quarters going to become a problem?
I decided my next approach to navigating "no" would be to pretend to be mentally retarded. I looked at him dead in the eye. "So, I can't get any quarters here?" He'd seen that act before. Man, he was trained well. "No. I'm sorry."
Beat. I can beat him. Come on. THINK! AHA! Brainstorm!
"Can I pay a fee and get some quarters?"
He laughed uncomfortably, "no." I think he thought I meant a bribe. Like a personal stipend to him under the table, which I didn't.
"I'll pay ten dollars to get ten dollars in quarters."
"I'm sorry. We don't do that." I waited. Just standing there. Then suddenly, "I'll do it just this once." He took the twenty and got a ten and a roll of quarters. "But so you know in the future. We don't do that for non-customers."
"Thank you so much for bending your rules for me. That was very generous of you," I said sincerely and left the bank. The bank that wasn't going to give me any quarters. The bank that had millions, trillions of dollars in quarters, an illegal amount of quarters, that wasn't going to give me ten dollars worth.
I put four of them in the meter and crossed Ocean Ave and sat on a bench on the promenade watching the sunset over the Pacific with the homeless and the teenage runaways.
There is justice once in a while in this world. You just have to try to help it along and not take no for an answer... or pretend to have brain damage. I left the rest of the quarters on the bench figuring a can of Spam and a pint of JD in the stomach of my temporary neighbors was a better home for it than the city of Santa Monica.
Posted by Eric Schaeffer at 9:00 AM