A pie for a pie.

A precursor to fatherhood.

To my fellow outlaws, outcasts and misfits,

If you put your ear to the sidewalk in Los Angeles, you can actually hear one dream being sodomized by another.

It was 2002. I had 90 days sober and my wife was cautiously relieved. All our credit cards were maxed out and each month was a new adventure on how to pay the rent and keep our rusty ‘94 Chevy Cavalier running. It had one hubcap, more rust than steel, and ran every third time you started it.

I was doing stand up at night then got my first “big” audition to star in a pilot. I drove the Cavalier to the Sony lot and walked into the waiting room where I saw another actor. As I got closer, I realized it was Alan Ruck, who played Cameron in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (or Conor Roy on Succession.)

I was star struck.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I asked.

He looked up from the sides he was studying for the audition and said, “Huh?”

“What are you doing here?” I repeated.

“I’m auditioning for Mark. Who are you?” He said.

“How the fuck can you be auditioning for Mark! I’m auditioning for Mark. Weren’t you just on Spin City?”

“Yeah.”

“I just moved her from Chicago. I was driving a snow plow six months ago. How the fuck are we reading for the same role?”

He stared at me slack-jawed.

“I’m just saying it’s unfair. After everything you’ve done, you’re so good, they should just give you the part.”

“Thank you?”

“It’s fucked,” I said.

“I have to get my head back into the audition but… good luck.” he said.

I didn’t get the part. Neither did Mr. Ruck.

Then I caught a break from a guy who attended my twelve step meetings. He ran a telemarketing operation out of the steaming hot boiler room office in San Fernando Valley by Victory and Coldwater Canyon, just past the Burger King and right next to the Smothers Brothers one room office (RIP.)

What a rude awakening to realize one of my childhood comedy icons were coming up with their best comedy bits behind people shooting dope in bushes while the construction guys scarfed down Whoppers for breakfast.

My wife used the Cavalier to get to her job as a guest service agent at a swanky hotel, so I rode her pink bicycle to work, a forty five minute ride each way.

At the telemarketing place, I was assigned the position of "opener," cold calling people from "hot" leads, ala Glengarry Glen Ross, trying to convince them to invest twenty-five-thousand dollars in one share of a new action movie called "WhirlyBirds" about a sexy group of female helicopter pilots in the vein of Charlie's Angels.

I was paid two hundred dollars a week plus commissions. I realized two weeks in that the operation was a total sham.

It broke my heart because all the guys were from my new anonymous fellowship, reminding me no matter how altruistic and hopeful the organization, there will always be shysters.

I wanted a new life, not a watered down version of my old one, so I kindly thanked my new employers for the opportunity but said the job wasn't for me.

I left the office and got on my wife’s bicycle, grateful I had the courage to do the right thing, even though we were broke.

Gratitude was the guiding principle of my new anonymous fellowship.

"Thank you God for my wife’s bike,” I said to God in my slowly defogging brain as I gratefully rang the bell on her handlebars.

(Note: when I say “God” I have no idea what that means but believe unconditionally.)

“Thank you God, that I can ride all over the city. And thank you God for the strength to quit that shady job," I prayed as I pedaled.

Then it started to rain.

“Thank you God for the rain, and thank you God for my health, that I can ride a bike through the rain,” I prayed.

Then I heard a pop followed by a long hiss.

The back tire went flat.

“Thank you God for a flat tire? Thank you God for being healthy enough to push this bike back to the apartment you gave me...but also might be taking away.”

I reached in my pocket and found a quarter and a dime. The exact amount I needed to make a call from a payphone.

I called my wife, grateful for my wife, grateful for the quarter and dime and grateful for the rusty 1994 Chevy Cavalier with one hubcap she drove to pick me up.

I tossed her wet bike in the backseat then she scooted over so I could drive. She'd been sick for the past few days and I asked her how she was feeling?

"Horrible," she said.

"Let's make an appointment for you to see the doctor. We got health insurance now from your hotel. Might as well use it," I said... you guessed it - grateful.

"I think I know what's wrong,"she replied.

"What?"

"I'm pregnant."