Defenseless In The Very Ocean Your God Created
Last night I made my slow way home, limping on a broken spirit; a tired soul. I climbed concrete steps and rested on wooden benches. At the corner of Melrose and Highland—the night seemingly its blackest at only 6 p.m.—the gridlock-riddled city of LA pumping steel and gasoline, I knocked my head back, shouting through tears at the very God who breathed life into me, “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TRYING TO PROVE HERE!?”
No answer.
So I shouted a little louder in case he didn’t catch it the first time. “WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO TEACH ME? BECAUSE IF THIS IS HOW YOU WANT ME TO LEARN, I’M THROUGH WITH YOUR GODDAMN LESSON PLANS.”
An hour earlier, a $1,500 speed bike meant for no lesser a man than Lance Armstrong leant to me by one of my dearest friends was stolen right out from under me. A couple of punk kids ran a well-rehearsed operation, jumping out of cars, swinging bolt cutters like regular gun-slingers, attacking the rack, and removing all contents therein locked up. The security guard who watched it all go down behind her comfortable parking garage desk was kind enough to tell me the likely hood of getting the bike back was, well, entirely unlikely.
When I called the West Hollywood Sheriff’s Department and explained my situation, the highly irritated woman on the other line who understandably cannot take one more stupid, stolen bike report, asked for my address.
I gave it to her.
She said, “That’s the LAPD’s jurisdiction.”
Isn’t that who I am talking to?
“This is West Hollywood.”
What’s the difference?
“You’re located in LA, not West Hollywood.”
Good. My bike was stolen in West Hollywood.
“Okay, come on in and file a police report.”
Maybe you’re confused. That’s what I am trying to do right now over the phone.
“I get that. You need to come in.”
I’d love to, but you’re ten miles away and my bike was just stolen.
“Don’t you have a car?”
No. I have a bike. That was just stolen.
“Well, sorry then. You have to come in. Get a ride and you can file a report. Until then…”
Sigh.
My only method of transportation, jacked. Because my car is still dead and gone in the parking lot behind my apartment complex, and the first bike leant to me collapsed mid-ride, if you recall. Lesson here? Don’t entrust anything to Max if you don’t want it broken or stolen. That goes for everything from bikes to hearts. To the fan that just contacted me, asking me to marry her sister, this is what she’d be getting herself into. Are you sure she’s up for that before I go accepting any proposals?
If that’s not enough to lose, I’m in the process of giving up my apartment to share a room with an old friend in West Hollywood. I haven’t slept in bunk beds since grade school, but I still know how to do it. There won’t be much room for my personal belongings so I’ll be selling them off or smashing them to pieces with a hammer.
Over-reacting, maybe? Quite possibly. However, given that over the last 24 days of November I was fired from my job due to this very blog, lost the girl, you already know about the bike(s), you’re kidding yourself if you think my checking account has more than $100.00 in it, I was wrecked with the flu, and all I’ve eaten in the last 48 hours are those little powdered donuts and a few cups of coffee, so smashing anything with a hammer seems like a socially acceptable thing to do.
Then on that slow walk home, the victim of theft and relentless loss, I found a man sporting one of those ridiculous hunting hats complete with earflaps and fingerless gloves to match on the corner of Melrose and Vine in the frigid, California, November night. My feet tired from the walk, I came to rest against a streetlamp and he pulled up on his bike, the son-of-a-bitch. He said to me—even though I wasn’t asking—that he’s figured out how to preach and freestyle at the same time. “I’m not religious,” he makes sure to inform me, “but check it.”
And he proceeded to flow with the best of them. About angels in Heaven, and the California surf. He rhymed about struggles and drugs and life and waves.
The drug part I understood, certain he was ripped out of his mind at that very moment, everything he spit making no sense at all, yet perfectly understood. He stopped suddenly and said, “You’re in the water, defenseless, the very ocean your God created, and a sixt foot wave is coming at you, what are you gonna to do?”
I didn’t have time to answer because I was too scared I was about to be smited by the Heavenly Father Himself while thinking, I’m in no mood for your riddles. That’s a nice bike you have there. My $1500 set of wheels just got stolen. Now piss off before I shove you off and ride away, when my friend with the earflaps answered his own question, “Deeper.”
Deeper? Afraid I had missed something while dodging lightening bolts and coveting his bike, I inquired as to what he meant.
“Dive deeper, man.”
A car slammed on its breaks in the intersection, horns blaring.
“You’re going to dive deep, that’s what you’re going to do.”
Who the hell is this guy? Dive deep? Am I losing my mind? Ten minutes prior to our exchange, I was telling God I was through with all these damned trials and tribulations, and this stoned, rapping prophet tells me to dive deep? The very words and life mantra of one of the bravest men I have ever known: Nick Avery, a fourteen-year- old boy with a better grasp on the meaning of life than 90% of adults twice his age. And his body was ravished by cancer. A life cut short that never stopped diving deep. And never lost faith in God.
Here I am losing Every. Single. Thing that has ever given me hope, and I want to give up on God, blaze my own trail, when I still have two legs to walk on? My health? The best friends a guy could ever hope to have his back in battle? This very blog that on 12.01.10 is going to the next level to accommodate my readers? Nick faced certain death. That six-foot wave came crashing down, and do you know what he did? He went “deeper, man.”
I may be mad at God, and I’d love to know how much more He’s going to let the enemy take from me. I am sick of whatever He’s trying to teach me, all this silly religion and rules, and all this talk about how God works all things for good. It sounds like clear and utter bullshit today, but I have not for one minute stopped loving Him.
Because He’s never stopped loving me. At the end of the day He’s the only thing that will be left standing. My friends won’t always have my back. My mother can’t help. The roof over my head will no longer provide me shelter. Alcohol will not comfort me. And my bike sure as hell won’t be around anymore, but since the very beginning God is the one and only thing in this life—yours and mine—that has remained constant and unchanging; steadfast.
So I will stay fast.
I’d like to see the enemy take that away from me.
I’m expecting you to show up, God. Do you hear me?
I’ve got a wave crashing down.
I’m going under. Not because I’m finally drowning, but because it’s finally time to dive deep.
Go ahead, make it mad today.
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