Thoughts of Success and Death at the Beach
This is the lead-in chapter to the book based on my life, after the teaser.
It’s a Monday night in the mid-2010’s. I’m driving westbound on the 10 freeway toward my home in Marina del Rey. I’m returning from a raid at a warehouse just East of Downtown Los Angeles where I uncovered over a half million counterfeit items. The seizure began late this morning and my field team was doing a good job inventorying and tagging the merchandise, so I figured I’d head home before it got dark. After all, I’ll be busy till the wee hours of the night typing the report and conducting follow up research on the overseas factory of origin.
I’m inching along during rush hour and have no expectation of getting home in less than an hour or so. After that anger management class a few years back, what used to be my road rage has become more of a zen meditation. I’m happily chilling while numbing my mind to a classic rock station. My thoughts begin to float back to the previous Friday. For the last several years, I have been a part of an elite group assembled by the United States Department of Justice to train law enforcement across the country on the investigation of counterfeit goods.
At this point in my career, I have been catching counterfeiters professionally for about two decades and accomplished some good stuff. I’ve been featured in books, magazines, television, and have been a part of some huge landmark federal court cases. And to top it all off, I was featured in the cover story in the LA Weekly a few weeks back. They actually sent a photographer to shoot me on Rodeo Drive for the spread! My life is running smoothly on all cylinders. But something is eating away at my insides. I’m in this funk that I can’t seem to shake.
This past Friday, I was the keynote speaker at an anti-counterfeiting event held at the LAPD headquarters. The new building was erected just a few years back and the new auditorium is state-of-the-art. My lecture focused on the link between the sale of counterfeit goods and global terrorism networks. After my talk I ran into an old friend who is the head of security for a major brand. We reminisced about the good old days and, often when I talk about the good old days with someone, my father naturally comes up.
My father, Robert Lewis Holmes, Sr. (known to most as Bob Holmes) was a legend in my industry from whose shadow I have just recently been able to shake. Our friend probably didn’t realize it but this year marked ten years after Dad’s death. It’s a hard anniversary for me for many reasons. The logical side of my brain tells me I need to get myself out of this emotional rabbit hole. But the other half wants to keep digging deeper.
As I snap out of this deep thought session, I realize that my subconscious mind has been on auto-pilot the entire time and I am pulling my Prius into my parking spot where I live. As I proceed up the elevator and down the hallway to my apartment I jiggle my keys. I continue to take steps toward the door and hear my boy Chauncey carrying on, barking as if his life depended on it.
As I open the door Chauncey exits and spins around my feet. Chauncey is a White West Highland Terrier, a little larger than the norm. According to the American Kennel Club’s snooty standards, he should be between fifteen to twenty pounds. He’s a solid thirty pounds but not chubby at all, just a big ol’ farm boy bred in Arkansas. As Chauncey follows me inside I see Wifey give me a wink and blow a kiss from the couch. She’s busy snuggling with our chihuahua entrenched in her latest Netflix series.
While Chauncey bounces in his usual whimsical fashion I change into my cargo shorts and tee shirt then slip on my Birkenstocks and a hooded windbreaker. It’s time for our walk. Next, I mozy over to the cabinet and pull out a Ziploc® bag and fill it with his treats, which are kept in a cookie jar on the countertop. As I approach the door, I snatch up his leash and my house keys in one swoop. He’s so bouncy that it’s hard to clip the leash to his collar. Done. Okay! We’re on our way down the stairwell of my apartment complex and onto the sidewalk.
This is my favorite part of the day, every day, as well as Chauncey’s. Here we stroll down the gravelly trail along the Ballona Wetlands Wildlife Preserve. Also known as the Grand Canal, it is a thin body of marshy water that connects the Venice Canals to the Marina’s main harbor channel to the Pacific Ocean. It’s a quiet path populated by the occasional jogger and dog-walking pedestrian. The homes along here are in a section of town called the Silver Strand, priced from two million to ten million dollars. Celebrities like Ice Cube, Jean-Claude Van Damme, and Pink are some of the famous folks known to reside here. The smell of the foliage is sweet and the ambient sounds of insects and swooping herons and egrets make the stroll so peaceful.
Of course, what Chauncey cares most about are the scents left by other dogs on each bush and fence post. He also enjoys pursuing the foraging squirrels as he comes upon them. At this point, I remove the clip from his leash so he can do his thing unhindered. The walk progresses nicely as we make our way slowly down the one kilometer stretch. As we approach the next opening in our path, we see the bridge at Lighthouse Mall. I fumble to get Chauncey clipped back onto the leash so we can head over the creek to the beach. We cross, then make our way to a very secluded beach in the Marina Peninsula. Millions of tourists flock to the adjacent Venice Beach and, for the most part, leave the half-mile strip here in the Marina Peninsula to the locals. We mozy over to our favorite lifeguard tower and proceed up the ramp where I set my perch for the time being. This is where I like to go to watch the sun set and ponder whatever the hell is going through my mind.
But first thing’s first. As I sit, Chauncey bounces up beside me. From the right pocket of my cargo shorts, I pull out his bag of treats. I stroke his head and back as I feed him one by one while also trying to pace him so he doesn’t swallow every treat whole. As mama always said, “Chew your food.” If I could feed Chauncey pizzas and cheeseburgers every day, I would. This snacking goes on for five or ten minutes until I give him the “all gone” signal. Then he ritualistically gives me a “See ya later, Dad!” and runs along the beach. Here we see the sandpipers poking their beaks into the earth for food as the waves come in. The view is breathtaking. There are countless footprints from people who came before us, sand dunes, beach houses and the Venice Fishing Pier in the close distance. As I see Chauncey in his element sniffing on a pile of wet seaweed, I look to the waterline.
A jet black early 2000’s Chevrolet Monte Carlo SS rolls up on the beach near the waterline. There are racing stripes on the side and a big bearded Dude wearing shades in the driver's seat. It’s not a fancy car from a millionaire’s perspective, but it is considered a hot rod to the average muscle car enthusiast. The Monte Carlo slows to a halt and the Dude exits. He is a bit heftier than average, and quite scary-looking. The man carries a bottle of alcohol in a brown paper bag and proceeds to the front of the vehicle. He leans on the hood and faces toward the sunset. He takes a sip from the bottle, then chugs. The Dude takes a moment to soak in the sunset again, commences chugging, then sets the bottle down on the hood of the car.
As The Dude moves toward the ocean, we see his coat. It is an Army jacket, but decorated with superhero logos instead of military patches. Batman, Superman, Aquaman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern, and the Flash. The Justice League of America. The Dude, larger than life, starts to move toward the water line. He doesn’t stop as his navy and white New Balance sneakers and Levi’s 501 blue jeans begin to saturate with sea water. Before we know it, he is higher than waist deep. He pulls a gun from what appears to be a shoulder holster, points it straight to his left temple and fires.
I must have played this scene out in my head a thousand times over the years. I still don’t know exactly what Dad’s last moments were like but every piece of me wants to keep recreating the clip so that I can hopefully feel whatever it was that he felt when he took his own life. What follows is a recounting of my attempts to make sense of it all.
Rob:
I have been following you on and off for sometime. I believe at some point I retained you in my prior life as a GC for a footwear/apparel company. I read the above and it hit a note when you mentioned your dad Robert Lewis Holmes.
I won’t bore you with the track of my life, but my present name, Michael E. Zall, transitioned through my moms marriage and my adoption, from my birth name Elliot Michael Holmes. I never knew my birth dad but from documents and talking to my mothers friends and relatives his name is Raymond Joseph Holmes. I have been searching for him, not too diligently, for many years. More out of curiosity than mad desire to connect. The little history I know is that he was a sailer in WWII, was probably 20-28 when I was born, 1943, in NYC at that time and has most probably passed on.
Since you probably know numerous Holmes, does this name, mini-background description activate any hits on the man.