I once owned a white wicker basket. It would hold my various lotions and potions that smelled of my favorite flowers and sweet berries. How luxurious! Little did I know the same white basket could be used to hold a small container of milk, orange juice, a hot meal in a tin and a small salad of carrots, cheese and Russian dressing.
As I held my basket of barely there nourishment, I rang the doorbell of a home that had chipped yellow paint. Al answered the door. He didn't have a nose. Just an open sore with almost dried blood. His eyes met mine. "Good Morning." he said. I tried not to stare. My heart felt sore and I asked him how his day was going. "I've seen better." I handed him his one hot meal for the day and he smiled. "Can't wait to see you tomorrow." "Ok," I said, my eyes never leaving him until I backed up so far I almost fell off the stairs.
I turned to walk away and choked back my tears. I opened the door to my chauffeured mini van and Carmen, the driver noticed my state. "Cancer" she said. I couldn't get the image of his face out of my brain. "He has no family, he owns his house and the government will probably take it when he passes." She put the car in drive and turned left, turning up the music, a melancholic Cuban ballad and we were off to our next client. This was my first day volunteering at the Senior Center in Hollywood to work off a speeding ticket I didn't have the money to pay for. If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.
Wednesday, October 23, 2019
Thursday, October 17, 2019
The Chicken Line
I met Savannah Thomas at the corner of Hollywood Blvd. and El Centro. He was a not so young black man that pulled up to the crosswalk on his blue bike. He asked me if I had a Merry Christmas and I said "yes, how about you?" Well, that was it, he walked with me 15 blocks and did not stop talking. He moved to Los Angeles in 1981 from Savannah, Georgia. He was a small time hustler who sold double A batteries and made a daily weed run to Skid Row. "They know me down there so that's where I go for the deal." The right side of his mouth was missing teeth and the ones on the left were brown. I asked him where he lived. He was homeless because of drugs. "I'm a weed smoker and I smoke crack 4 times a year." I wanted to believe him but I'm just not that naive anymore.
The streetlights popped on and it was around 6 o'clock. He stopped me and made me look at him so he could tell me he liked talking to me. He said my eyes were shiny and I had good hair. "Why don't you meet me at the chicken line on Sunday at 4pm." "The chicken line?" I asked. He said some older white man got busted for laundering money, about 2 million and somehow got off by telling the judge he would give back to the community. So every Sunday he feeds El Pollo Loco to hundreds of homeless people. They line up in front of the YMCA in Hollywood. Savannah said that I should definitely come because with my look I could probably get a job working the chicken line. I told him I already had a job. "You're a responsible one." he said.
We finally bid our goodbyes and I promised half heartedly that I would show up on Sunday. Part of me really wanted to. I was curious. I turned toward my destination and my heart ached for him. Drugs robbed him of his potential. I wish I knew him when he first moved her and I could have been his friend and told him he was too good for the pipe but it got the best of him. At least fate didn't get him like his cousin Terry T. who joined a gang and was in a shoot out at a high school in the Valley. He survived but got life without parole. Savannah had a deep sadness in his eyes when he told me. "He made a choice and sacrificed his life for that choice."
I wonder if Savannah knows he has made a choice too.
The streetlights popped on and it was around 6 o'clock. He stopped me and made me look at him so he could tell me he liked talking to me. He said my eyes were shiny and I had good hair. "Why don't you meet me at the chicken line on Sunday at 4pm." "The chicken line?" I asked. He said some older white man got busted for laundering money, about 2 million and somehow got off by telling the judge he would give back to the community. So every Sunday he feeds El Pollo Loco to hundreds of homeless people. They line up in front of the YMCA in Hollywood. Savannah said that I should definitely come because with my look I could probably get a job working the chicken line. I told him I already had a job. "You're a responsible one." he said.
We finally bid our goodbyes and I promised half heartedly that I would show up on Sunday. Part of me really wanted to. I was curious. I turned toward my destination and my heart ached for him. Drugs robbed him of his potential. I wish I knew him when he first moved her and I could have been his friend and told him he was too good for the pipe but it got the best of him. At least fate didn't get him like his cousin Terry T. who joined a gang and was in a shoot out at a high school in the Valley. He survived but got life without parole. Savannah had a deep sadness in his eyes when he told me. "He made a choice and sacrificed his life for that choice."
I wonder if Savannah knows he has made a choice too.
Monday, October 14, 2019
Yelp I've fallen and I can't get up. Not.
Disclaimer: "Any resemblance to persons or places portrayed is just happenstance, yada, yada, yada"
I put the trusty ole apron back on, threw my hair up in a messy bun and kept it moving. I mean I can practically wait on people with my eyes closed. Which is what I mentally do anyway. Dreaming of sunshine and some house in the hills or maybe a trip to the Venice film festival. Someday right? There is always the hope of someday.
This time wearing the apron is different, it's not like once upon a time in Hollywood when you worked with your friends and kvetched about your auditions or the cute new guy behind the bar. Times are a changing. Gone are the days of "hey, how was your day off?" Now it's the dreaded earbuds cancelling one from humanity where hellos fall on voluntary deaf ears. I refuse to wear the earbuds because I don't want to be part of the crowd. It's my curse. Never conform. I like smiles and gossip and mutual dramatic complaint about the long hours and lousy tips.
And this dreaded Yelp, the villian in my story. A big gelatinous hairy mole on the back side of society. I pretty much know how you feel when you leave me 10.00 on 200.00. Do you really have to go into some dark room and stare into a screen and spew venom about us being out of your effing favorite spaghetti and meatballs. It's popular. Get over it. Maybe stand up straighter, iron your shirt and invest in some eye cream, it may make you smile more. I'm not interested in your attention seeking opinion. Nobody cares. And if they do, they are pretty much a d*#k just like you. Why not throw on an apron and a fit bit so you can make your 10,000 steps a day and smile for 6 hours all the while asking "any allergies?" Take your vegan, (i'm a part time vegan, I love vegans, this all for dramatic effect) gluten free, allium (its a garlic and onion allergy, I had to look it up, God help me!) ass and your novel length Yelp review and stick it where the sun doesn't shine. I mean really? Have you been to a soup kitchen? Or a homeless shelter? People are suffering. They don't have the luxury of time or a computer or an opinion for that matter. All of these things are a privilege. A privilege that you take for granted so you can get your jollies off by posting one star. One star! Gross.
I once worked for a chef in Los Angeles, he was world famous, a master top chef. He told us "if I catch any of you reading Yelp, you are fired." I loved it! A rebel. My kind of guy.
Just give me the blue hairs. Please. The retired ones, that saved their pennies and learned some manners. They look you in the eye and there is a sparkle, a kindness in their smile. They ask how you are doing and compliment your effort. Nothing is a "nightmare" or "I just can't". It is all civilized and human and tied up in a pretty bow with a big fat tip. And the biggest perk of all they have never even heard of Yelp. "What is that?" they ask and are completely appalled by the answer. "How rude!" I agree.
I put the trusty ole apron back on, threw my hair up in a messy bun and kept it moving. I mean I can practically wait on people with my eyes closed. Which is what I mentally do anyway. Dreaming of sunshine and some house in the hills or maybe a trip to the Venice film festival. Someday right? There is always the hope of someday.
This time wearing the apron is different, it's not like once upon a time in Hollywood when you worked with your friends and kvetched about your auditions or the cute new guy behind the bar. Times are a changing. Gone are the days of "hey, how was your day off?" Now it's the dreaded earbuds cancelling one from humanity where hellos fall on voluntary deaf ears. I refuse to wear the earbuds because I don't want to be part of the crowd. It's my curse. Never conform. I like smiles and gossip and mutual dramatic complaint about the long hours and lousy tips.
And this dreaded Yelp, the villian in my story. A big gelatinous hairy mole on the back side of society. I pretty much know how you feel when you leave me 10.00 on 200.00. Do you really have to go into some dark room and stare into a screen and spew venom about us being out of your effing favorite spaghetti and meatballs. It's popular. Get over it. Maybe stand up straighter, iron your shirt and invest in some eye cream, it may make you smile more. I'm not interested in your attention seeking opinion. Nobody cares. And if they do, they are pretty much a d*#k just like you. Why not throw on an apron and a fit bit so you can make your 10,000 steps a day and smile for 6 hours all the while asking "any allergies?" Take your vegan, (i'm a part time vegan, I love vegans, this all for dramatic effect) gluten free, allium (its a garlic and onion allergy, I had to look it up, God help me!) ass and your novel length Yelp review and stick it where the sun doesn't shine. I mean really? Have you been to a soup kitchen? Or a homeless shelter? People are suffering. They don't have the luxury of time or a computer or an opinion for that matter. All of these things are a privilege. A privilege that you take for granted so you can get your jollies off by posting one star. One star! Gross.
I once worked for a chef in Los Angeles, he was world famous, a master top chef. He told us "if I catch any of you reading Yelp, you are fired." I loved it! A rebel. My kind of guy.
Just give me the blue hairs. Please. The retired ones, that saved their pennies and learned some manners. They look you in the eye and there is a sparkle, a kindness in their smile. They ask how you are doing and compliment your effort. Nothing is a "nightmare" or "I just can't". It is all civilized and human and tied up in a pretty bow with a big fat tip. And the biggest perk of all they have never even heard of Yelp. "What is that?" they ask and are completely appalled by the answer. "How rude!" I agree.
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