Chapter 1

10/30/91

Intuition is a flash of insight. Neither telepathy, nor stroke of divinity, its enlightenment comes from empirical evidence, consciously or unconsciously attained. Intuition may not tell you what you want to hear, but if ignored, you're basically fucking yourself.

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It's hard to tell what's happening at first. The video is blurry, shot at night, and in black and white. I can make out a police car with its headlights on, lighting up a group of cops loosely encircling a guy trying to get up off the ground. The video sharpens to clarity as a cop, wielding a baton, slams it full force into the guy's head, like he's batting a T-ball. The guy goes down again. The image jitters, as if whoever is filming felt the blow. It's always shown with no sound, leaving the newscaster to narrate the scene.

"Shocking! Deeply disturbing footage," Stan Chambers, the sage of the KTLA Morning News, manages to mix the right amount of righteous indignation with urgency in his delivery. "This is an obvious case of racial profiling, and blatant police brutality," Stan insists. So much for unbiased reporting.

Video pulls back to reveal two officers relentlessly clubbing the guy on the ground. He curls onto his side to avoid the blows, then rolls to his other side in a fetal position as the pummeling continues. An officer among the many standing around watching the beating yells and gestures at guy to lay face down. He does, rolls onto his belly and stills. The beating stops, and for a moment there's peace, like no one knows what to do next.

"Mr King was savagely beaten by LAPD officers..." and Rodney King's mug shots come on-screen. Only then is it obvious he's Black. His right eye is swollen shut, his cheeks and forehead bloody. White butterfly bandages above his thick brows stand out against his dark skin.

"So, what are you doing right now?" Lee asked me. I'd forgotten he was on the line. His question felt invasive, verging on lewd, like he was peeping into my bedroom.

I'd clicked on the TV after prompting him to "Tell me about being Lee," and he began reciting the same script as the twenty guys before him. Thirty-something, athletic, successful entrepreneur,' at a great space in his life.' All he wanted (not 'needed'—'wanted' makes one better adjusted) was someone to share his wonderful life with. My intuition bridled. How fulfilling could his life possibly be, if, like me, he was looking for love in personal ads in the L.A. Daily News?

"Is that the TV I hear, or are you with someone?" He asked casually, but there was an edge of 'why did you call me if you're with somebody.'

"Just me. Well, and my roommate, who's probably still sleeping. Oh, and my dog, of course." I muted the TV, looked over at Face curled in her beanbag bed, whimpering and twitching, lost in a doggy dream. Made me feel safer somehow, declaring I had allies on hand.

The video demands my attention when one of the loitering cops near Rodney savagely stomps on his head. King's bulbous body writhes on the ground with the blow. Police resume beating him, alternating between baton blows and violent kicks to his head and back. Miraculously, he manages to sit up, tries to shield himself from the relentless pummeling. Clearly dazed, he sits on the ground holding his head, then a half dozen cops pounce on him at once, throw him on his stomach, pull his arms behind him, and cuff him.

"I don't have a roommate. Or a dog either. But I like dogs. What kind of dog do you have?"

"A Shepard pound hound," I announced with a hint of bravado. "Seven years old and at the top of her form. She's a bit of a brat. Somewhat possessive, though she generally likes most everyone I do."

Lee chuckled, like he got my implication. "So, tell me more about being Rachel."

I flashed a tempered grin he'd turned my question to him back on me."What would you like to know?"

Rodney King can be seen hogtied and writhing on the ground through the group of cops standing around him. Camera pulls back to reveal several police cars exiting the parking lot and driving away. A brief passing tension as I envisioned one of them driving over King's head and crushing it in. I wondered if Rodney thought of it right then.

"Hmm..." Lee mused. "Let's start with something simple. You into the whole workout craze? Biking, hiking, any sports?"

I smiled again, knowing his angle. The main concern of women when blind dating is that the guy's a psycho-killer. Guys want to know if the woman is fat.

"I play racquetball."

“Really? I do too. Well, used to. Started playing in high school. Kind of gave it up after college, but I'd love to get back into it. Great game. Quick. Focused. Rather brash, though. Haven't met a lot of women that are into it. It ain't exactly tennis."

"I suck at tennis. My mind drifts with the pacing." It was true racquetball was not a popular sport among women. But it bugged me he pointed it out, as if suggesting women were weak. "I'm pretty sure I can give most guys a fairly good workout on a racquetball court though."

Strike one, was his 'at a great space in his life,' monologue. Strike two, the first thing he wants to know about me is what every other heterosexual guy wants to know before meeting, and it ain't my I.Q.

Verging on strike three with his sexist slam, I considered how to end the call politely.

"Are you one of those women who's only satisfied with the victory when you compete with men?"

"I play for the calorie burn, so I don't like to stop rallies for servers. I generally don't play for points." Racquetball was my only healthy fix over bouts with bulimia and speed. Heroin thin was in, according to the media, and my mother— the authority on proper façades. "Are you like most guys whose manhood hinges on winning?"

"Touché." Lee laughed. "I'll play you. Anytime. And we don't have to keep score. I can probably give you a workout too, and I sure could use one." He paused, and I heard the unmistakable sound of a lighter flicking, and then him taking a hit off a joint.

Definite strike three. Say thanks for the chat and hang up! But I didn't. "What are you doing right now?"

He hesitated, exhaled a whistling sigh. "Hmm...I asked you first. What are you doing right now?"

I considered lying. I just didn't have the energy to fabricate something glib right then. "Let's see...before I called you, I was scribbling some thoughts before starting my day." I dare not confess Lonely became so choking I called my Daily News mailbox one last time. Lee's was the only message, and came last week, close to a month after every other response.

"So, you're a writer," Lee said, with an oo-la-la edge. "Poetry? Fiction? You a novelist?"

"Nope. Just journaling."

"Ah, as in keeping a diary? Or are you penning a memoir?" His continued focus on me felt unnerving. I was usually the one interviewing. With just the simplest of prompts most men blatted on about themselves, turning few to none of my questions around. Twenty-three phone chats, and the five men from my ad that I met 'for coffee,' which I don't drink, were equally self-absorbed, as men tend to be, ensconced atop the social order for eons.

"I stopped keeping a diary when I was ten. And a memoir is an oxymoron, at best, as memory is faulty— a construct of the writer's perception of their past." I tried to channel Dorothy Parker, but surely sounded more pretentious than clever. "Honestly, I was just screwing around with prose."

"Sounds like a good read. Must be fun, screwing around in your head." He paused, and I swear, I felt him smiling. "I envy creative people, I mean."

I smiled. "I must admit, making it with my muse tops out my list of favorite things to do. Reliable entertainment without complications." Like masturbation, but I didn't say it.

"Imagination as an endless source of self-contained amusement. I like it." He paused."Well, you seem normal enough. Intriguing, even. Why is it you're still single if you don't want to be?"

I heard him hit the joint again and felt the draw of desire, that part of my brain that craved escape from fear and want, and the weight of my ordinary life. "My mother tells me I'm too...much. My sister would say I want too much." I matched his directness with purpose but suddenly felt exposed with my confession."What about you? Why are you still single?"

"I'm not."

Strike FOUR— Walk. HANG UP!

"But we filed for divorce back in February."

A married (soon to be divorced or not) stoner (he was sure to be blatantly getting buzzed at 9:00 in the morning), was not the knight I'd been holding out for. My intuition screamed at me to dismiss this man. Say goodbye and hang up. But I didn't.

"We've been separated almost a year now. I haven't seen or spoken to her for over nine months. Just waiting on the final papers."

"I don't date married men." It made my skin crawl when illicit lovers were blithely complicit in the corruption of a marriage. And I had no intention of becoming a casualty of a divorcee's inability to keep his commitments.

"I don't date married women. My marriage is over. If you're worried about that, don't be." He spoke softly but with conviction.

"OK." But it wasn't. "Look, you sound like a really nice guy—"

"And you sound like a very bright lady, and I'd love to get together for coffee or something, get acquainted in person."

I sighed. "I told you, I don't 'get acquainted' with married guys." Or stoners, but I didn't say it.

"I get it," he said with humor. "How about we just play racquetball then? There's a club on Ventura near Vineland with regulation courts. Racquet World, I think it's called. I'm off by 3:00 most every afternoon. Play you tomorrow if you're available."

Say bye bye and HANG UP, my intuition said clearly.

But I didn't.

I unmuted the TV and watched the handful of police left in the parking lot meander around Rodney, still hogtied face down on the ground.

"...captured by accident while testing a new video camera, and given exclusively to KTLA, we first aired this footage back in early March, and it has sparked a national debate..." Stan has a hint of glee in his rich tenor, but keeps it out of his expression as camera is back on him at the news desk. The anchor is secretly salivating, picturing where to display his Peabody.

That was where the video clip always ended, and the viewer was left wondering what the evil cops would do to poor Rodney next. A perfect cliffhanger, edited to insight outrage. And it did. I understood that racial equality was still fiction, like equal rights for women, but I could not sanction the media canonizing a violent felon just because he was Black. Still, the countless times the horrific scene aired, daily, the clip always commanded my attention. It was like watching A Clockwork Orange, or a train wreck about to happen.

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