My Dad Turned July 4th Party Crashing Into a Jerry Springer-Style Altercation (Cops and All)

A stampede of clamoring passengers charged towards us, with flailing arms wielding dozens of mobile devices dangling precariously over the boat’s railing. I braced myself against my friend — one of the lucky (or unlucky) few perched directly across from the ominous figure teasing the tourists with its fickle presence.

A fin burst through the murky waters, eliciting incredulous gasps and rapidly tapping thumbs, before smacking the sealine violently, sending a mist of salty particles into the onlookers’ eyes and lenses. As a Southern California native, summer weekend whale watching is the biggest tourist trap to avoid, but for a rare college friend visiting from New York, I was willing to make the sacrifice. She’s one of the few fragments of life BH (before Hubby) to which I’m still tangentially connected — and perhaps the only one he has yet to pollute.

“Get in!”

She pulled my shoulder into the frame, attempting to position the whale’s airborne tail directly between our dual selfies, but instead catching its indecipherable shadow at best. Moments later, the whale had disappeared, leaving my friend — and the rest of the whale watchers — engrossed in editing their freshly snapped photos for the “gram”. However, when my phone buzzed next, it wouldn’t be from the IG post’s tagging notification; instead, it was the woman whose calls I’d been shamefully avoiding…

Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be the only unwelcome surprise intruding on our seaward escape. My friend’s face contorted from a self-congratulatory grin as she re-watched the whale reel into brow-raising shock as she passed me the phone:

“Isn’t that…?”

…

Don’t be surprised when a thief robs the cradle

Haunted by the incessant buzzing in my pocket and the troubling image on her phone, I was relieved to return my friend to her hotel. Two palatial Roman statues flanking its entrance dismissed me back into the digital reality of the vibrations, texts, and notifications I’d ignored.

It wasn’t just a post; it was an ad, and seeing my 16-year-old daughter in a patriotic barely-there bikini top holding two handfuls of nuts pressed up against one of the most viral convicted felons in our country plastered across social media isn’t exactly comforting. Furthermore, seeing the other scantily-clad woman who’d likely facilitated the photo shoot — and knowing her influence on my husband — was even more sickening. While I can appreciate a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy with respect to Hubby’s unconventional business endeavors to maintain blameless ignorance, my daughter’s involvement is where I draw the line.

Of course, the screenshot I’d forwarded her went unanswered, along with the call Hubby silenced. In their place, the stream of missed calls, texts, and voicemails littering my phone’s notifications echoed one woman’s frustrations: Kate (my sister-in-law, whose addict husband has been “missing”) had spoken with Cruella — and the jig was up.

“Call me” quickly morphed into “I know where he is”, which soon transitioned into guilt-inducing messages, culminating in one threat: She was coming down to see for herself.

After weeks of protecting my husband — possibly at her expense — I had no defense or excuse. She knew what I knew, what I’d hidden, and she was livid.

Land of the free for all — until the cops show up

“Rufus!”

A startling eruption of erratic barking soared from the rooftop down the stairs, as Tinkerbell followed Rufus towards the canine chaos below. My dad raced after them — unapologetically abandoning the smoking grill he’d been tending.

Seconds later, an unmistakable voice rung out from the alley, and I peered over the balcony’s wrought iron railing to see my dad scampering towards the neighbor’s yard in slippers. The dogs howled after his departure, their cries returned with more vicious growls and piercing barks from the adjacent houses’ guard Poodles.

“Did he just…?”

My mom motioned to the now unattended and burning zucchinis on the grill.

Within minutes, my dad’s giant fluffy slippers were parting the sea of toddlers on his beeline for the taco truck. He completely ignored the “Happy Birthday Betsy!” sign and instead claimed the mobile caterer as our complimentary 4th of July festivities. Thankfully, the parents who’d hired the taco truck were gracious enough to dismiss my bashful apology (on his behalf), welcoming us all to the excess refreshments.

My dad’s blatant trespassing and the party throwers’ responsive hospitality started drawing a crowd, as neighbors and passerby dogwalkers began forming a line around the truck. As the queue grew, so did the boisterous voice escaping my dad’s food-filled mouth, and his impromptu July 4th speech-turned-sales pitch crowned him the unwelcome star of the show.

Perhaps it was his buzzed demeanor, or the lettuce covering his left front tooth, or maybe it was the fact that his pitch reeked of spammy sensationalism, but the vibe among the partygoers began to change. Gossip clusters started to form, and I couldn’t help notice the women eyeing him suspiciously.

“That’s him!”

I tugged on his elbow, steering him back toward the duplex and away from the mounting disdain, but not before a stream of saliva hit my calf and a crazed bulldog charged at the garden’s gate. A vaguely familiar compact woman outfitted in a patriotic romper and a captain’s hat matched her dog’s ferocity, with an outstretched arm pointing her red, white, and blue-tipped manicure squarely at my oblivious father. It was the same bulldog-owning neighbor who’d been snooping around the garage construction a few months ago…

“He robbed my girlfriend’s place on Balboa!”

At this point, the whispering cliques weren’t the only ones sizing up my dad, and his oblivion began to fade as the reality of her accusations escalated.

“I have proof — ”

She held up her phone, flashing the partygoers a photo of the incriminating poster my dad had attempted to eradicate from the island; he must have missed a few…

My dad tore his elbow out of my grip and lunged toward the woman, hissing his defense. Unfortunately, she isn’t exactly the type to back down. She shoved the incriminating photo up towards his face, eager to engage in the confrontation in spite of (or because of) the audience. Her raspy voice tripled its volume, broadcasting the allegations up and down Corona del Mar.

“You know the liquor store down the street was robbed, too — $25,000 worth of cases gone last month. A masked man and woman team at 3 am — coincidence?”

The hushed whispers died away as an accusatory silence fell over Marigold Avenue, all eyes boring into my dad’s defensive glare.

“I’ve got half the NBPD on speed dial — why don’t we ask them?”

Just then, blinking lights blazed up from the PCH, accompanied by ear-splitting sirens drowning out the altercation, and the woman’s empty threats seemed to materialize before us all. The officers parked in front of the duplex and marched briskly down the rear unit’s walkway, without acknowledging a single neighbor or the explosion of barking that intensified alongside the fireworks blasting overhead.

Not a second later, another car swerved onto the narrow street, with the woman I’d been avoiding in the driver’s seat. It turns out Kate’s threats weren’t empty, either. But had she called the police? And if so, what exactly did she know about her estranged runaway husband that would compel two cops to show up with sirens on July 4th?

When alibies uncover lies

Even from the adjacent front yard, the knuckles rapping on wood and the stern grumbles of a “search warrant” were audible — and coupled with Kate’s heels clinking on the sidewalk as she exited her car, were my cue to leave. Having parked around the corner — thanks to the July 4th beach crowd lining both sides of nearly every flower street in CDM — I darted out unnoticed (and hopefully unimplicated).

Like clockwork, before I could start the car, an avalanche of vibrations sent my phone clanging against the cupholder. I knew it was the Ring notification, and I knew if I so much as tapped the screen, I’d have a front-row seat to the back unit drama. I ignored the app, started the car, and hung an extra-wide loop around the neighborhood, steering clear of the alley. It vibrated again, and as I reached to dismiss the relentless alert, the notification sliding across the screen wasn’t from Ring at all.

I expanded Yasmin’s text to an onslaught of exclamations, hearts, thumbs ups, and “Happy 4th!” responses. It was a group text with at least a dozen numbers I didn’t know, reacting to the live photo of Yasmin’s and Herb’s packed rooftop, with the glimmer of boats and crashing waves just barely visible between the thick crowd. Off to one side, but unmistakable nonetheless, stood my daughter, draped over two much older men, dripping in a diamond necklace identical to the one Yasmin donned beside her…and strongly reminiscent of the necklace my husband had accidentally left behind when rushing out for his flight.

It’s one thing to chaperone a house party with your own kids and supervise a swig of July 4th champagne. It’s a completely different story when your 16-year-old daughter winds up drunk, in a crowd of men three to four times her age — including one who has it out for your husband thanks to a business deal gone sour, after providing a false alibi. With Hubby still out of town in Abu Dhabi, of course I’m the one and only responder; though knowing him, and his joint venture with Yasmin’s husband, who’s to say he’d interfere even if he were in town?

Driving down the peninsula on July 4th — or any summer night for that matter — is every local’s worst nightmare, but I had no choice. I swung a U-turn around the PCH’s palm tree-lined median, then soared down onto Bayside, hoping the winding offshoot would abate holiday traffic as I zoomed towards the northern beach.

As my wheels rounded the sharp curve, Flavia’s waterfront estate popped into view. That wasn’t a shocker, but the car in the driveway — my husband’s car — was.

Flavia hadn’t returned my last text when I’d asked about her July 4th plans — and that was a week ago. In fact, since leaving for Abu Dhabi, she’d gone largely radio silent. Typically, I’d chalk that up to her busy schedule, but cruising past her house — and my husband’s car front and center in her circular stone driveway, I doubted the truth was that benign. Having trusted her as a genuine friend, she probably knows more about my husband than everyone else in this town combined. And that just might be the problem…

…

You can run, but you can’t hide

After battling the slender lane of gridlocked sports cars at a snail-paced 2.5 mph, I finally pulled up to the back of Herb’s and Yasmin’s tall, glass ocean view castle. The rooftop speakers’ remixes reverberated through the ground, rattling my windows. I dialed my daughter, prepared to barge in upon the fourth unanswered ring, when the front door opened and a man let himself out.

He didn’t see me, but even in the back alley shadows, I could see him, and a knot in my stomach abruptly tightened: It was Wally, exiting Herb’s house, and I hadn’t a clue why.

I thought back to the group chats with Wally’s friend, reporting back from his Abu Dhabi gambling infiltration. All this time, Wally had made his allegiance clear — and it wasn’t to my husband, nor his shady crew. But neither Wally nor his hired eyes on my husband’s international endeavor had mentioned Hubby’s stateside return, and here he was, leaving a house full of Newport’s most wanted…

Apparently, you can run, but you can’t hide — or at least I can’t. It also seems even my closest friends and accomplices who claim to be “on my side” may not be as transparent as I’d thought. At the end of the day, my gut seems to be the only one I can trust, and it’s sending up flares left and right.

—

This post was previously published on medium.com.

***