A Big MonstEr Blog: The Time I Met the Real P.F. Chang

The Time I Met the Real P.F. Chang

A Story by Butch Ekstrom

There's something in the air in Hollywood,
I tried to leave it but I never could

Shine your light now 'cause it's gonna be good,
Get it right now (yeah) 'cause you're in Hollywood

-- Madonna, "Hollywood"

On this madly dizzying planet could there be a more delectable or sexily soothing concept than wok-charred beef with Chinese vegetables at a P.F. Chang’s? If it exists, I have not encountered it. And I happen to be a well-traveled and longtime Asian cuisine enthusiast.

Like a Confucian with lousy timing, I contemplated my question as I strode outside of a P.F. Chang's, like a weighed down supertanker sailing seaward between a tall pair of the restaurant chain’s chalk-white, ominously standstill warrior steeds. Dusk had settled down on everything as I dined at the bar, bearing a bothersome chill from the ocean. I had wrapped my one business meeting for the day just before 6:00 near the restaurant. Now full of food and a couple of drinks, I was anxious to navigate up the crowded freeways to my L.A. base of operations.

Cold breezes from the Pacific blew in my face. The emperor's bogus white horses held their ground steadily. But I was rocked back on my heels, disoriented, as if accosted by a sturdy ocean wave. I exclaimed 'Whoa.' My dry and cracked lips were still tingling from my spicy meal. I vowed to never to touch that fiery chili sauce, laced with legendary Asian ghost peppers, no matter what -- especially while I'm having a few beers.

Ornamental gaslights atop burnished poles came on throughout the mall. Soft lighting bathed strolling shoppers, glowing sidewalks, well-tended flower boxes, dense stone benches, and frilly shops and eateries in a mellow womb. The P.F. Chang’s intensely crafted interiors came to mind -- lavish floor tiles, rich honey- and wood-hued colors, shiny tabletops, hints of black, and smoky Chinese red accents all around. A few people stepping by me in the sudden evening chill, even those waiting for tables inside, wore the standard San Diego shopping uniform: short-shorts with bare legs or kneecap-touching cargo khakis, Nike sandals or pricey running shoes with reflector patches, and bulky long-sleeved fleeces. Like the incongruous walking dead on cable shows I told myself. Though I would have to cruise up the 405 toward Los Angeles, the traffic tsunamis in each direction would be killer, I hoped for an uneventful ride.

* * *

My condo in Glendale is not lavish but I have settled in comfortably. When I get into my place, troubles abate and I sometimes fantasize that I can walk on water. The craziness of the typical day almost always recedes. Alcohol and pills, and ESPN, help.

I got undressed, then downed an Ambien with a double Courvoisier. I dug in a pants pocket to find a small chip of a tooth that broke off at Chang's. I examined the sick, little relic underneath bright bathroom lights. It had sharp-edges and was stained yellow with tartar. It was a sad omen from a fortune cookie. I dropped my sad prize onto a tissue near the sink. Then I switched the light panels off. Standing in bedroom darkness, feeling woozy already, I fingered my broken molar. Bad bad time for a dental check-up.

I glanced at SportsCenter on the flat screen. I expected to see part of a day-old interview with my player client in San Diego. I laid back, remote control in hand. I thought about an aging friend, Gino. He is slowing down little by little, color fading from his frame, but a great old guy to hang with who knows the pro sports business from the inside. The day before, at lunch near the Galleria, while the two of us talked about dirty money in college sports, Gino said as an afterthought, ‘Oh and remind me some day, scout, to tell ya some time about the Bankman boys. Up in the Bay area.’

Gino does not remember my professional entanglement with the Bankmans that turned personal, I guessed. He sometimes displays signs of forgetfulness. The Bankman situation traced to years ago when I was just getting my start.

I registered a few bars of the theme music on the ESPN program. But I was already floating on my back, in a chemical fog, across a vast amber sea of gentle waves. Walking dead zombies passed by. I was wearing cargo shorts, cross-training footwear, and a billowing fleece pullover – the perfect look. A cold breeze froze my hands and knees. I held a leftovers sack from Chang’s. A bit of creepy, Confucian wisdom shared once by my father about marching in a band came to mind.

‘Son,’ he said assertively, as he liked to do, ‘Keep your ears on the band. Get your timing down. Don't get so far out in front you can’t make out the tune.'

In my drugged condition that did not make sense. I did not study music. I was never in any band. Soon everything became silent and dark. My eyes closed. This is what it feels like to fall forever into the Deep, I thought. I never found out if my athlete’s interview got onto Sports Center while I slept.

*** ***

Gino and I lounged on overstuffed arm chairs like lethargic cruise ship passengers. We were in a main passageway of the Glendale Galleria. This mall is near Chavez Ravine, an old school L.A. scene, Dodger Stadium’s neighborhood, your silver-plated mirror image to Sunset, Rodeo, and Beverly Boulevard. Each of us had few things to occupy our time. It was the backwater of a long off-season for Gino. And apparently all my clients did not need me. So, people-watching became a sane and constructive response to the crumbling cultural and social conditions known as metro So Cal.

It was close to 100 degrees that morning, a misbegotten kind of torture this time of year. Any old refuge from the warm is how Gino describes the proper response to this inhumane weather. Retreat into a megamall, the contemporary town square, constituted our game plan during many Summer days. The expensive and cushioned chairs in the public areas of the Galleria, like lovely siren songs, invite passersby to dive into them for a long stay – way better than the rude boulders in cement benches in San Diego. Which is exactly what we were up to.

Gino and I plopped by the entry to a Neiman-Marcus talking about the pitiful state of Angels baseball. Gino labels this store disdainfully as Needless Markup, a decadent testimony to America’s inevitable drowning death in materialism. The old man is an outspoken personality. He is proud of his theories and opinions no matter how indulgent or hard bitten. So, his act can get old and he can be grating but I do not really mind. I know for a fact that he complains about my quirks too. Our times together lead almost always to a learning experience of some sort for me.

[My career was on an upswing at that moment. The college baseball draft had just surprise gifted me with a trio of eager -- and soon to be ridiculously wealthy -- 20-year old player-clients who might take express voyages to the major leagues. As the sports agent and personal manager for ten pro athletes already, mostly NBA millionaires with personal lives perpetually in crisis and steady consumers of addictive painkillers, black market antidepressants and baggies of weed, to scare off their demons, I was financially (if not personally down deep) comfortable. So three more wealthy but immature guys in need of hand holding, mentoring, a surrogate parent, felt like a lot to take on. Insert added stress here. But I clear several million dollars each year, after expenses as they say, without constant backbreaking work. So the baseball draft convinced me, against my best judgment, to go for it.]

Gino cautions me not to feel guilty about what I do. I have good contract and communication skills, have become a hard but not irrational negotiator, have patience with pampered egos, and have decent conflict-resolution abilities. I get a lot of money for this and agree I should not feel guilt as I grow more financially secure. But just to be frank here, I have few moral and spiritual strengths on the back slope of midlife. It feels like I am slipping. I don't know what I will draw on should things get much rougher as the parade marches on.

I got to know Gino while he was the primary trainer, top gun in the locker room, for the NBA’s Clippers. He was rehabbing a couple of my 7-foot clients who were nagged by leg injuries. But now Gino was semi-retired. He would soon get busy once preseason workouts for NBA rookies set sail in Inglewood. Gino famously, and loyally, served for over 40 years as an innovative physical trainer, off the charts medicine man, chief babysitter, and unofficial life coach for teams at major universities in California, followed by a couple of heralded NBA jobs including the Clippers. In the process he made a good living. He helped a lot of people. Gino made smart preparations for an extended retirement. So now he 'was going to enjoy it dammit.' Gino’s memoir, a ghost-written affair full of basically bogus sports tales, bore a clever title: My Life Among Giants: Confessions from NBA Locker Rooms. The book was no Tuesdays with Morrie but it was a pretty big hit. Between us, we still had a little time, a few tales to tell, and intrusive questions to ask before time was up.

Nameless individuals and small groups drifted by. A tanned and leathery old man, 75 or so, strolled up to Gino. The old stranger smiled. He stuck out his wrinkled hand before Gino spotted him.

'Oh-ho-o-h-h-h my great Gawd! Well. Well I'll be damned to hell,' my friend exclaimed. He pushed himself up from his chair, a mighty straining effort.

‘Dick. My-oh. What in hell are you doing?’ he asked. ‘It's been years ain't it? Years. Christ! How freaking many?’

The stranger grinned.

‘Well, yeah, it has been,' Dick concurred. ‘Let’s call it five or six. At least. I'm picking up a little something nice for Claire. My wife. Her birthday's coming up.’

Gino seemed very pleased to introduce me to the guy.

The 70-somethings launched into old times chitchat. Gino spoke louder and gesticulated more than soft-spoken Dick. They mentioned the Army, Korea, the old-age aches and pains of warriors past, former wives, life annuities, alimony, and other topics. They smiled about shared memories.

I gathered that Dick power walked through the Galleria usually by himself, around dawn, nuch too early for Gino and me.. He wore new Dr. Scholl’s walking shoes and an elaborate silver pedometer, and he seemed to acquire his clothes at Dillard’s and Macy stores. The desert tan came from weekending in Palm Springs. He moved with a slight bend forward, like many older gents shuffling about us. Dick made it clear that he did not want to disappoint his wife. I pictured her (spouse number 2, number 3, or was she 4?) as a dangerously thin, silicone-enhanced blonde, much younger than Dick, who was accustomed to her L’Oreal products and the priciest powders, eyeliners, and lipsticks. An actress from the ABC sitcom Modern Family came to mind.

Dick was on his way minutes later. Gino lowered carefully into his chair. He is nagged by bursitis and needs a new left hip. As he plopped into the seat, his cushion exhaled wearily, like a lost soul descending into deep water.

'Man,' Gino said reflectively.

We sat quietly. Eventually I observed, 'He seemed like a nice enough guy.'

'Oh, hell-l-l yeah! Dick's a winner. Indeed,' Gino said. 'Like a lotta other guys, war vets, hereabouts during the day. Many of ‘em look as if they an't got two dimes to rub together. But Dick, well, you never know who's loaded and who ain't. Load-ed, I say! The really big bucks.'

'That's Dick?' I inquired.

Gino’s old eyes flickered, dim pilot lights behind his thick glasses. He shifted toward me.

'This was the real deal, scout. You know those cheap shorts and beach shirt, and everything? That’s just Dick being his true self. Humble guy, real-lee humble, a hero in his time,’ Gino said.

'I did notice that monster ring, the gold medic alert bracelet, and the like Topsiders for 200 bucks. How do you square that?,' I replied.

'What? Ho-o yeah. Yeah-h-h. You got a good eye,’ Gino said. ‘You heard of the one percent? Well that’s him. Dick’s a part of the one percent, in the top one percent of the top one percent. You’d never know it but he’s the Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous, lad. But the man’s got a big heart. His wife and he are totally into charities and causes around L.A.'

'Nope.You'd never know it meeting him,’ I said.

Gino smiled slyly. ‘That’s the deal with lots of folks swimming through here. Craze-ee as the Southern California itself. Glendale, Santa Ana, West Hollywood, Beverly – it don’t matter, scout. They power walk to get out of the house and challenge their pacemakers. Just like old Olympians following doctors’ orders. Most get around pretty well. Up they drive to valet parking, drop their gold key rings, and come on in like they don’t have an effing penny to their names. Mega, may-gaa rich these people are. May-gaa moolah! Later they’ll maybe do the backstroke to the food court to grab a small coffee or a little frozen yogurt. Such big spenders to the man. But that’s how to break the bank, youngblood. The old ladies eye the old dudes in the Dr. Scholl brigades like piranhas. Just looking for company they say, but mainly looking for the l-o-v-e.'

Each of us took note of several mall patrons as they went by. This had a way of cheering us up. Foot traffic had been light in L.A. shopping malls because of the recession It hit our part of Cali hard. Gino and I felt there was nothing more pitiful than a megamall, like a once proud Great White, in death throes -- or a living room filled with Christmas presents and bright decorations but no one to enjoy them. But now the glittery Galleria obviously had a faint pulse after all.

A tall, Khloe Kardashian lookalike came our way. Her black hair (Armenian, shiny, and thick) was long and stylish. Her vacuous face was slightly turned up. She towered in high, red spiky heels over those nearby.

I imitated a joker of a sports announcer. ‘It's a sunny day here at Galleria Stadium, not a cloud in the sky. Wait a minute. And there she is coming onto the field. She's racing toward make-up at the Elizabeth Arden boutique at Neiman's. Before the halftime break, she'll be driving into a dress-rehearsal over at the Keeping Up with the Kardashians souvenir shop. What a lady, what smooth and daring moves she has.'

Khloe Kardashian

‘Keeping up with a what?’ Gino exclaimed.

The tall girl strode away gracefully. A professional model for sure. But body language though betrayed her feelings. She held in her right hand a small white clutch purse tightly, too tightly, under right shoulder.

'So, you're not watching much E! Channel nowadays?’ I chided him.

* * *

Minutes later, an ancient mall walker, red-faced and wheezy, slowly ambled by. He wore poorly fitted, broken-backed canvas slip-ons. He was towing a green air tank, its paint chipping off, with a thin plastic tube that ascended into his runaway gray whiskers and nostrils. A cheap pair of shorts, a food-stained Hollywood Squares tee shirt, soiled woolen socks, and a droopy and dusty bleed-em-blue Dodger ball cap pulled down to his bushy eyebrows completed his fashion selections for the day. The old boy fingered a long, unlighted cigar like George Burns, a.k.a. the movies' dead God Almighty, and the quaint ‘50s style of the oddball comic Red Skelton. Every public space in Los Angeles County forbids lighting up tobacco products, such a good decision. The octogenarian twitched the Havana up and down. He looked over as if he would mumble something to us, or so it seemed. But he shrugged his rounded, old shoulders, swallowing his insight as he passed by.

Minutes passed without much to look see. But a real celebrity came tripping toward Gino and me, Hollywood style (no kidding here); it was the comedian Richard Lewis. He seemed as pale and wispy as Casper the cartoon ghost. As are his customs, Lewis wore a black suit jacket two sizes too big for him, black pegged jeans, a ritzy black crew-neck tee shirt -- an Armani I figured, expensive black Ray-Ban shades (temporarily hooked to the collar of the tee), and black and white Chuck Taylors, which are vintage canvas basketball shoes. This bundle of nerves has never launched a Wilson at a regulation hoop, I thought. His dyed, black hair, laced with gray, was puffed up by a blow dryer, combed back, with a part in the middle, and getting thin. It flounced around his head like a dark gray cloud as he trudged along. Lewis sported puffy half moons beneath his eyes. Both of his hands were thrust deeply into his jeans’ pockets. His shoulders sagged forward and toward his middle. He came upon our perch with his head bowed. This crafted look, his longtime stage persona, made him seem like a manic-depressive.

‘Hey-hey-hay. Look-ee who we have here, bud. This dude, he makes me laugh,’ Gino whispered once he spotted the comedian. I sat up straighter. But Gino clammed up.

Richard Lewis

The comedian kept his head down as he passed by. He looked perplexed, a little put out, as if he were reprimanding his neurotic inclinations. Then Lewis glanced at me.

‘Mr. Lewis, sir’ I said respectfully, emphasizing the sir, while nodding once.

He paused and glanced at me suspiciously. The big, black crescent patches under his eyes and his sallow skin tones were prominent. He relaxed.

‘Hey. How ya doin?’ he said lightly, a bit short of breath, hands still deep in his pockets. Defensive like Khloe yet humorous to me. I felt like it was a moment of improv from Curb Your Enthusiasm.

Off went Richard Lewis then. Too bad. No show of his telltale exasperations and poor-me shtick for us today. I had a thousand things to ask him. One of his funny lines nowadays is I'm getting too old. It's like my libido has shrunk down, missing in action. I have balls now that are longer than my career.

‘Well there ya go, scout. You got something to tell the grand kids now,’ Gino said with sarcasm dripping from his syllables.

‘Funny, coach,’ I noted.

Gino said, ’I kind of thought Richard Lewis was a totally New York guy.'

I said, 'Yeah, maybe. But let’s go back to your old friend the soldier. Dick. Okay, chief?’

'No problem,' Gino shrugged.

‘You said Dick was one of life’s big winners?’ I noted.

‘One would never know it to look at him. You seen the way he dresses,’ Gino said. ‘But Brother Dick got some see-ree-us-lee rich in real estate after Korea. Here in the City of Angels and up by the Frisco Bay.’

I thought about Gino's words. His thick, untrimmed white eyebrows twitched a bit. He did not crack a smile. But I anticipated an imminent cackle of laughter and an offhand apology ---'Awww crap, that ain't true. Forget that crap. Just pulling your chain, partner.’

'Go on.' In my head I heard a few bars of "I Left My Heart in San Francisco."

‘Yeah he made some big, big bucks in real estate but then he just switched gears,’ Gino added. ‘Dick and some fellow investors, one of the Bankmans, Phil, got bored rigid counting their money after a couple of years. It was retirement time anyways. They dabbled with ideas for restaurants. Huge deal that turned out to be. So . . . ’

‘You mean like . . . ,’ I began to say.

‘Yeah I mean like A-rab, Italian, Greek, Asian Fusion -- that's what they say, huh, ain't it? Few-shun!,’ Gino noted. 'They struck gold by minin' that one, new brainstorm. You don’t know yet, rookie, but you could say that Dick happens to be the real P.F. Chang.’

That speared my full attention, like a sharp hook in a fish. Was he babbling, having an aneurysm, a stroke, a spot of dementia? That old gentleman soldier, white-haired and tan and casual, not a worry in the world, who had stopped by was certainly not Asian.

I frowned, 'Dick? That Dick? I mean your Dick? The Sperry Topsider dude with the ice blue Tommy Bahama beach shirt and expensive watch? Who was here? He’s like . . . Dick Chang?'

'Nope nope, and nope! No-ho indeed, scout,' Gino said reprovingly. 'Not his name. Dick was born in effing Oxnard. That whole Chinese thing – Chang’s -- is marketing a la mode. Pretty damn clever, am I right? An investor's wet dream. Dick’s real name is Fred-er-rick, but he's always gone by Dick. He puts the F in the PF. He and Bankman jumped on that idea for a classy but not expensive place that'd glamour up old school Chinese. P.F. Chang's. The P that's Phil Bankman. Sometimes I tell people that Dick is the real P.F. Chang, just for laughs, when the subject comes up.'

'Real estate you said?,' I asked.

Gino grew more serious, focused.

[I thought for days about the story the old man related. I saw it as a fable, a big fish story, embellished over years. A quintet of 30-something soldiers, war veterans, dragged home across the windy Pacific battered, bruised, and bone tired -- nearly dead from the Korean hot zone. Like Dick, the others had ties to California. These five agreed that they were done. Done with Asia, all Asians, Commies, blood and guts, and military double talk. Dick and Bankman grew tight during a hospital stay in Seoul. All five drove up the Coast on a tip like the specious advice 'Plastics' in a later movie, 'The Graduate.' Four went all in to buy a big patch – Gino emphasized, 'We’re talking a hu-u-u-ge tract, rook' -- of inexpensive land that encircled the podunk airfield and mail station sleeping soundly by the south end of Frisco Bay, east shore. Gino added, 'Whoa-o now! Stop the presses! Like a snap that move turned the area into a sea of good fortune -- San Francisco International , that's Ess Effing Oh! to you, scout -- and all its surroundings.'

The post-Korea economic boom with its spike in commercial air travel poured millions, perhaps billions, into the pockets of the warriors. Dick soon needed his own bank! The dough keeps washing in still. Years later, as a new venture, all five of the guys this time, with Dick and Phil fronting, went all in on a new thing, a liquid vibe of pre-commie Chinese myths, mysteries, style, and foods. Faux Asian culture in a classy box! Their cuisine consultants invented a new look, a tempting menu, fake murals, and chalky white Clydesdales that loomed over the whole package. Perfect. This was freaking Hollywood! New waves of riches came ashore. Franchises went up like fancy beach resorts. Hi-yoh, Silver and away.]

The fable amused me. Warm mango and ruby red hues, teak and brown woodwork, gleaming tiles, rich fabrics, sizzling platters of tempting recipes, enthusiastic servers. No chow mein or chop suey in sight. Feelings of envy began to grip me.

For the first time in months I thought about an old TV commercial. Tomato-bright ketchup from a Heinz bottle oozed slowly, slowly, down onto a plate like thickened plasma from an IV. The reddish goo inspired Carly Simon to croon 'Anticipation. You're makin' me wait! -- You're keepin' me way-ay-ay-tun!' I felt envy again.

'Some people score the lucky ticket. Others make it big by workin' hard. Big payoffs come either way,' Gino said. 'That there in a nutshell is Dick. Ain't that so?'

I smiled, 'And on the night he was born the angels did sing? Shepherds knelt to adore. Wise men brought gifts. Korea fell, and a shining star rose over the waters in the West?'

'Something like that, young blood,' Gino played along. 'But cut the kidding here.'

‘How come you never got in on a piece of the action, Gino? How come?' I asked.

‘To tell you the truth, homeboy, I never believed in war,’ my old friend replied.

‘What . . .? What's in hell does that mean?’ I asked confused.

But Gino and I were done for the day. – As always it had been a learning experience.

*** ***

Three largely carefree days came next. I benefited from lots of sleep.

On the third day, just after sunset, an expensive dental crown came loose without warning (with an ugly, war-torn remnant of the original tooth still glued inside it). I deplaned sluggishly at LAX. I had just made a day trip to Reno and back to see the most-promising athlete, and his anxious and protective parents, among my trio of fresh baseball draftees.

I felt no immediate discomfort in my mouth. So I did not race through traffic to get to my condo.

The father and mother, and the kid himself – with pure intentions and a deep wellspring of greed juicing their dreams – insisted on one demand. If the budding “future all-star” (this was the parents' assessment) crept under the wings of my agency the ball team that plucked him up would have to produce an ocean of cash.

In my experienced opinion, based on hours of DVDs watching my player playing, and after reading a novel’s worth of notes by senior scouts, I sensed this kid might make his fam’s fantasy come true, maybe accrue a few shekels more. Then a brutally efficient computer transaction would flash-deposit a number with many zeroes, like a tsunami washing ashore, into my Chase account, my cut of the boy's hefty signing bonus. Lucrative seasonal transactions would follow. Like the Nike ads say, Just do it and show me the money. If he could hit the curve ball and his defensive strengths held up, all would be well.
.

These were the lame details of my job. I believed that Gino rated my abilities too highly. Laziness and self-indulgence (not to mention an expanding waistline and graying temples) lurked throughout my career backdrop. Big financial rewards for doing little, my own fantasy during college, had materialized. Two or three times a year I had a player-client, or some high profile coach, to steer through troubled waters – adultery stories that blow-up, domestic abuse, drug or steroid use, a pesky DUI, or a complicated contract battle. Office assistants and paralegals handled most of the less serious, tedious, work for me.

Before I left Reno, I cautioned the young athlete not to get so far in front of life's parade that he could not hear the marching band play. He replied yeah, whatever. Clueless.

My return flight from Reno stopped at SFO for a few minutes. I marveled at the sprawling operation. The fable of the Korean vets going all rags to riches popped to mind. I pictured acres and acres around my plane as undeveloped, rolling hillocks with a tiny cargo and mail depot, and a short runway, on a flat patch of earth next to San Francisco Bay.

I slipped the broken crown into my side pocket.

Three days later, another crown came loose from my lower deck. A putrid tooth fragment also was rotting inside. I spit the thing into my palm when no one was looking. Later, at my condo, I took both dental castoffs from my Hugo Boss sportcoat. I dropped them in a small plastic baggie. The pair of relics looked like me -- irrelevant, lonely, forlorn. The sad vision troubled me. I hid the package in a drawer by my front door. I knew I had to call Freddy, my old dentist for help assuming he was still in the oral hygiene game.

The next day I foolishly bit into a Hershey bar with almonds. A small chunk cracked off an upper eyetooth. In anger, I lost it. I began to curse God. I punched my palm. I asked, 'Why me?' Missing back teeth I could fake. But a ragged chip from my front grill was misery and effing unacceptable.

Stupidly I gazed around to see if anyone had noticed. A searing feeling, one I had denied for days, like a black shroud of mourning, came over me. I morbidly contemplated descriptors of my situation: mournful, gloomy, rueful, bleak, disheartened, dismal, drowning, somber, sick at heart, bereaved, melancholic, dejected, depressed, down in the dumps. Ch-ch-ch-cheerless.

Again I blamed heaven for my rotten luck.

Then God whispered a word into my ear. At least I thought it might be God. "Dick," was all that was said.

I pushed my face into my palms. 'This has gotta stop,’ I whined to myself.

By quick and self-pitying calculation minutes later, I realized that exuviating teeth would have to end. I only had about fifteen left. One only gets so many hairs, so many whiskers, so many days, so many heartbeats, so many toothies for life's hit parade. A quick exam of the latest tooth shard showed it to be dull yellow and decayed from within, the pitiable and universal human story. I extracted a tiny paper Starbucks receipt from my pants. Into it I wrapped the broken fragment of me. I stuffed the wad into the iced tea cup I had just drained. Then I secured the plastic lid onto it. I dropped this self-consciously, a sad being, into a public trash can. I wondered if God had developed enmity toward me.

*** ***

'Yo, scout. Hey, you remember my buddy Dick, right?’ Gino asked without warning.

It was the twelfth day after my dental mishaps got going. We were on the same cushy chairs in the Glendale Galleria, outside Neiman Marcus as before.

'Yeah. Why?' I asked.

'Yep. Sad to say it but I'm gonna miss the guy. He dies the other day. Gotta go to his funeral tomorrow. Family plot in Oxnard. A damn shame, ain't it huh?’

'For true? Oh man. The old F of P.F. himself?' I said with surprise. 'He looked pretty good all things being equal -- with it, well-preserved, good health, and all that. That's real bad news. Sorry, coach. What happened?’

As I struggled to sympathize, a fantasy of an incense-laced wake of a revered Chinese elder on an imposing burial mound popped to mind. This struck me as humorous but crude. I fought the urge to smile.

'For a senior war horse his age? Yep, yep, your damn right. Well-preserved and the picture of health and wealth and wisdom. Yes in-deed, I'd say’ Gino said.

The old trainer looked more gray in the face and strained than usual. His other skin emanated an unusual, sick yellow tint. He admitted he was worn down. Gino admitted he was sleeping poorly and felt beat up by waves of panic he gets when drifting off with his Lunesta. Mourning turned Gino tearful and sentimental. As a midwestern Protestant child, he learned all about the fear of the Lord, the typical backwater fire and brimstone messages.. One evening while we were out Gino confessed reluctantly, after a trio of Jim Beam shots with beer chasers, that he was scared that soon a drowsy bedtime drop into the depths would be his last.

'Yeah, Dick. It happened three days ago,' Gino noted. ‘Poor guy. Thus ends the story of the Fusion King. But get this, genius. Dick, he's found dead with no clothes, naked as a jaybird, beside his bed. Clare, the second wife, or rather she's number three, found him on the carpet stone cold beside their California King. He was fixin’ to go on one of their runs on the beach that sun-up. She was all already Nike’d up, lookin’ to conquer that new running track out by West Hollywood High that heads up through the hills. Story is she wondered why Dick wasn't stirring around – he was slower than her in the morning. The boys and I always thought she was like way, I mean wa-ay, too young for him. Clare looked in on him and saw Dick’s body. It was like he got outta bed, dropped his pj's, grabbed some running shorts and a jock strap, then flopped to the floor from heart failure. Actually his upper body went face first right onto the high thread counts, then ricocheted to the carpet. Clare claims his long, angry scar from Korea across his front imprinted a line in the sheets, like a trench beside a canal. Sad to think about Dick losing it that kind of way. Pit-ee-ful. Naked, flatlined. Nobody around to break his fall. Help-less. Not gonna be the way I check out I hope.'

'Another legend joins the mythic creatures on the misty tops of Hollywood Hills,’ I said. 'But seriously tho, G. He seemed like a nice person. Stand up guy. A past master of the wok 'n roll?’

Gino smiled momentarily. But he looked dismayed.

'Dick was a big war hero, you know,' Gino said. 'But he never wanted to gab about it. Me, I did my years of duty. Effing war in effing Korea. All I accomplished was doling out aspirin and typing up Army forms and orders. Friggin' enemy bombshells banging over top us day and night. Took away all our chances for shuteye. We was so tired. I slept for two solid months straight when I got back. You know, it’s not generally gotten around, but I was good, I mean real-lee good, at office work. Had a head for it. I could type up a million military forms a day. All for your freedom, buddy. So let’s see some grat-i-tude. ‘Round the clock I worked. Never saw any combat, but Dick, my Gawd, he was the real-l-l-l deal-l-l-l, brother. He got the Purple Heart and the Medal of Honor from the President himself at the White effing House.'

These facts intrigued me. I recalled a detail I overlooked on a cellphone picture that Gino had shown me. Dick – the venerable, elder P.F., in the flesh – looking young and hearty, looking slick in full dress uniform, had a big ass military medal pinned to his chest.

'That medal Dick was flashing in your photo, in his dress uniform, what was that?,' I asked.

'Well, it was the freakin' Medal of honor from Uncle Sam. You guys that never served a day. I swear,’ Gino said disdainfully. ‘Who never for a minute put your tender asses on the line. Geez.'

'Like in all those firestorms of typing forms, creating duplicates, filing, making carbon copies at all hours, dude?' I shot back.

Gino laughed.

'Dick began to hate all the Asians. It was wrong and he knew it. He worked up a blind rage. The battlefield overwhelmed his good judgment. The Koreans? Dick continued to shun them especially to this day. He lived out the insanity of ‘kill or be killed.’ So, he charged his outfit up hillsides to wipe out snipers. Charged into enemy lines with the men on our side close, but always behind him. Cuckoo brave. Stuff like that. Then it’s all over. It’s back to the States -- and Dick, Mack, and Jack, and of course Phil Bankman, bought an East Bay airport and then thought up Chang's Life -- The Board Game, and things took off. Dick claimed that he had mellowed as time went by. Others thought so too. But he always grabbed challenges in his new career as a business man. It’s all a war game in the end, scout, you know? That was what Dick believed. The guy with the most game comes out the victor, beats the house, gets the medal. But it’s sad, sad, to say it. With family issues and all, it ain’t Dick who get to enjoy most of Dick’s riches but Clare. She’s in line to get P.F.'s fortune cookies stuffed with cold cash. Crap.'

'Family politics be such a touchy business. But the Medal of Honor, whoa, wait just a minute there, that's big time,’ I whistled. ‘Serious war hero stuff. Epic. Legend fodder. Made for Hollywood and Netflix.’

* * *

Gino and I decided to eat lunch at the Chang's beside the Galleria. We would share a toast in Dick's honor -- just iced tea though. The riderless white steeds, door prizes for their mythical ruler, stood stoically by the main entrance. Dick would never ride again.

I felt a wave of nauseated in the pit of my stomach and dizzy once we ambled, sweat-stained and parched, into the artsy-slick ambiance of the eatery. My eyes adjusted slowly to the shimmery, cool darkness. It seemed outlandish, but I thought I spied the real Khloe and that Modern Family actress, Julie Bowen -- the Widow Clare's stage and screen body double?, huddled together while holding hands in a back crescent booth, like intimate galpals. They drank Dirty Martinis. They were immersed in gossipy conversation. I felt that Colonel Dick, a.k.a. the War Hero, would stand proudly, would that he could, in full dress uniform with his squared shoulders thrown back, chest puffed out, a genuine warrior's medal gleaming on his formal jacket, and would have grinned lightly at the girlfriends as their host. Absentmindedly, I searched for Dick at the main waiters’ station. I rubbed my face with both palms trying to throw off my shakiness and persistent vertigo. Somewhere inside I sensed that I was about to lose something.

In a jittery voice I ordered a spicy House Fried Rice plate, with wokked tofu cubes and broccoli-free vegetables, hold the fried egg. Gino asked for Hunan Glazed Beef and Napa Cabbage with a salty side of lo mein (there was that poetic menu-ese gain). Damn those talented writers. Real sales, real clever. Their menu was a work of art.

‘Tofu! Hey. You got a problem or what, girlfriend?' Gino asked.

'My dentist told me to take it easy. Be careful. Go with the soft foods. Less stress on my choppers. Give my freshly screwed in teeth time to get a grip. Also get the fog of Propofol out of my system. Man that stuff put me out' I replied. I had delighted in the drug's immediate aftereffect.

On impulse I yanked up my top lip to show Gino the false front grill that had been implanted, polished, and sculpted into shape by Dr. Kim Kan Do, the Korean endodontist to the stars. Dr. Freddy -- who reminded me of a character from an Updike novel called Couples -- had recommended him. Kim does all the heavy dental lifting and tugging, and replacing, for L.A.’s pro basketball and hockey teams and some movie people..

'Now, well well well. Who's going Hollywood now?’ Gino chided me.

We toasted the real P.F. Chang, wherever he might be. The passion fruit tea was a cold blessing.

'You never told me how you met P.F. did you?,' I said.

'Huh. Hmmm, yeah. Well, it's the damnedest thing I tell you, scout,' Gino said eventually.

Were those actual tears glinting in his eyes?

‘Look, cubster, Dick was the man. He once saved my effing life, did you know that? He was one, great friend,’ Gino recalled. ‘On the slopes of the Korea mountains is where we met. Damn that God forsaken place.’

[Truthfully, as I sat there, feeling weak, not centered enough to eat, I gathered that Part Two of that legendary fable by Gino had started. The midrashic tale proceded like this. Dick and his company of soldiers straggled into, just showed up, at the camp like a lost and rippy squadron of dirty urchins wriggling out of a primitive sea. It had been a loud and smoky dawn at Gino’s base. Rainy earlier too. Dick made their presence known. Neither Gino nor anyone else there had heard of Dick or his band mates before. Like ghosts they had materialized. The platoon members were caked with mud, wet from a torrent of pre-dawn precip, bayonets still fixed to their rifles, half slaughtered and half sleepwalking. They'd been awake and moving forever no thanks to the Commie bombs-away bullshit. The American boys had blood and dirt smeared all over their fatigues, rubbed raw faces, and grimy skinned up hands. They said they'd just engaged in some fierce firefight, in total darkness, on an unnamed hillside. Dick was an Army NCO – now leader of his outfit. He came into our office report this unplanned respite in from the mountains. The whole bunch was starved, hungry for replacement provisions and fresh ammo – and all seemed basically in shock from the carnage so far away from home. Gino’s clueless presiding officer, a real pencil-neck pain in the butt, and a world class, stoo-oo-pid grad from some military academy, ordered Dick to have his outfit remove the bayonets from their guns right now, double time, pron-to, soldier, because it was protocol and since ‘Mister, we are not the enemy here!']

'Wait,’ I interjected after a silent moment. ‘Wait. You were hanging nearby while all of this went on? What? At your tidy toy soldier desk? Being the Army typist of the year. Regulation shirt tucked perfectly in place? Prince of the office, it all spic and span. Or what, did you talk to Dick during this?' I asked.

'Never got that far, genius. So . . . ' Gino seemed testy. He sniffed hard. He rubbed his eyes roughly. Acrid smoke from the ramshackle Korean base seemed to sting them again.

['So somebody outside the office cabin screamed Incoming, Incoming. Down, Go Down, Now. Go Down! Just like that. A bazillion tracer rounds began zipping in like a swarm of killer bees. Then there was this massive, earsplitting whizz bang concussion. Some huge artillery shell blew up in the camp. A painful plume of noise washed over everyone, as if a behemoth volcano had erupted from ocean depths. Dust and boards, lamps, paperwork, some of Gino's best-ever typed forms in triplicate, jagged glass, racing pieces of metal, and everything and everybody that was in there began to fly and and topple and swoon in death's embrace. One big flash of fire, like a cruise missile from that underwater volcano, a tameless bloom of blowback violence, lit the place up. Dick right away jumped atop Gino to cover him on the floor. Gino’s face and front were mashed onto splintered floorboards and a mud foundation. Lying under Dick, Gino imagined in his achy head he was typing to this stranger’s folks --

‘We regret to inform you that on this date, blah, blah, died bravely and heroically in the line of duty, blah, blah. Stop.’

But then the whole damned hacky shack came screaming down. But before the roof came down, the West Point p.o. that Gino so disliked died ugly. He was sliced in half by a razor sharp bayonet broken off a non-com's rifle that whirled into him like a crazed copter blade. Clean cut him through and through. The bottom half of his corpse stood there, knees locked in place, in his muddy military boots. Gooey, iron scented blood bubbled up and over his utility belt and side holster like hot lava. Then the legs bent and collapsed. The jerk’s final Southern-fried words were still simmering on his sheared off and blistered lips, ’Have your men lose those bayonets because, mister, we are not the enemy here!’]

'What happened then?' I asked impatiently.

'Well you see we lived, genius,’ Gino said sarcastically. 'The crash cost Dick most of his teeth and a big bump on his melon like a bleeding cancer. A sharp wood plank from the roof had bore down on him like a javelin, like a trident missile, and smashed into the left side of his face. Then my new best friend bled all over me. Body fluids and spare parts were spraying everywhere. A metal rod from a filing cabinet or something tore into Dick like a harpoon thrown by Neptune hisself. It sliced an incision up from his balls to his collarbone, a damned miracle it didn’t mangle his throat too. Hours of MASH surgery by Hawkeye and Trapper John, M. effing D., put the pieces of Humpty back together again. Plastic surgery on the mainland pieced his old face back together. Lots of others there died, good men. After the attack the docs didn’t think Dick would live to see another day. But he pulled through, a stalwart, a real trooper. Since then Uncle Sam has religiously bought Dick the best dentures on the planet whenever he needed some and pinned a few medals on his chest for heroism too.'

'Why is this some big secret?' I asked.

‘He was like that,’ Gino replied. ‘He made me, a total stranger, swear an oath that day not to ever breathe a word about the incident. Or-r-r he said he would friggin' hunt me down. I decided to go with his wish. He meant it. He was intense like that. He rattled me. Crap, Dick had just saved my life. Why not play along with his wish.'

We saluted Dick's heroics with more tea. Water dripped off our tumblers and pooled, like a landlocked sea, on the table.

'Well, here's to old P.F., the real legend behind the legend,' I said.

We joked about life’s mystery moments. And how Dick, the philanthropist, did not fit the model for the Hollywood glitter parade.

‘Here’s to Dynasty Dick -- and all of those doomed Americans of course,' I said.

We squinted across the main dining area. The pair of women celebrities stared without restraint at an Alex Trebek lookalike nearby. I spied Khloe raise her long-stemmed martini glass to signal the waiter that time for a refill had come. Rumors in the tabloids hint that she is not a true-blue Kardashian, that her actual father might be unknown. Hollywood: the tabloids, bullshit, fiction, never say stop, I thought.

Soon, Julie Bowen proposed that the girls drink a toast to our war hero, Dick, or to Gino, or more likely some chalk white and brittle Hollywood idol. Stemware glasses were raised. They washed down their martinis. Then Khloe glanced over to wink seductively -- at me! Just me. I felt like I might be falling in love. I smiled at her.

That ache of dizziness and bad feeling in my stomach welled up again. I sensed a tingle in my arm.

Slow yourself down, chief. This ain't for real. Listen for the band, my father warned a youthful me sternly. The muzak track began a Madonna tune. I tried to follow the lyrics to calm down.

I sounded like, There's something in the air, it’s Hollywood, I tried to grieve it, but I never could.

Gino spoke up. Back to the pending funeral he went.

‘At least a small military band will be there to play and there’ll be a color guard. A 21-gun salute too,' he noted. Clare, the grown kids, Phil Bankman and the other business partners should show up. There should be a hero’s parade, I tell ya! Proves one thing, youngblood. The biggest and best things in life are the ones you can’t see. So . . . . ‘

‘So. So, God bless America?’ I asked timidly. My hands were trembling a bit.

We waited quietly for food.

Maybe humor might fortify me. I said, feigning a grin, 'Poet, philosopher, healer, Army typist of the year. You be the total package, coach, good man, sometimes my Confucius. But just remember -- we are not the frickin' enemy, you old mother.'

'That's what they say, bucko,’ Gino played along. ‘Nice last words. But have dessert first as life be uncertain. Hey now. Where in hell is our order?’`

‘Last words’ – the nagging phrase echoed in my head. I hated my disorientation.

Moments later I scooped a large spoonful of the spicy House Fried Tofu Rice into my mouth. Some grains fell into the tabletop sea because my hands shook. Gino grunted with pleasure over his lunch plate. I bit down. I felt a crack trace up an incisor like a fault line, a bloody open artery materializing on the ocean floor. This made me mad. I spit out rice-layered scraps of peas, tofu, scallions, carrots, and a pointy hunk of tooth. It landed by my plate table with a clack.

Gino grew alarmed.

I held up the castoff in the dim light. My hand was shaky. I felt like an old man in the velvety cocoon of a funeral parlor. My hit parade of adjectives rolled again -- mournful, somber, sad, disdainful, dismal, dreary, bleak, broken, gloo so gloo-oo-mee -- vulnerable, dis-heartened, hurting, ch-ch-ch-cheerless.

'Ho-oh oh. What you got there, little brother?,' Gino snorted. 'Another one? Another one by Gawd? How many does that make? You be falling a-part.'

I sipped some passion fruit tea. My hand shook. Sweet flavor, icy, dizzying, no dental discomfort. Thankfully. No real pain, not so far.

Then it fell on me as hard as a vengeance bomb. I felt weak. All of it -- dropped in a rush. I cast my head down in surrender. I gasped for air. My fork and napkin slipped to the floor. My arms were lifeless. My face was soaked with sweat. I moaned out loud. Was this a panic attack?

Chang's filled with gunpowdery smog. People looked toward our table suspiciously. Gino called to our waiter.

'Well, strike up the b-b-band. Get a Souza march going. Bring some cake,' he said in an off-key whack at humor. 'The scout here is a crack up. Get 911 or get that big white horse. He might need a ride outta here. Hi-oh, Silver.'

'Shut it, dammit. Shut it,' I snapped angrily at my friend's insensitivity. Old frigging creep.

My mouth protested with a horrific silent-scream when I clenched my remaining teeth. My hands were numb. A tightness gripped my chest and a death-dealing pain hit my core like a fastball blazing, booming, into a catcher's mitt. I bent forward. The room was imploding, like the shack in Gino’s base camp. I reached to grab Gino and instantly realized I would topple in a hard fall. My stressed-out frame thunked onto the flooring. My head on tile echoed like a hollow grenade.

What's next, I worried, deep in fear, way too far ahead of the band as usual. Damn that Confucius stuff. My music had faded. Should have listened to the old man. Somewhere I lost track of the right tune -- and in typical fashion my timing was lousy. And just a wee bit tarrr-deee, as my old dog would chide me.

‘Scout? Hey sport. Sport?’ I heard Gino call to me, from far above, as through a long and narrow tunnel. ‘What in hell is going on? . . . Oh man.’

I trembled all over. Go toward the light, I remembered with sick humor.

But now I feel as if I must put a set of fine points onto this saga.

I lived ('obviously, genius,' as Gino once said) and my old dog has died. He passed due in an awesome but most unlikely accident. While sitting behind the left field fence during the first inning of a Fall Ball game in Palm Desert, while he 'was helping' me by checking up on my haughty, baseball Major League wannabe -- damn that kid's talent and his freaking attitude, and his big money -- Gino croaked. He was in the front seat of his car, first row of the cheap parking lot. He was chowing down on a takeaway carton of Singapore street noodles with chopsticks and a beer sold at the park. Not paying enough attention I suppose. My contract bonus-baby hit a screaming line drive, a wicked bomb, must have traveled at least 400 feet, that just cleared like a bullet over the see through outfield fence. The ball smashed through his windshield and clocked Gino in the face. That was it.

The internet intoned: Fabled sports trainer and decorated war hero dies in freak accident at Angels' fall league game.

My stalwart old friend was way out in left field once more, a long long way from the patriotic glories of the buntings and the bandstand. No surprise, G-dog left no last will and testament.

About my case of periodontic tragedy. The staff here tell me I am on the mend though I still feel humbled and miserable. That I should get back to regular life and work if I do the right stuff and behave myself from now on. Through all the stress and madcap antics I have learned some lessons. Especially now I get it. There are no silver bullet solutions. Be on your guard. Don't take any wooden nickels -- and pain, loss, and the next hard thing never show up on time.