November 12, 1999:

I’m a pool cleaner in Los Angeles early in the morning.  Russell Crowe walks by with a beer in one hand and a coat over his shoulder.  “Coming back
from The Insider opening,” I think.  Keifer Sutherland drunkenly drives by in a SUV, and he and Crowe shout greetings at each other.  Then Crowe loudly makes to himself a racist comment about one of the people in the neighborhood.  “He’s not going to get very far,” I think.

I walk out of the driveway I’m working in.  “Excuse me?”  Crowe stops and turns to face me.  I feel ridiculous.  “Uh, do you need any money or anything for a cab?”

Crowe walks forward, smiling.  He’s skinnier than I imagined.  He’s unshaven
and smiling.  “That’s very generous of you, but no.  I can walk.”

“Are you sure?  Where are you headed to?”

“I’m going all the way to Inez.”

“Well, that’s...”

He holds out his hand abruptly.  “Russell Crowe, mate.”

I shake his hand.  “Jeff.  Jeff Lester.”

He’s crushing my hand.  “Glad to meet you, Jeff.”  He keeps squeezing and I try to pull my hand away.  He’s much stronger than me, but after a minute he lets my hand go.

“Actually, if you want, I’d be happy to share a cab with you, Jeff.  I suppose Inez is a long way to walk.”

“Yeah, definitely.”  Now I’m in a tight spot because I don’t need a cab; I need to be working.  But his drunken pride won’t let him take money from a stranger.  “Well, you don’t mind waiting a moment or two while I....”

“Hell, no!”  He says enthusiastically.  “I got nowhere I’m supposed to be.”

“Great, great.”  I say.  I walk back into the tiny driveway I’m working in. The swimming pool has shrunk down to the size of a bathtub, empty except for dead leaves and trash.