One fine day I hopped onto the 720, showed my pass and stepped into a wall of acrid stench. Several passengers were holding scarfs, handkerchiefs or just plain hands to cover their noses. The stench of unwashed bums often permeates the air of MTA buses, but this malodorous wave was far more intense. As I made my way toward the rear, the odor grew stronger. Eventually I reached the rear of the bus and stood near the last set of doors. There at the bottom of the door was a thick pile of vomit. Tread marks from a tennis shoe marked where some unfortunate had stepped in the puke. Every pair of nostrils near the door was covered and every pair of eyes stared ahead blankly. The sight and smell of vomit makes me nauseous, so I made my way back to the front of the bus and approached the driver. “Driver, I’m sorry to bother you, but were you aware there is a pile of vomit on the floor near the rear doors?” “Vomit?” he replied. He sighed. “No, sir. I was not aware of that.” “You mean no one has told you?” He shook his head and grabbed the hand microphone to his radio and called in a cleanup from dispatch. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “Thank you, driver,” I said. I turned and looked down the aisle at my fellow passengers. About eighty percent had their noses covered, while others turned or tilted their heads to take in fresh air from the open windows. The bus pulled to the stop at La Cienega and I stepped off. I was the only person to do so.
California is now in a state of emergency. The state government is issuing IOUs. This morning, the traffic lights along Wilshire Blvd (one of the longest and most trafficked streets in America) were out. High-speed traffic games at every intersection. Like Russian roulette with two-ton bullets. Imagine about three miles of one of Los Angeles’ main streets missing most of its traffic signals during rush hour. SUVs sped through empty intersections, often at speeds that seemed double the posted limit. Veteran Angeleno drivers see such mishaps as a way to make their commute faster. Not even concern for her own safety slowed a SUV-driving Brentwood beauty, one hand on her Blackberry and the other holding a cup of coffee, her nail-sharp knees steering the wheel. A man in a Lexus tore through Robertson and Wilshire as if he was on the way to his own house fire. The bus driver stopped the long accordion bus at each intersection briefly, then moved through with deliberate caution, daring the speeding drivers to challenge. Traffic ground to a halt as the great red behemoth pulled past. No better time to be on the bus. It takes these extremes of circumstance to make one grateful for the MTA.
Let me tell you something you already know. The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows. It is a very mean and nasty place, and I don’t care how tough you are, it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me or nobody is going to hit as hard as life. But it ain’t about how hard you hit, it is about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward, how much can you take and keep moving forward. That’s how winning is done! Now, if you know what you’re worth, then go out and get what you’re worth. But you gotta be willing to take the hit, and not pointing fingers saying you ain’t where you are because of him, or her, or anybody. Cowards do that and that ain’t you. You’re better than that! I’m always gonna love you, no matter what. No matter what happens. You’re my son, you’re my blood. You’re the best thing in my life. But until you start believing in yourself, you ain’t gonna have a life. —Rocky Balboa
That weather oh the glorious weather, a spring day with the sun warm on your face and a gentle wind nipping at your back to remind you of winter past. Not the dead dull heat of summer but a crisp embracing warmth not unlike coming home to the hearth after a cold day in the snow. It’s a day you can walk out and be in and among all the ugliness and not mind the insanity. Because the sun is there and in all ideologies and concepts and thus in our unconscious both individual and collective the sun is a symbol of creation and creation is hope. On a fine day like this in Los Angeles you can breath a little deeper and a little easier because the sun gives you hope. It might not be such a bad day. The bus might show up on time. You might ride peacefully and comfortably all the way to your destinations. The day might pass quickly and without long moments of sisyphian pointlessness. There could be time at the end of a day to settle peacefully with your own thoughts and maybe later with a book. Way up there in the middle of the sky the sun gives you hope that come night there could be peace. With the sun up there like that it could be that kind of day. It was that kind of day.
I leave home early so I can go to the grocery store and buy my monthly bus pass. An MTA center is only a block from my apartment, but their hours are 9:00-5:00 – the same hours that everyone else is at work, so if Ralph’s doesn’t have the passes, I’m SOL. Ralph’s is sold out of the passes. So I walk a mile to Fairfax, the next closest stop for the 720, thinking I’ll just buy a day pass with my “Emergency 5,” a $5-bill I keep on hand for just such occasions. But the driver informs me they don’t sell day passes on the bus any more. So I step off the bus and begin looking for someone who will give me change for $5. The 99¢ store isn’t open yet. There are no other businesses within walking distance. Frustrated and angry, I decided to walk home and wait for the MTA center to open. About halfway home I see a group of five young black teenagers. Two of them are horsing around behind three larger guys. The three big guys are all dressed “gangsta,” while the other two (who seem a bit younger) are more conservatively dressed in jeans and t-shirt, one shirt red and the other white. The two are throwing punches at each other, then begin punching each others fists. At one solid punch, the red shirt recoils in pain and suddenly rushes toward me with his fist raised. I stop and try to step away. He steps in toward me and begins his swing. Without thinking, I reach for the knife in my bag, a SOG with a 4-inch stainless steel blade and spring-assist opening, yank it out of my bag and step toward the swinging kid. “You wanna fuck with me?” I shout. He sees my hand reaching for something. His eyes open big and he shouts, “Oh shit!” I take another step toward him. “Bring it on, motherfucker,” I growl at him. The three big guys stop on their tracks and turn toward me. The red shit kid turns and runs. One of the big guys takes a step toward me. “You want to fuck with me now?” I say to him. “Come on.” I’m staring at his face. He’s angry, probably not accustomed to a skinny white guy calling him out like that. He takes another step. I lower the knife beside my leg and flip it open. The blade catches the light and his eyes turn toward the knife. I take a step forward. “Come on then, motherfucker,” I say. He takes a step back. I take a step back. “I thought so,” I say. I close my knife but keep it at my side. He takes two steps back slowly, then turns and heads off with his friends. 8:30 in the morning on a Tuesday along Wilshire Avenue, one of the busiest streets in the nation. Morning in America. Another day in LA.
