walk on the wildside

downtown L.A.

Echo Park.

sidewalks plagued by gum -- the pox; juicy fruit gone bad.

real bad.

taco bell wrappers -- greased up, blowing effortlessly, lost.

the girls -- they push their infants.

the boys are angry, searching for confrontation.

curb-side emporiums hawk faux fixings.

gucci and hello kitty blankets.

"it's like Tijuana," i say. "without the cripples and prostitutes."

maybe i just can't see 'em.

a lady crosses westlake blvd.

sporting a white tube-top and saggers.

she's on the "nod," wandering back and forth between the white lines.

cradling something -- @ first glance it's hard to see.

"she's got an iguana," Annika says.

"a fucking iguana?" i say.

she's right.

this tube-topped gal is tramping around with a giant reptile.

real green too.

splayed out -- it's tiny toes wriggle, desperately seeking solid ground.

but we have to turn, Langer's is close.

got good sangwiches.

pastrami-type.

so we spot it. right on the corner.

big christmas green, white script; cursive.

sign says to park in the rear.

my instinct says don't.

my instinct says bad juju.

the pedestrians filter past us as we decide.

do we park? do we go inside and have some sangwiches -- pastrami-type?

i see an African-American chap fit out in a wife-beater.

or v-neck.

but that's not the crux.

the crux is, he's mad. talking-to-himself-mad.

follow him with my eyes, periphery vision taking hold.

something i honed @ MCRD.

-- Marine Corps Recruit Depot.

matter of fact, this guy -- angry African-American male, looks like one of my D.I.'s.

he was a mean sonofabitch.

alcoholic too.

i hope he got help.

i'm straying -- Annika and I are rolling deep in the corolla, about to turn, dodging errant passersby, blasting Lou Reed, my hand clutching a little league aluminum slugger, hidden in the back seat.

"let's just go," i say.

a moment of hesitation -- juicy pastrami on our minds and...

we merge onto the 110 south.

back home to Pedro.

heartbeat steadies, the breathing becomes rhythmic and stethoscope ready.

i put the bat down and think about pastrami.

the "pakistani"

we called it the "pakistani."

a curved dagger-type knife, purchased in Tijuana.

my Dad bought it, i think.

my mom protested, of course.

a very early memory -- clouded, disjointed.

selective...

kids.

thirteen going on 30. peddling chiclets -- cellophane wrapped white gum.

and the Indians -- sitting crossed-legged on the concrete, hawking beads and thatched baskets.

cheap shit, something undoubtedly found in a dumpster, reclaimed for the gringos' and their rumpus rooms.

tossed a few pennies their way, but they didn't look up -- just kept stringing beads.

big broad brown faces.

high-cheeked, deadpan.

wondered where they slept.

saw a small shanty town near an open sewer -- their only safe haven.

and it stunk to high hell, probably keeping the Federali's @ bay.

random debris floating by, coalescing around an abandoned VW Bug.

ceramic mickey mice baking in the sun high above on the bridge, overseeing the squalor.

but this was about my "pakistani" knife.

i lost it years ago.

shame, it was a good knife.

nearly got a wild hair up my ass and bought this thing...nearly.