Sorry, Am I in Your Way?
June 1, 2003
Independent on Sunday (London)
By Malaika Costello-Dougherty


“What would I give up sex for? God...” I overhear a woman trail off at a
Sunset Strip coffee house.

I look over, comparing her to a sensual but lost girl I knew as a
teenager, who gave away the power of her beauty, like a card played
too soon. This woman seems to also play slut, speaking about sex with
red, plump, inviting lips. She clearly has collagen implants, I judge.
Everyone in her small town probably told her she looked like a star.
She won't make it, I figure. These lights fade in Los Angeles' glare.

I stare unabashedly when she stands to reveal fabulous plastic shoes.
Cool shoes, I think. I check her out again - stylish, thin, petite - and
notice she moves with presence. Maybe it's her.

I leave to avoid paying another hour's parking. My car balances on the
curb as I wait to pull out, squinting in the unrelenting sun, dazed.
Someone waves me into the narrow single-lane road. As I crank the
wheel and accelerate, my Mazda swipes a stationary car, making a
grating sound. Damn.

I park on the curving street. Familiar with this fender-bender routine, I
fetch my license and vehicle registration. A young, slick man talks on
the phone in the passenger's side of the car I'd scraped, also parked
illegally - ignoring the damage and my outstretched papers.

“Listen, let's exchange information quickly,” I demand. “You need to
wait. I am on a job,” he hisses.

“I can't wait. My car will get hit.”

The dark-haired, dark-eyed, skinny man jumps out and yells. “YOU hit
me, it is your fault, you screwed up,” he moves closer rambling in
French, “Mon dieu... blah blah blah ... merde!”

“Je comprend,” I lie.

Passers-by stop to watch this increasingly hysterical exchange. The
girl from the coffee shop looks over. She's now standing on the street.

“She's come out,” says the guy in the car. “Angelina Jolie.”

He leans back inside and rapidly takes pictures with a telescope-size
camera. I glance at my abandoned car and block the camera.

“We need to exchange information, NOW.”

“You are screwing up my entire day. You do not know vat I do,” he
spits. “I work for US magazine” - emphasising the title of the gossip
magazine in a reverent tone.

“I know exactly what you do,” I counter. “I am a reporter in this town.”
He presents a passport and rental car information, continuing to
mutter in French. I question that the car is rented under a different
name. He ignores this, trying to angle the camera around me.

I accuse him of stealing my pen. He laughs, hostility melting into a mild
flirtation. “You've screwed it all up,” he reminds me. I drive out of West
Hollywood, feeling like I am caught in a Woody Allen movie. I feel dizzily
sick.

Days later I am on another West Hollywood street - my paint touched
up - and see the familiar dented rental. I make a wide turn to avoid the
photographer, who looks content in the dissipating orange California
light.