Suddenly I felt exhausted. I was getting old. I could hardly walk anymore, and I’d been told recently that I would eventually have to have both knees rebuilt. Plus the arthritis was killing me. I was on medication, but there were days when my hands hurt so much I couldn’t pick up a fucking spoon.
I parked my ass on the low wall near the front door, feeling whipped. I was trying to figure out how it had come to this. I’d been somebody once. I’d had my glory days on the playing field, a number of high-paying corporate gigs, many years as a football analyst, and even something of a career as a Hollywood actor. It wasn’t over, not by a long shot, but everything seemed more difficult now. It was a little like that business in Alice in Wonderland, where she has to run twice as fast to stay in place. But hey, if that’s what it took, that’s what I’d do. You don’t get anywhere in this crazy world unless you fight for it, and I was willing to fight for it. Still, it seemed like every day it took a little more energy, and Nicole was sapping a lot of my goddamn energy.
That got me thinking about family, the meaning of family, and specifically about my own family. My mother and father separated when I was about five or six years old, and we four kids – me, my brother, and my two sisters – stayed with my mother.
She worked in a San Francisco hospital for thirty years, put food on the table, and kept a clean house. My father stayed in the picture, though. The marriage hadn’t worked out, but that didn’t turn them into enemies. He was always around, and that was an important lesson for me: When a marriage fails it doesn’t give either parent an excuse to disappear. You have to be there for your kids.
The way my parents saw it, life wasn’t about them anymore – it was about the four children they’d brought into the world. And because they felt so strongly about their responsibilities, they made it work. They talked on the phone every day, but it was never about their own shit – it was always about us kids. And whenever there was a problem, they handled it together.
If it was a question of discipline, though, my father took care of it. And when I say he took care of it, I mean he took care of it. In those days, there was whuppings, and everyone knew it. You didn’t go crying to Child Welfare or any of that shit, because nine out of ten times if you got a whupping you almost certainly deserved it.
Hell, I know I did.
Then one day when I was sixteen years old, the old man and I had a little falling out. My mother called him to say I’d been disrespectful to my sister, and he came by the house and called me into the living room and asked me to tell him what had happened. I told him, and in my version of the story – which I firmly believed – my sister had done wrong. My father didn’t buy it, though. He told me to go to my room, and I knew I was supposed to go in there and wait for him to come in and deliver his whupping. But as I waited, I decided I wasn’t going to get a whupping. I didn’t deserve it, and there was no reason in hell I was going to let him raise his hand to me. When he came into my room, I told it to him straight. “You’re not going to whup me,” I said.
“What did you say, boy?”
“You heard me,” I said. “You’re wrong this time. You try to whup me, I’ll kick your ass.”
It was pretty tense. I had defied him, and he didn’t like it one bit, but he could see that things had changed. I was almost as big as he was by then, and I knew I could take him, and so did he, I guess. He left my room without saying a word to me, angry as hell, and for the next ten years we didn’t talk to each other. That’s right: We went ten years without speaking. He would come over, and hang out, and we even sat at the same Christmas table together, but we never spoke. And everyone knew we didn’t speak. It was like family lore: The boy defied him, and they haven’t spoken a word to each other in years.
A decade later, when I was married to Marguerite, and with my marriage already in trouble, he was at my house in Los Angeles, celebrating Thanksgiving with the family, and I turned to him and said something about some football game. And man, the whole room went silent! It was like I could hear my own heart beating. Everybody was staring at us: He talked to him. Did you hear that?! O.J. talked to him!
And my father just answered, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like our decade of silence had never happened, and that was the day we started talking again.
I think on some level I had always blamed him for my parents’ marriage not working out, and over the years I had come to see, slowly, that maybe I’d been a little hasty about passing judgment. I had simply assumed he was the bad guy, but I had nothing to back it up. And while he’d been there for me as a father, I guess I was still angry at him, because I wanted what every kid wants: Both parents, together, under one roof.
Now here it was years later, with my own marriage failing, and I began to see that there really were two sides to every story – and that maybe my father wasn’t such a bad guy after all. I’m not suggesting I was fully conscious of this, mind you, but I believe that on that Thanksgiving afternoon, with my own marriage in trouble, I began to see that I’d been pretty hard on him – and that, whatever else had happened, he had always been there for us kids. That was an important lesson for me, and that night, sitting on the low wall in front of my house, my stomach rumbling, thinking about all of this, it hit me with a weird kind of clarity: If you flick up your marriage, you try not to fuck up your kids.
I figured Sydney and Justin would be in bed by then, over at the Bundy condo, fast asleep. I hoped so, anyway. I wondered what their mother was doing at that moment, and I wondered what other unpleasant surprises lay in store for me and the kids. For a moment, I thought back to the night I’d surprised her at the Gretna Green house, going at it on the couch with her friend Keith, in the glow of two dozen candles – while the kids were in the house. It made my stomach lurch.
Don’t get me wrong: Nicole had been a terrific mother – almost obsessive at times – but she’d been screwing up big time lately.
It’s strange. They say people don’t change, but I say they’re wrong. People change, but it’s usually for the worse.
Ron Fishman’s words came back to haunt me: We don’t know the half of it, he’d said. He was right. We didn’t know shit. Nicole was on the fast-track to hell, and she seemed determined to take me and the kids with her.
I shut my eyes and told myself to stop thinking about her. I looked at my watch. It was 10:03. I needed a shower, and I had to finish packing. As I got to my feet, an unfamiliar car slowed near my gate, then pulled past and parked a short way down, across the street. The driver got out and waved from the distance, and at first I couldn’t tell who it was. When he came closer, I saw it was Charlie. I’d met him some months earlier at a dinner with mutual friends, and I’d seen him again a few weeks earlier, when we’d gone clubbing with the same friends. I liked Charlie – he was one of those guys who is always in a good mood, always laughing – and I told him what I tell a lot of people: Stop by when you’re in the neighborhood.
I guess he took it literally.
Now picture this – and keep in mind, this is hypothetical:
Charlie reached the gate, and the first thing I noticed is that he wasn’t smiling.
“O.J., my man – what’s up?” he said. It sounded kind of forced.
“What’s up with you?” I said. I went over and opened the gate and he stepped through and we shook hands. “What brings you to these parts?”
“Not much. I was out to dinner with some guys, down in Santa Monica. Thought I’d stop by to say hello.”
“You’ve got a strange look on your face, Charlie,” I said. “Something bothering you?”
Charlie looked away, avoiding my eyes. “It’s nothing, man,” he said.
“Come on,” I said. “You can tell me.”
He looked back at me, struggling with his thoughts. “You’re not going to like it,” he said finally.
My stomach lurched again and right away I knew. “This is about Nicole, isn’t it?”
Charlie nodded.
“You’re not going to like it,” he repeated.
“Just tell me,” I said, already riled. “Before I get pissed off.”
Charlie took a step back, like he thought I might hit him or something. “A couple of these guys at dinner tonight, I guess they didn’t know that you and I were friends,” he began, tripping over the words. “They started talking about this little trip they took to Cabo a few months back, in March I think it was, and about these girls they partied with.”
“Yeah?”
Charlie took a moment. “It was Nicole and her friend Faye,” he said.
“I’m listening,” I said. I tried to stay calm, but I was fit to explode.
“There was a lot of drugs and a lot of drinking, and apparently things got pretty kinky.”
“Why are you fucking telling me this, man?!” I hollered. I turned and had to fight the urge to put my fist through the Bentley’s window.
“I’m sorry, man. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Well I don’t fucking want to know! I’m sick of hearing this shit!”
“I’m sorry – ”
“That is the mother of my children!”
“I know, man. I’m sorry. That’s why I told you. I know you two have been through a lot of shit, and I know it can’t be easy, and I thought maybe if you talked to her – ”
“Talked to her?! What the fuck is wrong with you? I’ve been trying to talk to her for years. She won’t listen to me. She won’t listen to her family. She won’t listen to her friends!”
“O.J., man – I’m not the enemy here.”
I turned around, fuming, and tried to count to ten. I didn’t make it. By the time I got to three I realized that Charlie was right. He wasn’t the enemy. Nicole was the enemy. I looked at my watch. I had less than an hour before the limo showed up to take me to the airport, just enough time to drive down to Bundy, read her the fucking riot act, and get my ass back to the house.
“Come on,” I said, and moved toward my Bronco.
“Where we going?”
“Just come.”
Charlie got in. I started the Bronco and the gate whirred to life and I pulled into the street, the tires squealing against the curb.
“Where we going, O.J.?” Charlie repeated.
“We’re going to scare the shit out that girl,” I said. “What? Now?”
“It never fucking ends. Every time I turn around, it’s something new – and none of it’s pretty.”
“This isn’t a good idea, O.J.”
“Fuck that. I’m tired of being the understanding ex-husband. I have my kids to think about.”
“I’m asking you, man, please turn around.”
“Woman’s going to be the death of me!” I said. I was seething by this time, and I began to mimic her: “I want to grow as a person, O.J. I want to find myself. I’m tired of everyone seeing me as O.J. Simpson’s wife. I’m tired of living in your shadow.”
“O.J., please.”
“You want to know how crazy it got?” I said, ignoring him. “After the split, after she dumped me, she began calling to tell me about the guys she was dating. “Oh, O.J. – do you think they like me for me or do they just want to get into my pants?” And you know what I did? I told her to just have fun. I told her she was a great girl and not to worry and to go with her gut. “Guys’ll be lining up around the block for you,” I said. “You’re gorgeous and you’re smart. I know you’ll pick the right guys.” Is that twisted or what? I would think, What the fuck are you doing, O.J.?! Andthen I would answer my own question: Well, the sooner she gets this finding-herself shit out of her system, the sooner she’ll be back.”
“That’s fucked up, man,” Charlie said.
“Tell me about it!” I said. I glanced over at him. He looked scared. “Relax, man,” I said. “I’m just going to talk to the girl. And it’ll be quick. I’m leaving for Chicago on the red eye.”
“I shouldn’t have told you,” Charlie said.
“No, man. You did the right thing. This is exactly what I needed – something to shake me up. This shit’s been eating away at me forever, and it’s got to stop. I want to get on with my fucking life. I’ve got to get this under control.”
“You should let the lawyers handle it.”
“Fuck the lawyers. You know what divorce lawyers are? They are the scum of the earth. Preying on people at their weakest and most vulnerable. I know. I’ve given those scumbags a million dollars already!”
“Maybe they owe you, then.”
“Fuck them,” I said. “I’m going to take care of this myself.”
We were at Bundy by then, where it meets San Vicente Boulevard. I jogged left for a few yards and made a quick right to get back on Bundy. We passed the light at Montana and I slowed near Nicole’s place. I kept going, though. I took a right on Dorothy and an immediate right into the alley behind her condo, and I pulled a few yards past it and parked on the far left, near a chainlink fence. I cut the engine and looked back toward the condo. It was so quiet it kind of spooked me. I looked at Charlie again. He seemed pretty glum.
“Which one’s her place?” he asked.
I pointed it out.
“I don’t like this,” he said. “Let’s go the fuck back to your house.”
“You worry too much.”
“What if she’s with someone?”
“She better not be,” I said. “Not with my kids in the house.” I reached into the back seat for my blue wool cap and my gloves. I kept them there for those mornings when it was nippy on the golf course. I slipped into them.
“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Charlie said. “You look like a burglar.”
“Good.” I said. I reached under the seat for my knife. It was very nice knife, a limited edition, and I kept it on hand for the crazies. Los Angeles is full of crazies. “Nice, huh?” I said, showing it to Charlie. “Check out that blade.”
“Put that shit back,” Charlie snapped. “You go in there and talk to the girl if you have to, but you’re not taking a goddamn knife with you.”
He snatched it out of my hand, pissed.
“You’ve got to learn to relax, Charlie,” I said, then I opened the door, got out of the Bronco, and stole across the alley. Nicole’s condo was one of two units, both of them long and narrow, mirror images of each other, fused at the middle. They each had their own entry, on Bundy, and they each had a back gate, in the alley, but Nicole’s back gate was broken. The buzzer didn’t work properly, and the gate opened if you gave it a little push. I must have told her a million times – “Please get the goddamn gate fixed!” – but the woman never listened. I slipped past the gate, into the narrow courtyard, and moved toward the front door, and right away I noticed lights flickering in the windows. I moved past the front door to take a closer look. There were candles burning inside, and I could hear faint music playing. It was obvious that Nicole was expecting company. I wondered who the fuck it was this time. I wondered if maybe Faye was coming over with some of her boy-toys so that they could all get wild and dirty while my kids were sleeping upstairs. Just as I was beginning to get seriously steamed, the back gate squeaked open. A guy came walking through like he owned the fucking place. He saw me and froze. He was young and good-looking, with a thick head of black hair, and I tried to place him, hut I’d never seen him before. I didn’t even know his name: Ron Goldman. “Who the fuck are you?” I said.
“I, uh – I just came by to return a pair of glasses,” he replied, stammering.
“Really? A pair of glasses, huh?”
“Yes,” he said. He was carrying an envelope. “Judy left them at the restaurant. I’m a waiter at Mezzaluna.”
“So it’s Judy, is it? You’re on a first-name basis with Judy.”
At that moment, the gate behind Goldman squeaked again. Charlie walked into the narrow space. He was carrying the knife. “Everything cool here?” he asked. “I saw this guy walking through the gate, and I just wan
ted to make sure there wasn’t going to be any trouble.”
“This motherfucker wants me to believe that he’s here dropping off a pair of Judy’s glasses,” I said.
“I am,” Goldman said, appearing increasingly nervous. He held up an envelope. “Look for yourself.”
“And then what?” I said. “You were going back to the restaurant?”
“No,” he said. “My shift’s over. I’m just leaving these here and going home.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t expect anything,” he said. “I’m telling you the truth.”
“You’re a fucking liar!” I shouted.
“I’m not. I swear to God.”
“She’s got candles burning inside. Fucking music playing. Probably a nice bottle of red wine breathing on the counter, waiting for you.”
“Not for me,” Goldman protested.
“Fuck you, man! You think I’m fucking stupid or something?!”
Suddenly the front door opened. Nicole came outside, alerted by our raised voices. She was wearing a slinky little cocktail dress, black, with probably not much on underneath. Her mouth fell open in shock. She looked at me, and she looked at Goldman, and she looked at Charlie, just beyond. Goldman was pretty well trapped. Charlie stood between him and the rear gate, and I was barring his way to the front.
“O.J., what the fuck is going on?”
I turned to look at Nicole. “That’s what I want to know,” I said.
Kato, the dog, came wandering out of the house. He saw me and wagged his tail, then he saw Goldman and also wagged his tail. I looked at Goldman, steamed, and Charlie moved closer, the knife still in his hand. I think he sensed that things were about to get out of control, because I was very close to losing it.
If I Did It Page 12