The Son of Fate

Lou Gottlieb is an ordinary man who lives an ordinary life in an ordinary neighborhood on the west side of town.

He loves his fellow man, asks for very little and hopes to go to heaven when his time on Earth is done.

He reminds me of a character in a Sholom Aleichem story who gives to everyone and wants nothing in return.

When he dies, God praises him for the way he has lived and says now he can have anything he wants. The man says he wants nothing, but God insists.

So he thinks about it and, offered immortality, youth or gold, replies, “I would like a piece of bread, please, with just a little butter.” Lou also wants nothing.

A man of 87, he lives alone, having lost his beloved wife of 50 years not very long ago. His apartment is not spectacular, because Lou is not spectacular. All the better to escape notice.

I mention that because Lou, above all else, is a private person. So private, in fact, that Gottlieb is not his real name. If he said it once, he must have said 30 times in no way did he want his real name in the paper.

I honor that request, but I cannot resist telling the man’s story, for Lou Gottlieb, by whatever name, is the son of fate, and his story is worth telling.

It’s an L.A. story. It has to do with cars.

It all began a few months back. Lou had been driving an inconspicuous 1980 Buick he had purchased from a private party for $2,500 after his faithful Olds had been wrecked in an accident.

The Buick served him well for about a year, but one morning he woke up and the car was gone.

Lou couldn’t believe it had been stolen, because nothing like that happened to a guy like him. But stolen it was. Lou sighed. God’s will be done.

Triple-A, which was his insurance company, leased him a Honda while Lou looked for another car. He drove the Honda into Beverly Hills one day, parked it and went into a mall to shop.

While he was gone, someone stole his headlights.

Lou was stunned. Twice in just a few days he had been victimized. He called Triple-A and they gave him another car, this time a Ford Escort.

A Ford Escort, for those who have not seen one, is a nice little car, but not one you figure is going to be stolen. It is not a car thieves or joy-riding kids dream about. It is not even close.

The day after he got it, Lou drove his Escort around the corner to mail a letter. He left the motor running while he walked a few feet to the mailbox.

When he turned around, the car was a half-block away, heading northeast, with a stranger at the wheel. Lou stared. His mouth hung open.

He began to realize, as the Escort disappeared in the distance, that he might not be so unspectacular after all. Fate, for whatever reason, had recognized him.

But life goes on, as Lou would say later with a shrug. He bought himself another Buick, an ’86 Century Limited this time. It was gray.

And it was stolen.

It had been parked in the open carport of his apartment building and when Lou went to get it one morning, it was gone, just as simple as that.

Lou was almost ashamed to go to the police again or to Triple-A. Would they think he was running some kind of scam, this decent, elderly, God-fearing man? They did not.

Triple-A paid off once more with almost cheerful abandon and the police dutifully took the report.

Lou drove another leased car for awhile. What was interesting here is that the car was not stolen. And, miracle of miracles, about 10 days later the Century Limited was found a few blocks away.

Lou was delighted to have it back. Perhaps his luck had changed at last.

Then one day there was a knock on the door. Two policemen in plain clothes asked to see the Buick. Lou was puzzled. They wanted to know from whom Lou had purchased the vehicle. They checked its serial number. And then they told him.

Lou had bought a stolen car.

Well, they hauled it off with Lou standing there shaking his head, and that’s pretty much the end of the story. Lou went out and bought a white 1984 Olds Cutlass. He’s had it for a month.

On the day of my visit, Lou showed me his car. It is an ordinary car parked on an ordinary street.

“Perhaps this time,” Lou said in an ordinary tone, “I’ll be lucky. Just swear to me you won’t use my name.”

No need to, Lou. Fate already knows who you are.