THEO

Finding street parking near my apartment can be challenging. Particularly Sunday and Monday nights cuz, street cleaning. And don't even get me started with Film LA who clearly don't look at Street cleaning schedules when issuing permits. 

I can deal with "rush hour" traffic anywhere in Los Angeles and I am perfectly calm, listening to the radio watching other people lose their shit, shouting, "Where the fuck are all these people going!" As they sit on the on-ramp connecting the 405 South to the 105 East (If you haven't been on this particular ramp at 5 PM on a weekday, You really have to experience it. I recommend Pink Floyd's Dark Side Of The Moon for your journey). I just chill in LA traffic because I accept it. My road rage is reserved for the deserted, midnight streets surrounding my hood while I search for that elusive parking space. "Who The fuck are all these people!"

I actually do often find convenient parking on most days, usually on Toluca, just steps from the alley behind my building. There's a soccer field right near there so people are often leaving around the time I arrive, late at night. My second choice is Douglas which runs in front of my building. There are fewer spots but sometimes I get lucky there. When I first moved in, a few years ago, I avoided parking on Douglas because I didn't want to deal with the last remnants of Echo Park's once-infamous gangs. "Neighborhood improvement" and the accompanying gang injunctions led to evictions and arrests leaving behind only a few tough-acting teens who would occasionally talk shit or cast menacing glances when I passed them. They're just kids trying to look hard but underestimate them your own peril. They are young and impulsive.  Any disrespect, real or imagined, can escalate quickly. Prison is full of people who didn't think shit through. 

All those guys are gone now, pushed out on the same wave of gentrification that brought in all the fucking people whose cars are now clogging the streets. I sometimes wonder whether I am a victim of gentrification or part of it. I am white and grew up in a home that would cost a million dollars, today. But now I live month-to-month and can only afford my apartment because of rent control and getting a $70 street cleaning parking ticket would be felt. That's what I was thinking on a Monday night a couple of months ago after I had struck out on Toluca and Douglas. 

My last best bet was under the bridge. Beverly Boulevard crosses over Glendale just below the intersection of Toluca and Douglas. Underneath, is a triangle-shaped area surrounded by partially mangled, metal guard rails. You can fit about 16 cars under there. Maybe more if they are parked well, which they really are. It's just across from that creepy marionette theater. 

Anyway, I used to always be able to get a spot beneath that overpass but recently I started to notice noticed it was often full, with one or two cars sitting on a jack with one wheel removed or a raised hood indicating an ongoing repair job. It seemed odd. But just figured a couple people who lived nearby had been working on their cars. 

I pulled in through the narrow entrance, waving to Larry, an older homeless guy who always offers a smile and occasionally buys some weed off me (I've offered as a gift but he insists on paying. I charge him five dollars) and I look around. I don't see any spaces. What I do see are a couple of guys, leaning against a truck, who look like they just finished work. As mechanics.  Mystery solved. 

I introduced myself and one of the guys tells me his name is Theo. Theo fixes cars. I guess business is good because Theo has an assistant (his name escapes me). I was friendly but with my shitty Spanish was able to gripe about the parking situation.  No hay muchos espacios, especialmente Domingo y Lunes porque, street-cleaning. Theo spoke to his man who quickly moved one of the cars to make a space for me. At that point my attitude was, as long as I get a space I'm cool. I know that sounds kind of dickish but I wasn't going to jam up Theo who's just trying to make a living because somebody else didn't get a parking space. 

A couple weeks later, however, I find myself, once again, circling the block in vain. I checked under the bridge and there are like four cars in various states of repair. I got love for Theo but this is some bullshit. I found parking really far from my apartment and had to walk several blocks with a bottle of Kahlúa a bottle of vodka and a pint of Haagen Dazs. What a pain in the ass. I was pretty annoyed at that point and I wasn't sure what to do. 

A few nights ago, it happened again and I started seriously considering making a call to the city. I don't want to get anyone in trouble and I know he could get cited and his customers cars might get towed but I live in this neighborhood; I'm entitled to, at least, a fair shot at a parking space, no?  I was definitely leaning toward ruining Theo's day. 

Yesterday, I got up early and walked to the lake. I'm taking my meds and I have a therapist and I'm trying to get better at all...this. I met with her Saturday and we came up with a plan to help me better organize my life, and jumping out of bed early and walking to the lake before I do anything else is a part of that plan. So that's why I was walking to the lake yesterday morning. 

I like to cut through the neighborhoods rather than walk straight up Glendale. It's more interesting and I have to walk up and down some pretty steep hills which is great for my glutes. 

So I'm walking up a side street and who do I see working on a minivan by the side of the road? Theo, with his kind smile underneath his Mario mustache. He's happy to see me and I'm happy to see him. We wave to each other and exchange "Holas!" 

In that moment, nothing had changed and everything had changed. 

I consider myself a pretty solid progressive. Anytime I hear someone spouting some bullshit about "illegals" being a drain on our economy, I am the first want to point out that the vast majority of people coming to America legally and illegally are coming for work. To feed their families. And no, they are not "taking our jobs". They contribute to our economy and they often cannot collect the Social Security after paying into the program for years. I am a great defender of the working class. 

Until the moment I am inconvenienced.

Here I am. Mr. progressive. Planning on depriving a working man of his livelihood (at least temporarily) so that I don't have to walk in extra block or two to get to my rent- controlled apartment in a neighborhood that, until recently, was mostly populated by similarly situated working men and women who can no longer afford the rising rents.  I was a little bit stunned at this self-realization. Now I understand how it happens. I understand how good people, intelligent people, kind people can become that which they abhor. It is insidious. For a moment I didn't see Theo as a man. I saw him as a problem. I was ready to dehumanize him over a fucking parking space and I didn't even know I was doing it. Another mystery solved; I am a beneficiary of gentrification, not a victim of it. I can't do much about that but what I can do is walk a few blocks from my car to my apartment every Sunday and Monday night if it helps another human being feed their family.

SOMERSET 1969

When I was six or seven, I used to get earaches a lot.  Excruciating.  I would lie in the dark and whimper.  My mom or dad would put in drops.  It took a while but usually, after a bit, the pain would subside.

My parents played bridge back in those days, with The Paynes.  Bob and Heidi.  They had a mess of kids ranging in age from six to twenty-six.  Our families would get together and we’d all go camping.  Massasoit.  Martha’s Vineyard.  Miles Standish State Park.  Great times.  Lots of laughs.

My parents had a pop-up trailer in which they usually slept and Mr. Payne, (he was a professor at the local community college) provided tents;  canvas tents that were big enough to stand in and sleep five or six.  I slept in those with my brothers and the two Payne boys who were around my brothers' age. When we unwrapped the tents at the beginning of summer, you could smell the previous summer’s last breath.  Invariably, a bunch of earwigs (creepiest insect ever) would scurry out.  I’d remember the Twilight Zone episode of the same name wherein an earwig eats through a man’s head and he somehow survives (spoiler alert: it came out the other ear).  Stuff of nightmares for me for years.  Thanks Steve (my eldest brother who let me watch that shit)!

Anyway.  We hung out with them a lot.  They lived only a couple of miles from us and, like I said, my parents played bridge with them on the reg. While they did that,  I played with Lori (a year younger than me) and, sometimes, her niece, Didi,  who was only a couple of years younger than her.  We mostly played "Family".  Lori and I would be the parents and Didi was our little baby.  Once in awhile I’d play with Kenny who would have been maybe twelve at this time.  Kenny would involve me in mischief which would be somewhere between adventurous and criminal.  He was slick.  We never got caught.  A couple close calls, but the Somerset Police Department is not exactly Scotland Yard.  They had a great house and I loved everything about it.  It was around two hundred years old, built in colonial times.  The wall switches were pushbutton.  You’d push the top button in which turned the lights on and made the bottom button pop out.  The stairs creaked a little but it was solid.  Safe.  I felt as at home there as if I were in my own home.  That house had a lot of love.  I’m sure there were problems.  But love was the air I breathed when I was there.  I felt there were ghosts but they seemed happy too.

One night, while Heidi and Bob played bridge with my parents, I had the worst earache I have ever had, before or since.  I couldn't play.  I couldn't even be near people.  I was miserable, lying alone on a couch the family room with the lights off.  I had a fairly low tolerance for pain, but when pain was going to park for awhile, I sucked it up. They tried everything.  A warm compress seemed to provide a bit of relief, but not much.  I remember wondering if I should ask to go to the hospital.  But I remembered that even in the Twilight Zone episode, the doctor said all they could do was wait.  So I lied as still and as quietly as I could and I waited.

Mr. Payne was a great big man with a booming voice and a barrel chest.  When he yelled at one of his children (which wasn’t often) he could be heard down the street.  And when he laughed (which he often did) the old house rumbled.  He has long since passed, but I'm sure that house still stands and on a quiet enough night, the echo of his laughter can still be heard.  That night, Mr. Payne was my caretaker.  A true gentle giant.  I was this little boy and he put one of his great big hands on my forehead to feel for fever.  I was hot.  I clearly remember, at one point, he heated some baby oil in a teaspoon over the flame atop the kitchen's gas stove.  He came in to the living room and touched the spoon to be sure it wasn't too hot.  Then, ever so carefully, he poured some warm baby oil from the teaspoon into my ear.  I remember a little ran down my cheek and he caught it with a soft washcloth.  I don’t know to this day if that is what you are supposed to do for an earache or not.  But it felt good going in.  It felt like he was pouring love and kindness into my ear.  Warm and soothing. I closed my eyes and slept more deeply than I think I ever have, before or since.