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was outside the LAX Firing Range.
filming had concluded. gathered everything we needed, 'bout to hop in the Corolla, when this guy and gal wandered into the nearby abandoned car wash.
the guy
- some drunk old black dude, claiming to be a "ex-Marine."
the gal
- some drunk old hispanic lady w/a hospital band around her wrist.
she said, "carillo" was her name.
"carillo."
"carillo."
then the drunk old black dude asked if we needed a "target," to shoot (seeing us come outa the range). he pointed towards the drunk old hispanic lady.
"carillo."
and i thought it was a joke.
- the whole thing.
but the drunk old black dude wandered off, shopping cart in tow, and
"carillo," told me she was having a heart attack.
she started spitting up.
just spit.
white;
clear;
spit.
and she grabbed my arm - pulled hard.
forced me to look.
look right into her eyes.
- day-old cocktail onions swimming in bloody mary's.
reminded me of those women in Iraq - you know the ones; wailing like it's outa style.
- their son, husband, nephew killed.
"collateral damage," General Mattis said. "and you'll have plenty of time to feel sorry these bastards when you get home..."
so i asked my DP to get the last bit of footage we needed and i'd deal with "carillo."
took her aside.
- keeping her at bay.
but she extended her hand.
(BEAT)
mandia hesitates.
doesn't wanna touch her.
but he thinks. brow furrowed.
"you're making a goddamn documentary about people. about the humanity of soldiers and Marines who're trying to get past all the fucked up shit War entails, and here you are - faced with a real person, who's crying and gagging and spitting up and you don't even want to hold this poor old broads hand"
so i took it.
tanned hide, it felt like. calloused smooth like a miner. or longshoreman.
told her i would call 911 - get the cops or an ambulance.
and i gave her a buck - because i think that's what she really wanted.
more money to get blotto.
40 ounces to freedom, ya know?
get fucked up.
forget about this world.
so "carillo," sat on a bus bench across the street.
crying.
right there in Inglehood.
crying as cars passed by.
crying as that black bastard boyfriend or husband or whoever the fuck that old drunkard was - dug through trash-cans.
shortly, an ambulance arrived.
and i left.
"carillo," said thanks. waved. smiled the best she could.
corroded teeth and yellowed gum.
and me - i drove to Shakey's to enjoy pizza, fried chicken and potatoes.
they were good.
