Passover is the holiday when Jews traditionally open their doors to those less fortunate, the hungry and the poor and the various huddled masses.
On Santa Monica Boulevard at Century Park East, there is a huddled mass. Always concealed behind three golf umbrellas to ward off the hot Los Angeles sun, this person seems nothing more than a pair of legs dangling from a lawn chair. I don't know if ze is a man or a woman. I don't know hir race or age. All I know is that this Passover, I can't actually open my door to this person. I can open my door, and I can invite in a neighbor who happens to be outside looking in curiously, or a guest who's arriving late. I can't let in the person who desperately clutches at hir umbrellas. There is a limit to the traditional gesture of compassion, and the limit is the safety and comfort of me, my family, and my friends.
Whoever you are, behind those elegant Titleist logos, I'm thinking of you tonight.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
And again
On the #4 bus the other night, I saw the man whose extensive Twilight Zone knowledge had so impressed me a few weeks ago. He was drunk again, dangerously so.
He (I never learned his name) rode the bus as far as Doheny, where he disembarked and lurched across Santa Monica Boulevard--against the light, into oncoming traffic. At night. Without any attempt to look even one way, let alone both.
My heart stopped for a moment. Luckily, his didn't. He made it across the road safely, if we define the word loosely.
I wonder where he is now, at 1 AM on a Tuesday morning.
He (I never learned his name) rode the bus as far as Doheny, where he disembarked and lurched across Santa Monica Boulevard--against the light, into oncoming traffic. At night. Without any attempt to look even one way, let alone both.
My heart stopped for a moment. Luckily, his didn't. He made it across the road safely, if we define the word loosely.
I wonder where he is now, at 1 AM on a Tuesday morning.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Nodding acquaintance
Every day that I walk to the bus stop whence I go to school, I look for him. When he's there, he sits on the east side of Crescent Heights, just south of Sunset. He's a black man, middle-aged, of average height and build. I passed him several times without any clue that he was homeless. I still don't know for sure, but there aren't that many people who sit in the same spot on the side of the road for a year and a half.
Why didn't I make the knee-jerk assumption that is usually so easy to make? He's generally sweet smelling, normally clothed, and clean shaven. He gets haircuts. He has no ragged cardboard around him and nary a shopping bag can be seen in his vicinity. After all these caveats, I begin again to doubt that he is homeless after all.
And yet, there he remains, a fixture next to that tall, tall hedge. Most days that he's there, we nod to one another. He doesn't ask me for money and I don't offer it. He has a fairly piercing glance; I usually look away first. I think maybe he asked me for money once, but that memory is hazy and could be completely false. Most of the times I walk past him, I'm barefoot and probably look more stereotypically homeless than he does. I believe I seem less likely to have money than most of the rather well-heeled pedestrians who frequent the shops around that corner.
But maybe, he doesn't ask me for money because he doesn't ask people for money.
I don't know his story. I can't just ask him; he has a right to his privacy, just as much as any Angeleno pacing that stretch of sidewalk with his tiny dog or jogging it with her iPod blaring. If he does choose to share a piece of his story with me, it will certainly appear here. Until then, I keep passing and we keep nodding hello.
Why didn't I make the knee-jerk assumption that is usually so easy to make? He's generally sweet smelling, normally clothed, and clean shaven. He gets haircuts. He has no ragged cardboard around him and nary a shopping bag can be seen in his vicinity. After all these caveats, I begin again to doubt that he is homeless after all.
And yet, there he remains, a fixture next to that tall, tall hedge. Most days that he's there, we nod to one another. He doesn't ask me for money and I don't offer it. He has a fairly piercing glance; I usually look away first. I think maybe he asked me for money once, but that memory is hazy and could be completely false. Most of the times I walk past him, I'm barefoot and probably look more stereotypically homeless than he does. I believe I seem less likely to have money than most of the rather well-heeled pedestrians who frequent the shops around that corner.
But maybe, he doesn't ask me for money because he doesn't ask people for money.
I don't know his story. I can't just ask him; he has a right to his privacy, just as much as any Angeleno pacing that stretch of sidewalk with his tiny dog or jogging it with her iPod blaring. If he does choose to share a piece of his story with me, it will certainly appear here. Until then, I keep passing and we keep nodding hello.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Staying human
Various dates, various times, around West Hollywood
We have never spoken to one another. She probably wouldn't recognize me. I say she, but I don't know if that's hir preferred pronoun; ze has a prominent Adam's apple, but otherwise presents as a woman. Ze is black, short, slight, freighted with an impressive number of white plastic shopping bags, and wears neat black fingerless gloves. None of these is what I notice first about hir, however. What I see first is hir makeup.
It's beautiful, always. Hir eyes are outlined in vivid green shadow; carefully shaped, their bold design naturally attracts my own eyes, focuses my attention on hir. Every line on hir face is exquisitely drawn. The foundation is several shades lighter than hir skin, and I wonder if that's hir choice or just happenstance. That color difference gives me pause.
I mentioned hir to my roommate a little while ago, the last time I saw hir. That was a few weeks ago on the number four bus, near the corner of Santa Monica and San Vicente. I couldn't quite put my finger on what was so spectacular about hir makeup. "If that's what makes you feel human,..." my roommate said. That was it.
Whatever hir story, ze certainly feels human enough to go through the ritual of putting on hir face. It's those rituals, those routines that keep us anchored to life, sometimes. Sometimes, they're all we have.
We have never spoken to one another. She probably wouldn't recognize me. I say she, but I don't know if that's hir preferred pronoun; ze has a prominent Adam's apple, but otherwise presents as a woman. Ze is black, short, slight, freighted with an impressive number of white plastic shopping bags, and wears neat black fingerless gloves. None of these is what I notice first about hir, however. What I see first is hir makeup.
It's beautiful, always. Hir eyes are outlined in vivid green shadow; carefully shaped, their bold design naturally attracts my own eyes, focuses my attention on hir. Every line on hir face is exquisitely drawn. The foundation is several shades lighter than hir skin, and I wonder if that's hir choice or just happenstance. That color difference gives me pause.
I mentioned hir to my roommate a little while ago, the last time I saw hir. That was a few weeks ago on the number four bus, near the corner of Santa Monica and San Vicente. I couldn't quite put my finger on what was so spectacular about hir makeup. "If that's what makes you feel human,..." my roommate said. That was it.
Whatever hir story, ze certainly feels human enough to go through the ritual of putting on hir face. It's those rituals, those routines that keep us anchored to life, sometimes. Sometimes, they're all we have.
Democracy
Some evening in late October, 2008. Metro bus #4, heading west along Santa Monica Blvd.
Two giggly teenagers got on the bus with me at Santa Monica and Crescent Heights, in West Hollywood. They were heading for Fairfax, they mentioned; not only were they just a few short blocks away from Fairfax, but they were now going the wrong way. I pointed this out to them, as did the short white/Latina woman sitting in the seat in front of me. We both directed them to get off at the next stop and walk back to Fairfax. After making sure we were serious, they did. The woman and I now had a conversational link established between us; we smiled at each other as the confused young women got off the bus.
Years ago, she used to be a dancer at the Whisky-a-Go-Go up on the Sunset Strip. Then she was in a car accident and broke both her legs--and so she started drinking too much. She couldn't dance anymore, of course, with the legs and the booze. She slept in a park in Beverly Hills for a while--that one on the right there.
We talked about the election; she hadn't voted since helping to elect Bill Clinton. I don't know if she meant 1992 or 1996. She sure loved Bill Clinton, but she didn't know anything about politics since him. I told her that he would want her to vote for Barack Obama, and showed her where to go to register to vote--the Democratic Party office in Century City, in that building on the left just now.
At Santa Monica and Westwood, I said goodbye and got off the bus. She told me she'd try to register the next day, but I don't think she meant it. She waved as the bus drove off.
Two giggly teenagers got on the bus with me at Santa Monica and Crescent Heights, in West Hollywood. They were heading for Fairfax, they mentioned; not only were they just a few short blocks away from Fairfax, but they were now going the wrong way. I pointed this out to them, as did the short white/Latina woman sitting in the seat in front of me. We both directed them to get off at the next stop and walk back to Fairfax. After making sure we were serious, they did. The woman and I now had a conversational link established between us; we smiled at each other as the confused young women got off the bus.
Years ago, she used to be a dancer at the Whisky-a-Go-Go up on the Sunset Strip. Then she was in a car accident and broke both her legs--and so she started drinking too much. She couldn't dance anymore, of course, with the legs and the booze. She slept in a park in Beverly Hills for a while--that one on the right there.
We talked about the election; she hadn't voted since helping to elect Bill Clinton. I don't know if she meant 1992 or 1996. She sure loved Bill Clinton, but she didn't know anything about politics since him. I told her that he would want her to vote for Barack Obama, and showed her where to go to register to vote--the Democratic Party office in Century City, in that building on the left just now.
At Santa Monica and Westwood, I said goodbye and got off the bus. She told me she'd try to register the next day, but I don't think she meant it. She waved as the bus drove off.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Happy Valentine's Day
Saturday night, 14 February 2009, about 7:15 PM, corner of Sunset and Crescent Heights.
A very tall black man, rail thin, looking ragged. I'm in my tuxedo, on the way to UCLA for, of all things, Renaissance dancing; the contrast is too sharp, too painful to miss. He's talking with two other homeless men at the bus stop, one of whom has a boombox. I'm trying to be as small as possible, not get noticed by them, but it's hard in the tux.
We start to talk; I don't quite recall how. Probably he asked me for money and I said I didn't have any. A lie, of course; I had a ten dollar bill in my wallet. His story, as I can remember it:
Years ago, he went to college, but he didn't finish the last year. SUNY Albany on a full basketball scholarship. He thought he could play in the NBA, but he only made it to semi-pro, the "best of the rest," as he called it. He left basketball (aged out? couldn't sign with a team?), and went to New Jersey, where his aunt lived. She gave him $50, and somehow he made his way to LA. Now he's on the street, a basketball player and a pianist who has neither ball nor instrument. Probably doesn't have the skills to use either anymore. He sang a few bars of "Hey Jude," wished me a happy Valentine's Day, and strolled off westward along Sunset Boulevard.
A very tall black man, rail thin, looking ragged. I'm in my tuxedo, on the way to UCLA for, of all things, Renaissance dancing; the contrast is too sharp, too painful to miss. He's talking with two other homeless men at the bus stop, one of whom has a boombox. I'm trying to be as small as possible, not get noticed by them, but it's hard in the tux.
We start to talk; I don't quite recall how. Probably he asked me for money and I said I didn't have any. A lie, of course; I had a ten dollar bill in my wallet. His story, as I can remember it:
Years ago, he went to college, but he didn't finish the last year. SUNY Albany on a full basketball scholarship. He thought he could play in the NBA, but he only made it to semi-pro, the "best of the rest," as he called it. He left basketball (aged out? couldn't sign with a team?), and went to New Jersey, where his aunt lived. She gave him $50, and somehow he made his way to LA. Now he's on the street, a basketball player and a pianist who has neither ball nor instrument. Probably doesn't have the skills to use either anymore. He sang a few bars of "Hey Jude," wished me a happy Valentine's Day, and strolled off westward along Sunset Boulevard.
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