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It was a Tuesday, and I'd just gotten back from federal court. All dressed up in my best black suit (only dark colors for the feds) and high heels. My office was in the Wilshire district near downtown L.A., not nearly as swank as it sounded. It was a shitty little neighborhood full of tenement apartments and old office buildings that were gasping their last emphysematous breaths. I was in a hurry because I had a lunch date with a friend of mine. She was new to the city and still trying to get her bearings. Lost Angeles can be a hard place to get used to if you're from a small town. I'd been like her, a couple of years earlier. Trying to be nice to everyone, always defering to people no matter how rude I thought they were. After all, that was the southern way. Be kind. Don't make a fuss. Always behave like a lady. Left me crying in my pillow most nights, wanting to go home. Knowing I couldn't because I'd rather stay and take everybody's shit than to hear "I told you so."
I'd changed, though. I'd learned not to be soft...to always look around...keep an eye out for the next hustler, panhandler, gangbanger, crackhead. Like I said, it was a shitty neighborhood. Still trying to be polite, though...always be polite. So when this homeless dude came slippity-slappin' up to us in his shower sandals that I recognized from L.A. County Jail and asked for a buck, I looked him in the eye when I said no. See, where I'm from, you always look at people--really look at them--when you speak. It always bothered me the way that most street people were invisible to everybody. I could understand why they were so pissed most of the time...being ignored will do that to a person. I didn't have any change, and I told the guy, "Sorry, man. Maybe next time."
My friend's standing there like a deer in the headlights. I don't think she'd ever smelled days of soaked urine and stale body odor so up-close-and-personal before. I expected Mr. Flip Flops to just mosey on over to the next suit walking down the street, but he didn't. We start to walk past him and he blocks our way. He puts his hand in his pocket (I'm watching his hands...always gotta watch the hands), and says, "Fuck you, prissy white bitch!"
Now I'm starting to get annoyed, but I'm still trying to be cool. I laugh a little, and tell Mr. Flip Flops, "Yeah, man. I'm a prissy white bitch. You win, dude." Still watching his hands and moving my friend over a bit. I thought he might try to spit on me. That was usually the angry homeless' insult of choice. So nasty...yet so personal. I grab my friend's hand and try to sidestep around him, but he moves again. We do a little funky chicken dance for a couple of seconds, but I've had more sleep than him and finally get by.
I'm hurrying my friend along, telling her through my teeth, "Come on!" I feel something hit my back and hear glass breaking on the concrete. It takes me a second to snap to what's happened. I turn around. I look down and see this busted bottle all over the ground. Mr. Flip Flops is standing a few yards away and he's yelling at me, "Take that, you fucking bitch! You can suck my dick!"
So I'm standing there, and I know that I should just turn around and go, but I don't. I still don't know what in the world got into me, but all I could think of was that I was going to beat this guy to a pulp. Rage. I'm looking at the glass, checking for a big enough piece to cut the shit out of this guy with, but it's all too small. I'm sizing him up, thinking he's not much bigger than my brother was when I used to beat the crap out of him back in the day. I'm thinking that his hands are out of his pockets and he's waving them around...that's good. This all happens in a split second, but it seemed slow...like when anything bad happens...it's always slow motion. I head for this guy and I'm running and taking off my shoes. I drop one on the ground and I have one in my hand.
I'm almost on the guy and I see his face. Pure shock. He just freezes. I remember saying, "I got your bitch right here, motherfucker." Then I'm knocking him in the head with the heel of my shoe. He pushes me and I hit him again. I'm screaming now. "That's all you got? You think I'm scared of you? Just 'cause you stink? You think I'm scared, you cocksucker?!"
I'm hitting him with my shoe, I'm punching, I'm kicking. If he wasn't so dirty, I probably would have bitten him. Mr. Flip Flops is officially freaking out now, which I can't blame him. I mean, it's not every day that you get attacked by a 5' 2", 110 pound, shrieking maniac in an Adolfo suit. He's saying, "Ow, hey! Bitch! Ow, hey!" It's like a chant. I keep at him, thinking if I can just knock him onto the ground I could beat his head into the pavement.
Next thing I know, two cops are dragging me off Mr. Flip Flops. He's bleeding and I'm standing there breathing ragged and trying to get out the words to explain what happened. They're looking at me. They're looking at him. He's telling them I'm crazy. I'm gasping, "Money...then, bitch...bottle...I tried to be polite...I tried to be polite." I keep saying that over and over. My friend gives them the story. The cops send Mr. Flip Flops on his way. I hadn't done much to him for all my efforts. L.A.'s finest give me a stern lecture about how stupid I am and how I could have gotten killed. I'm nodding my head and trying to find my other shoe. They tell me to never do anything like that again. I tell them don't worry.
I found my shoe, straightened my skirt, fixed my lipstick and we went to lunch. My friend didn't say anything at all about what had happened until we were having our coffee and dessert. That's another thing about being from the south...you learn real early on to ignore the obvious topics and make small talk. We're also good at being able to come up with compliments in even the most bizarre situations. So after we'd talked about everything but the fight, my friend looks up and says, "I'd forgotten how fast you could run." We smiled and that was all we ever said about it.
I'd changed, though. I'd learned not to be soft...to always look around...keep an eye out for the next hustler, panhandler, gangbanger, crackhead. Like I said, it was a shitty neighborhood. Still trying to be polite, though...always be polite. So when this homeless dude came slippity-slappin' up to us in his shower sandals that I recognized from L.A. County Jail and asked for a buck, I looked him in the eye when I said no. See, where I'm from, you always look at people--really look at them--when you speak. It always bothered me the way that most street people were invisible to everybody. I could understand why they were so pissed most of the time...being ignored will do that to a person. I didn't have any change, and I told the guy, "Sorry, man. Maybe next time."
My friend's standing there like a deer in the headlights. I don't think she'd ever smelled days of soaked urine and stale body odor so up-close-and-personal before. I expected Mr. Flip Flops to just mosey on over to the next suit walking down the street, but he didn't. We start to walk past him and he blocks our way. He puts his hand in his pocket (I'm watching his hands...always gotta watch the hands), and says, "Fuck you, prissy white bitch!"
Now I'm starting to get annoyed, but I'm still trying to be cool. I laugh a little, and tell Mr. Flip Flops, "Yeah, man. I'm a prissy white bitch. You win, dude." Still watching his hands and moving my friend over a bit. I thought he might try to spit on me. That was usually the angry homeless' insult of choice. So nasty...yet so personal. I grab my friend's hand and try to sidestep around him, but he moves again. We do a little funky chicken dance for a couple of seconds, but I've had more sleep than him and finally get by.
I'm hurrying my friend along, telling her through my teeth, "Come on!" I feel something hit my back and hear glass breaking on the concrete. It takes me a second to snap to what's happened. I turn around. I look down and see this busted bottle all over the ground. Mr. Flip Flops is standing a few yards away and he's yelling at me, "Take that, you fucking bitch! You can suck my dick!"
So I'm standing there, and I know that I should just turn around and go, but I don't. I still don't know what in the world got into me, but all I could think of was that I was going to beat this guy to a pulp. Rage. I'm looking at the glass, checking for a big enough piece to cut the shit out of this guy with, but it's all too small. I'm sizing him up, thinking he's not much bigger than my brother was when I used to beat the crap out of him back in the day. I'm thinking that his hands are out of his pockets and he's waving them around...that's good. This all happens in a split second, but it seemed slow...like when anything bad happens...it's always slow motion. I head for this guy and I'm running and taking off my shoes. I drop one on the ground and I have one in my hand.
I'm almost on the guy and I see his face. Pure shock. He just freezes. I remember saying, "I got your bitch right here, motherfucker." Then I'm knocking him in the head with the heel of my shoe. He pushes me and I hit him again. I'm screaming now. "That's all you got? You think I'm scared of you? Just 'cause you stink? You think I'm scared, you cocksucker?!"
I'm hitting him with my shoe, I'm punching, I'm kicking. If he wasn't so dirty, I probably would have bitten him. Mr. Flip Flops is officially freaking out now, which I can't blame him. I mean, it's not every day that you get attacked by a 5' 2", 110 pound, shrieking maniac in an Adolfo suit. He's saying, "Ow, hey! Bitch! Ow, hey!" It's like a chant. I keep at him, thinking if I can just knock him onto the ground I could beat his head into the pavement.
Next thing I know, two cops are dragging me off Mr. Flip Flops. He's bleeding and I'm standing there breathing ragged and trying to get out the words to explain what happened. They're looking at me. They're looking at him. He's telling them I'm crazy. I'm gasping, "Money...then, bitch...bottle...I tried to be polite...I tried to be polite." I keep saying that over and over. My friend gives them the story. The cops send Mr. Flip Flops on his way. I hadn't done much to him for all my efforts. L.A.'s finest give me a stern lecture about how stupid I am and how I could have gotten killed. I'm nodding my head and trying to find my other shoe. They tell me to never do anything like that again. I tell them don't worry.
I found my shoe, straightened my skirt, fixed my lipstick and we went to lunch. My friend didn't say anything at all about what had happened until we were having our coffee and dessert. That's another thing about being from the south...you learn real early on to ignore the obvious topics and make small talk. We're also good at being able to come up with compliments in even the most bizarre situations. So after we'd talked about everything but the fight, my friend looks up and says, "I'd forgotten how fast you could run." We smiled and that was all we ever said about it.
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From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
another trick:
if you get the one that follows you, waiting for you to stop so he can ask you for change, turn around suddenly and scream, "hey man got a quarter! GIMME A QUARTER!"-
they get confused... i had one guy remark, "uh, i was gonna ask you that"
well no shit.
From:
Awwww, shucks!
From:
no subject
Kinda disturbing for someone who likes to take walks at night - I eventually gave it up during my American holiday, it simply became too tedious. And the 'ordinary' panhandlers (not the winos) where mostly dressed better than me, which made me feel a bit funny...
From:
no subject
From:
On the way back from the Vatican
Despite being a gentleman, I did momentarily consider punching her in the face. Of course, I resisted.
****
I would never cross a 5"2' lady, the short ones are wildcats. Short ones with red hair! You wouldn't see me for dust as I ran in mortal fear of my life.
From:
Re: On the way back from the Vatican
****
Yeah, the little ones are always meanest. ; )
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charity is not enough
Here we got a good project for the homeless. They're making their own newspaper and sell them in the street. These newspaper editors are both social workers and former homeless people who had found a job and a place to live with the help of the state - making this paper helps them to build their self-esteem, and they also act as a kind of low-threshold contact persons for the project because the people still living in the street will always gather around them, ask about how they accomplished to turn their lives around... so people buy what is basically their own work so it doesn't feel like begging.
I looked at their website and found out that the model for this project is London's Big Issue (http://www.bigissue.com/home.htm)... Their webpage says there's an L.A. edition of Big Issue as well. Have ever come across it? Sounds like a great project...
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Re: charity is not enough
From:
Re: On the way back from the Vatican
Hmmmmmm.
OK, other than to say that if....no....must stop.
From:
oh my lord
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ha!
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Re: ha!
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Re: ha!
Be glad that you escaped from UT before the credit card companies began preying on the kiddies.....
What did you study here?
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no subject
From:
I studied...
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The eyes have it
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Re: I studied...