The Wrong Goodby

The whole thing is getting curiouser and curiouser.

First Daryl Gates says he’s retiring and then he says he isn’t. Then he says he is and then he says he might. And then he says he won’t and now he says he’s kidding.

And all of America is looking toward L.A. and wondering what’ll happen next. We haven’t gotten this much attention since Clara Bow invited the entire USC football team to hold a midnight scrimmage on her lawn.

There’s no question that everybody in town wants Gates out so Willie from Philly can take over.

The passage of Charter Amendment F made it clear that even those with some regard for the man want him to pack his arrogance, mount his battering ram and charge off into the sunset.

Demands for him to split have even jumped temporal boundaries and turned into a kind of trans-theological jihad.

Baptists are speaking out from South-Central, Catholics from the Eastside, Protestants from Malibu, Jews from Woodland Hills, atheists from Venice and even a satanist or two from Topanga.

Mayor Tom Bradley is so angry at Gates that he’s threatening to talk to him for the first time in 14 months, and I’ll lay odds what he’s likely to say won’t be repeated from a pulpit.

The chief, meanwhile, is having a hell of a good time and appears unconcerned with the chaos he’s causing.

There’s a gesture associated with that kind of attitude. You face the people, extend your right hand palm up, close your fist and then very slowly raise your middle finger.

Despite a promise to go at the end of June, it’s still possible Gates may change his mind again and cling to his command like Captain Queeg hugging a bulkhead on the minesweeper Caine.

If so, how in the hell do you get him to leave? I doubt that tepid threats to fire him or cut his pay will do it. You don’t stop a pit bull with a squirt gun.

A friend suggests we simply seal up his office tomb-like with the chief still inside and not reopen it until the year 3000. Since he’s acting like a Pharaoh, treat him like one.

And rather than promoting the captains he favors, bury them with him.

While the idea has merit, it is, of course, illegal to entomb a person without his consent, although entombing casual drug users was once one of the chief’s own suggestions.

I spent the weekend asking others how they would force Gates to leave if he decides he won’t. Among their suggestions were:

- Cut off his light, water, heat and publicity.

- Adopt a retroactive ordinance that would force him to take a vow of silence.

- Kidnap him and sell him to Gypsies. (Preliminary discussions were held with the Gypsies. They didn’t want him.)

- Lock him in a room with Melanie Lomax and Ramona Ripston.

- Perform a lobotomy to extricate his vanity.

- Tie him to a pole in the middle of South-Central L.A. and dial 911 for help. (Don’t press us, we’re reassembling.)

The suggesters represent a cross-section of L.A. that includes both surfers and non-surfers, vegetarians and non-vegetarians, those who have had out-of-body experiences and those who have not.

I felt, however, One Voice was lacking in all this. God’s. So I called him on his Malibu line.

“I’ve got a question, Herb,” I said. He prefers Herb to God when he’s off duty. “How do we get rid of. . . . “

“I Know What Your Question Is,” he said. “That’s My Job.”

“All right then, what’s the answer?”

“It’s A Tough One. I Don’t Use Lightning Anymore, And Threats of Condemning Him To Hell Wouldn’t Work. He Might Prefer It.”

“Maybe you could turn him into a snake or a dog or something.”

“I’m God, Not The Wizard Of Oz.”

Herb was silent for a long time and then said thoughtfully, “I Could Deem Him Inconsequential And Eradicate His Ego. But He Already Feels Inconsequential, And His Ego Is Already Gone.”

“Then what?” I asked.

“I Give Daryl Gates This Power, To Lay Down His Intransigence And To Depart In Dignity. I Give Him What He Lacks Most: Pride.”

We’ll see. I’m not sure the chief will respond to God, since he presumably feels he is God. But if I were Gates, I’d either leave soon or avoid unseasonable lightning storms.

Even Herb isn’t willing to wait forever.