An Accidental Affair Read Online Free

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James Thicke, the man who allegedly attacked Johnny Bergs, was the writer of the screenplay for the movie starring his wife and Johnny Bergs. He has not issued a statement or been seen since the alleged incident.
Los Angeles Times (blog)
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Chapter 2
     
    Facebook, MySpace, Bebo, Friendster, hi5, Orkut, PerfSpot, Zorpia, Netlog, Habbo, LinkedIn, Ning, Tagged, Flixster, Xanga, Badoo, MiGente, StudiVZ, and Twitter were all ablaze.
    Less than twenty-four hours later, with eyes sunken and hollow and a body that was sleep deprived, I parked on a side street in Hollywood and stepped away from my car and slid behind the wheel of a U-Haul. Driver had left the U-Haul where I had instructed. I took to the streets and made it to the freeways and exited the 605 at Imperial Highway. Downey, California. Southeast of Los Angeles. An area that, before the arrival of conquering Europeans, was formerly populated by the Native Americans known as the Tongva.
    Rambunctious music came from every apartment and every car that passed by, angry, vulgar songs that cycled the same five notes to express about as much emotion and intelligence as a dial tone. The place seemed to prove that the gods ignored the weak and aided the strong. It was a good place for me to get lost until the media found new prey.
    I started to unload my furniture and drag boxes to the second floor, only to find the elevator deceased. One of the neighbors saw me struggling with the mattress. He was well-built, a man with pale green eyes, dark brown wavy hair, a cleft in his chin and dimples in his cheeks, a blue-collar man who probably had women galore in these worn out buildings.
    He introduced himself and said, “Chet Holder.”
    A dozen names went through my head. Curt Cannon, Hunt Collins, Richard Marsten, Richard Bachman. But my mind remained with my wife and one name had stuck.
    I bypassed all of those and said, “Varg Veum.”
    “Interesting name. Where you from?”
    I paused to remember. “Bergen, on the west coast of Norway.”
    “You’re a long way from home.”
    After the mattress was inside my apartment, I thanked him. I thought that he’d go on about his way, but he followed me back down to the truck and unloaded more furniture. We made it back just in time to watch a Spanish family curse at a Muslim family because they had parked in their assigned parking spot. The Spanish man called the Muslim man a terrorist just as many times as the Muslim man shouted that his neighbor was an illegal wetback. Mr. Holder went over and diffused the verbal war before it became another Sunset and La Brea moment.
    I opened and closed my aching hand and said, “They were vicious.”
    “Get used to it. Pointless battles are waged at this complex at least once a week.”
    “Has anybody been killed down here?”
    “Not in a couple of years. Stabbings mostly. Weekends. Alcohol related.”
    Mr. Holder scratched his head and looked over what was left, then settled on the dresser. There were blankets and mats inside the truck. He covered the dresser with the blankets. Then we carried it down the ramp and walked it into the stairwell, the turns severe.
    He said, “You got a good grip on your end of the dresser?”
    “I’ve got a good grip.”
    “Looks like the furniture at Italy 2000. I go down to the store in Hawthorne from time to time and walk around and dream about being able to sit and sleep on furniture as nice as this.”
    I said, “Don’t hit the wall. It’s padded, but the pad might be too thin.”
    “I can handle the weight on my end.”
    I said, “I’ll pay you for helping me move this heavy stuff.”
    “I’m not doing this for money. When a man sees another man who needs help, he should help that man. That would make the world a much better place. A man never knows when the tides will turn and he’ll be the one who will need help.”
    My arms and legs ached. My right hand was still swollen, weak from the