Seamy in Simi ?


Nuts!
Some odd sights humoured me as I worked in the Valley. Reseda Boulevard is lined with apartment blocks as it approaches the Northridge area. Northridge was of course the actual epicenter of the 'quake. So the scenes of devastation were plentiful. Even there, some buildings remained untouched, causing me to liken the effect of the earthquake, to a demented giant ping pong ball bouncing on random buildings. Many of these apartment blocks had their facades dropped to the floor. All I could see were the interior of apartments behind the palm trees lining the street. Strung across between the trees were banners bearing the legend, "Manager's special...1st month rent free".
Problems...problems..
When I left the UK, I'd brought enough Sustanon to last me three or four months. Still working, although not as hard, I forgot about it until the last minute. The question in my mind was whether I would be able to get some in the USA. I had no health insurance, although my boss did. He suggested I used it, even though the social security number I'd been issued precluded me working. Much to my amazement, it worked. The local hospital in the Valley allowed me access to a doctor, who gave me a prescription for depo-testosterone. The pharmacy spent some time scanning their big drug book to find out whether Sustanon was available. It wasn't. Strange really, considering testosterone is one of the most abused substances amongst body builders. They gave me what they thought would work, although it was clear it wasn't exactly what I needed, it would help avoid the PMS syndrome experienced without it. I could feel it wasn't the same though. The periods of hot flushes extended from a day or so to about a week.
Plumber in a Porsche
One of my dreams was to own a sports car. A dream finally realised at the age of forty one, when I persuaded Eli to part with a 1974 Porsche 914. I loved it, mainly because it looked nothing like the pretentious Targa styling of the later Porsches. It's sleek lines looked more like a Triumph Spitfire than a Porsche. Packing my tools into its dual trunks, customers would see me arrive, wearing my Panama hat, driving this little car. At my employer's office, phone calls would come in asking for "the plumber in the Porsche". By the end of April, our work had dried up and I'd found myself under the care of a chiropractor dealing with a chronic back injury, sustained during the replacement of water mains, in yet another apartment complex. I'd been advised to stop practical work. It suited me, because I actually hate plumbing. My boss decided I should be a salesman/supervisor for him. This I did, but as time went on, I became frustrated with the lack of organization in the company. Here was this guy trying to run a franchise from his home in Encino. Disorganized and chaotic at the best of times, it was a crazy situation. My only relief was cricket. I managed to get in touch and join with the Beverly Hills and Hollywood Cricket Club. This was a club with a famous history, having been inaugurated by the likes of David Niven and Douglas Fairbanks Jr. It was fun to play in the lee of the Hollywood sign, with film and show business exiles. Julian Sands being the best known amongst them.
A Cry For Help
It was in late April that my brother Steve called. He and his family were now in Ireland. What's more, they were beginning the Internet business we'd worked so hard on. Everything was in place, save for one thing. He needed a Guarantor for a ten year lease on an office and wanted me to stand. I questioned him closely, before agreeing he could put my name forward. I trusted him and believed the business would succeed given a little support and time. A couple of months later, I was on the plane back to the UK, because my visa needed renewing. Three weeks relaxation ensued, before I boarded the Virgin Atlantic flight back to Los Angeles. The flight was full as usual. I couldn't help noticing a girl, nervously smoking across the aisle from me. I wondered what was wrong with her. Dismissing her from my mind once we landed, I made my way through to the Customs and immigration queue. An hour later, I stood in front of the immigration officer. Looking at my passport, he asked why I was there. Of course I explained I was writing a book. Something made him dissatisfied with my answers, because he told me to go across to the immigration office. A sense of impending doom sped across my mind as an immigration officer with a club foot motioned me into an interview room. Following him into the cramped office, I sat as he bade me to do so. He asked all manner of questions, whether I'd been working, what I was doing for money and so on. he then inspected the briefcase I was carrying. In it, much to my consternation, was a forgotten business card. It was mine. realising the game was up, I admitted to working and asked what my options were. He told me I was going to be refused entry unless I voluntarily agreed to return to the UK. I did have the option of appealing to a judge, once I'd spent some days in a holding cell. Losing my freedom has never appealed to me, so I opted to return to the UK. I was handed over to an effeminate member of Virgin Atlantic's staff to return home on the same aircraft I'd arrived on. He took me to the departure lounge, passing that same nervous girl on our way out of the Immigration office. It was clear she was being sent back too. She confirmed it when I asked her, but told me she was spending the night in a cell. I felt sorry for her. Once in the departure lounge, I sat disconsolately waiting to board. It was then that I realised I could simply get up and walk out of the building. I asked the effeminate one if I could use the bathroom. The gents washrooms are half way along the concourse towards the exit from the building. He allowed me to go unescorted. Once there, I debated whether to make a break or not. I hated the thought of returning to the UK. There was nothing there for me now. My future, I was convinced, lay elsewhere. For five minutes, the internal argument raged. Common sense prevailed however, when I decided I didn't need to become a wanted man in a strange country. To my delight, when I returned to the departure desk, I was told I was to be allowed a seat in the business class. I drank three small bottles of champagne to drown my sorrows, before curling up on a seat and sleeping. I knew not what was to become of me now.