"Picture yourself . . . in a boat, on a river." Fuck
you, John. Picture myself, broke, in a building with tangerine
stains on my carpet and two-year-old marmalade in my fridge.
It's still in there 'cause I've convinced myself that in a few
years it'll turn into brandy or something. Yeah, the marmalade's
right next to the salad dressing. Ranch. It might have been
Italian once, but it's Ranch now.
I say you can tell a person's state of mind from the
contents of his refrigerator. Lots of food means contentment.
Peace of mind. An empty fridge, on the other hand, signifies
depression, stress, or, of course, poverty.
Right now, I'm in my "burrito" phase. I'll eat home-made
burritos, non-stop, for a month or so until I can't stand the
sight of another pinto bean. Then I'll move onto the Kraft
Mac & Cheese phase, the baked potato and cream corm phase and
so on. Every now and then, I'll throw in a McDonald's to break
up the monotony. In my neighborhood, the hoboes loiter around
McDonald's like hyenas around a fresh kill. It's not uncommon
to get panhandled three times in a single drive-thru.
There's this certain bum who calls himself "Flex-man."
His trade, if you can call it that, is to flex his enormous
pecs and biceps for you while you're in drive-thru, stuck
between two cars with nowhere to go. He does quite a routine,
and all you can do is smile and acknowledge his "flexing"
with a bit 'o change. I guess that beats the alternative,
namely, him killing you.
The majority of the homeless live in the abundant
undergrowth where the 5, 10, and 101 Freeways converge in East
L.A. There's acres of nooks and crannies where an enterprising
hobo can find a home. Like my boy, Flex-man, for example. He's
actually a prince compared to some of the other Ubermensch.
At my local market, we have some early morning alcoholics
who help the bakery truck deliver its goods. They know all
the drivers by name and earn a dollar or two pretending to
"help" carry in the day's bread and rolls. In actuality, they
just kinda watch. Then when the store opens at 8:00, they go
in and buy their first beer of the day. The rest of the day is
a quest to keep that first beer flowing.
I feel sorry for them and hate them at the same time; I
don't know why. Maybe it's because I too am an alcoholic and
perhaps see a little bit of myself in these pathetic outcasts.
I'm positive they never pictured themselves living in some
shrub under the Hollywood Freeway. No one sets out to be a
Bushman . . .
The real gone ones come up to me, sometimes twice a week,
and give me a spiel about needing money for a "bus ticket"
home. Car got stolen, wallet in car, etc. What gets me is the
tone and the sincerity with which they can deliver the same
fucking lie, every time. Do they not know me by now? Are they
so fucked up that they don't recognize me? I'm not so hard to
pick out of a downtown L.A. line-up; I'm the white guy. In
fact, you could say my phosphorescent Irish skin glows like
a beacon in the downtown skyline.
When I was down and out, my bandmates and I would often
stand in line for a free meal at the Midnight Mission. I think
there's probably nothing more uplifting for one's self-esteem
than to stand in line with 75 hoboes for 45 minutes to get a
cold cheeseburger and fruit drink. And then on top of it, to
get shit from the hoboes about taking their food. THEIR food.
Next I'll be fighting the ants for cockroach legs.
Let's get back to MY refrigerator. Let's see . . . .
Cookies, of course. Got to have cookies; cookies above all else.
Coffee beans, too. I grind my own beans. It's my only throw-
back to my more affluent past. My ex-girlfriend gave me a
coffee bean grinder for my birthday once. I gave her a diamond
ring. I still have the grinder.
Oh, and lest we forget, I also have the obligatory box
of Arm & Hammer Baking Soda. That's so the 17 year old cicadas
in my crisper can smell fresh and clean when they emerge from
their pupaes, 17 years from now.
I console myself with the fact that I'll never get fat.
If some girl wants to count my ribs, they're right there for
the counting. And like the Hunza tribe of the Amazon, I'll
probably live to a ripe old age. Yeah, it's a good thing . . .
it's better this way. Wouldn't want to get fat.
What's the alternative, you say? Work? The bane of every
self-deprecating musician. The vibe-ruiner. The career killer.
That and a child will seal your doom.
Sometimes I do odd jobs to make money. Paint someone's
house, move furniture. The occasional doggy-fuck film, whatever.
I don't want a boss. I don't want a pager. Working in a factory
is DEATH. It's like a malignant tumor growing in your upper
colon, slowly constricting your ability to shit.
Downtown L.A. is studded with small factories, sweatshops.
Yeah, whoever coined that phrase sure knew his oats. Everyday
I see hundreds of Mexican ladies, both young and old, tred the
slow tred of the condemned on their way to their sewing machines.
Zippers on jackets, buttons on coats, day after day, year after
year 'till the end of time. I don't know how they do it. Aside
from the argument that they're immigrants and can get no other
work, it begs the question: just how DO they do it? Do their
higher brain functions go into cryo-sleep for the ten hours or
so a day they spend at the infernal machine? For less than
minimum wage. Consider that the next time you pay $65 for a
pair of Guess? jeans. Fuck Nike too.
I wonder if they're like postmen. Maybe the millionth
zipper sends them over the edge. Maybe they hit a "zipper wall" . .
Think of it. In some isolated sweatshop somewhere east of
Alameda, a small Mexican lady patiently works, sewing the
trillionth zipper on the same fucking blouse she's sewn since
the Korean War. Suddenly her mind clicks; she has finally hit
the "zipper wall." Slowly, she looks up from her work, the
sewing machine stops, she reaches over for her long-handled
scissors she keeps by her side. Her supervisor, noticing the
uncharacteristic behavior of bench person #33, races over to
berate her. Before he can open up his mouth, however, she plunges
her scissors into his chest, to the hilt, like Excalibur. He
staggers back; he's not used to any sort of back-talk. The other
ladies, their senses awakened by the blood lust, also reach for
their scissors. The carnage begins.
They lay him down on the large cutting table and proceed to
carve intricate patterns on his legs and torso. No bridal gown,
this. This is some sort of primeval sewing-bee and the supervisor
has become the Wicker Man.
After some time the front office notices that all the sewing
machines have stopped. "Time is money," yells the head honcho
as he prepares to give the supervisor a piece of his mind. But
as the door opens, the women set upon him like wolves, ripping
and tearing. The rest of the front office tries to barricade
the door, but it is too late. All must die, all must pay. No
one is spared. The evil overseer and his lackeys have become so
much chorizo.
And . . . when the killing is done and the scissors have
been washed and put back on their respective tables, a sort of
calm descends. A few nervous giggles break the ice. The women
gather up their lunch pails, reach for their time cards, and
slowly line up to clock out for the day. They get on the bus,
go home, hug their kids, cook dinner, watch TV, fall asleep.
KING JIZZO