Squeezed by the O.J.
In my last column, I mentioned most people are likely to meet only one murderer in their lifetime – at the very end.
It was a dark joke.
As soon as the column was up, a dear friend suggested I print a retraction. Not because the joke was too dark, but, as she reminded me, I had already met a murderer. She was right, but I had forgotten about my brief encounter with an alleged murderer.
Note: A swarm of lawyers suggested I use the quantifier “alleged,” because I don’t want the paper sued into a sinkhole. But, when I mention who this alleged murderer is, you’re going to say, “That guy totally did it” out loud.
It all went down at the Whole Foods in Sherman Oaks, not far from Hollywood, Calif., on the other side of the Cahuenga Pass. I was on my lunch hour, which at the time was in the evening – technically, it was a dinner break because I was working the 3 p.m. to 11 p.m. shift at a post-production company.
I wanted to run in and grab a portobello panini and bring it back to the office. It was supposed to be a quick stop. I ran to the front of the building, but when the sliding glass doors opened, I bumped headfirst into Mr. Orenthal James “O.J.” Simpson, the former football running back, broadcaster, actor, advertising spokesman and alleged murderer.
Yeah. That O.J.
I slammed into him. Hard. My head hit his chest. After the brief impact, I stepped back and realized with whom I had collided. That’s not a mistake you want to make twice.
For the record, this was a few years after he was acquitted of the double homicide. In other words, the “Juice” was loose.
My mouth was agape, my jaw was slack. Nary a word passed between us. I was too horrified to apologize. I just moved around him, darting out of his way.
If you plan on body slamming a celebrity or someone of equal notoriety, take note: he was surrounded by his entourage, former football colleagues or a security detail – or combination thereof.
Luckily, O.J. decided I wasn’t a threat. He gave his group that little hand motion like he was flattening the air with the palm of his hand.
I was too panicked to speak. I tried to sidestep out of his way. I squeezed past O.J. Then, I had to make my way through his friends.
I looked back at him as he walked into the parking lot. I stood in the beam of the electric eye. The sliding doors partially closed and reopened over and over again. I was dumbstruck.
I know many of you think dumbstruck is my natural state.
I turned to a stranger and said, “Was that … ?”
The stranger nodded, “It was.”
I sighed, relieved.
While living in Los Angeles, I loved meeting celebrities, but I would have been very glad to have skipped that encounter.