The Man Who Stole My Gun

The Man Who Stole My Gun

Column: Mike Davis’ final email to me captured the L.A. ‘sewer explosion’ — and reminded me to write, not mourn, when he left the city (see April 5, 2007).

L.A. Sewer Explosion:

Dear Mike:

A week after my arrival in LA, I went to a show in Santa Monica. I was walking around, checking out merchandise and listening to a live performance, when I noticed a man sitting about two stories down from me. He was dressed in khaki shorts cut high at the thigh and a green Hawaiian shirt that was open at the collar. He had a small, round face, the skin hanging loosely off of it. His features were soft and not at all distinguished. He was almost bald, which made his head look disproportionately small, as if he were having trouble fitting on his head. The man’s eyes were deep-set, his mouth was thin and his teeth were small, but still very white.

He had a pair of long, black hair combed straight to his scalp, a small pot belly that could have used more fat on it, dark circles under his eyes, and two front teeth that had been filed down to points. He was in his mid 40s or so.

I began to look for him, and I thought I saw him standing near the bathroom door to the women’s locker room as I was standing to the side. I walked in. When I turned around, there was no one there. Then, a minute later, the man was standing behind me, looking at me with the piercing bright eyes. He took my hand. In one second or two, I realized he had a gun in his pocket. I told him to put it away, and he did. I saw his hand reach up and touch himself over his right eye, and then he pulled his pants up and said, “No more show.”

I’m not usually afraid of people. I can read the look in their eyes and I know if I’m threatened or if they have something to do with me, they will leave. For the first time in my life, I was frightened. I began to run in the direction the man had come from, and I ran for a

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