And Sometimes San Pedro, CA Gets a Tad...Dicey

Harbor Division rolls In

For about...an HOUR

Can't beat a late night overdose to calm the nerves...

San Pedro, California

Notorious: The Infamous History of the Port of Los Angeles - Full Version from Marie Hegwood on Vimeo.

under the gaffey st. bridge

a homeless man lives under the gaffey street bridge.

he's old, ancient.

but then again, he's homeless -- gent could be pushing 40.

been there since 2000.

i know this because we spoke once.

more like a confrontation.

years ago, a dead friend and i came into money.

a week @ sea on the 40-foot Lancer

cruising the channel.

up and around Santa Catalina;

San Nicholas;

San Clemente islands.

spotted my 1st swordfish.

-- moderate sized girl with fist-sized beaks in her belly (big squid in the summer).

nevertheless i got a 50 spot.

-- finders fee.

DD harpooned her off the starboard.

Mario; the dead friend, piloted the Lancer expertly.

and she was ours.

but i'm rambling.

straying.

this is about a homeless man under the gaffey street bridge in san pedro, ca.

years ago, with money in our pockets, a friend and i bought about 20 bucks worth of Hostess product.

the factory nearby.

damaged Ding-Dongs;

slipshod Suzi-Qs;

defective Dunken Sticks (you get the picture) -- all on the cheap.

we had our fill.

and with several chocolately treats left, we decided to hook up the homeless man under the gaffey street bridge.

we stopped, drove to the gaffey street bridge

and low and behold, he was there.

clutching an AM/PM Big Gulp, wearing a scowl.

buddy crossed the street, grubbage in hand -- the homeless man spying us from afar.

he stood.

looked past us.

and from i can remember, he took our sugar-coated offerings -- with great disdain, with contempt, with a fiery disjointed glare -- and hurled them unto the ground.

just like that.

"i don't need your charity," he said.

didn't need it.

didn't want it.

and he's still there, under the gaffey street bridge.

2011.

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there's this lesbian thug that smokes pall malls

and she was yelling.

right there in the middle of the street.

it was 3pm.

and damn hot.

so i closed my doors and turned on the AC.

start writing.

editing.

and Ellroy's ears perk up.

twitch in his muzzle...

he rang the bell several times and rattled the door like he owned the place.

at the door, a young man.

hispanic, i think.

'vigilante,' stenciled on his shirt. shaved head, carrying a clipboard.

i kept the metal screen door closed and locked.

he said i owed him ten bucks.

the hell i did.

said he painted my address on the curb.

said he put a flyer on my door and if i didn't want my address painted on the curb i was supposed to annotate that on the flyer.

he didn't say "annotate, " though.

told him i was broke.

didn't have any money.

and he seemed angry.

didn't care i was broke.

like i offended his manhood as a major player in the curb stenciling world.

i suggested he join the Army.

"whateva," he said.

and he walked down the steps mumbling some other shit i couldn't understand.

just another product of the Los Angeles Unified School District, I thought.

nearly every night shenanigans.

last night -- car squeals wildly.

seconds later -- BOOM!

Ellroy up and out, barking like a madman.

then the ghetto bird.

WHOOMP! WHOOMP! WHOOMP!

close.

real close.

shook the house.

spotlight shining bright and the chickens went ape.

it was 4am.

few nights earlier i hear something.

kids.

kids in baggy white t-shirts and shaved heads, up to no good.

and sure as shit,

SMASH!

abandoned truck across the street looses it's driver-side window.

kids run off.

that was 12am.

they discard bags of 'flaming hot cheetos' and mcdonalds napkins on the lawn my gramps seeded over 60 years ago.

Ellroy was walking and found a hypodermic needle.

few used condoms.

and a thing called a "dental dam."

for the curious:

www.lapdcrimemaps.org

seasoned yarns I

been looking through some old scribbling, and i said to myself, why not create a series of short stories. you know, something to get the juices flowing and the fingers tapping...

charlie

charlie chaplin sits on my porch. he sits and stares at his broken down car. 

a swedish engineered volvo.

it hasn't worked for the past two months, but charlie still sits and stares.

he's not in his classic chaplin get-up.

nope.

it's around noon, and a three-piece suit don't exactly go well with so-cal's scorching afternoons. 

instead, he sits; indian style, in a pair of cut-off wrangler blue jeans, a t-shirt from long beach state university, and blue flip-flop sandals.

he isn't your typical chaplin impersonator. 

this man is hardcore.

this man lives charlie chaplin.

this man embodies the "tramp," on a delphic level.

deeeeep.

his upper lip is not smudged with boot black to simulate a stash. 

no. 

he has grown the real deal. hair.

and despite several attempts on his life by certain recalcitrant individuals who've mistaken him for adolph hitler, charlie continue to maintain his mustache.

i gently peer though my plastic mini-blinds to watch mr. chaplin. he looks woebegone nowadays.

no car.

no adoring masses.

no fancy clothes.

nada. he's just a normal guy sitting on my porch in san pedro, california. right across the street from sunken city.

but i make sure i "gently," peer so as to avoid catching charlie's attention.

he's managed to bum a ride from me for the last two weeks.

i don't dislike giving him rides, but i don't want to establish a routine.

i don't want him thinking: 

hey, i don't have to fix my swedish engineered volvo. i'll just bum a ride from chris. 

that's unacceptable. completely out of the question.

the man is going to have to find an audience again and get his swedish engineered volvo repaired. they make fighter jets for chrissakes.

simple as that.

it's 1331. i'm hungry. my reefer holds some booze, cottage cheese, and an expanding container of chicken adobo.

the philippine delicacy is way past it's prime. smells like sardine va-jay-jay.

hence, i decide to grab some food out in the world.

slowly saddling up to my window, i lean in and gently pull downwards - a small slit of sun highlights my bloodshot eyes - my pupils tighten.

i scan the area:

a german shepherd trots down the street.

an elderly man shuffles by in his scooter.

the swedish engineered volvo sits in the parking lot.

and charlie's gone.

perhaps he gave up on me. or maybe he bummed a ride from some other callow chump.

i open the door - sun nearly blinds me. such a beautiful day; not a cloud in the sky, and i regret spending half of it in front of my computer. 

i haven't eaten in over twelve hours. my stomach bubbles and churns, hungry for nourishment.

this will be a great meal. buttoning my sweater, i jingle my keys in the keyhole and set forth.

- a feast fit for a dictator's son.

"hello, chris," ricochets from my left.

oh shit, i tell myself.

within seconds the conniving bastard pops from his studio. apparently he too was watching out his window. mr. chaplin is quickly on my heels.

"hello, chris," he says again. very weak, sheepish.

"what?" i say.

"hello, chris," he says.

"oh hi," i say. i feel bad now. he's looking at his flip-flops.

"where are you going chris?" he says.

"hungry. gonna eat at the cafe," i say.

"can i come?" he asks.

(the words that are about to come out of my mouth are not the words i really wish to express to mr. chaplin, but the look on his face hamstrings me.)

"sure, you can come along."

"okay, chris," he says.

we walk to the cafe. i say little to charlie. any ounce of personal info will be used against me. if i tell him i'm tired, he'll say i should sleep more.

if i say i don't feel like talking, he'll suggest i learn to express myself better.

so we arrive at the cafe, charlie at my back, and i sit down.

"do you have any money, man?" i say.

doe-eyed, he stares back at me.

"no,not much," he says.

figures.

i order the usual, and as usual, it's good. but i cannot fully enjoy my pita bread and chicken salad with sprouts as charlie desperately stares at me.

"want some fries?" i say.

"yes, chris," he says.

"take 'em," i say.

then i push the platter of golden taters towards him.

"thank you, chris."

"yeah," i say.

finishing my meal, i watch charlie munching my fries. he has no manners. he slams a fry deep into the catsup he poured, then shovels it into his delicate mouth.

his english mannerisms have all but vanished here on the mean streets of san pedro.

so i invite him back to my place.

with the invite, charlie's eye's light up.

"why yes, i would love to come over, chris," he says.

i sense a tone of homosexuality in his voice. he may have devious intentions, but i suppress my instincts. although i remember him gazing at my shirtless chest as i lounged on my porch the week before, i decide to dispense of the homophobic paranoia and pay my check.

entering my humble abode, charlie gazes in awe at the sight of my snake that is displayed prominently in the living room.

"bastardo," as he is called, is some ten-feet long. his powerful jaws conceal over 200 razor sharp fangs. 

they are cruel. scary. unnerving.

"you like snakes?" i say.

with a shit-eating grin, he replies: "snakes are fabulous."

(he does not emphasize the 'fabulous.')

i quickly realize the trap i have walked into. 

snakes: i.e. trouser snakes, i.e. penis, i.e. he thinks i'm talking about my penis.

time to change the subject.

charlie taps on "bastardo's" cage. the boa constrictor jerks his head towards the ruckus.

"lets not piss off the snake," i say.

"okay chris," he says.

"now sit down and relax," i say.

i go to my room and produce my dvd collection. i present him with "the dictator," "the kid," and "a king in new york."

his masterworks.

"lets watch," i say.

"chris, dear sweet christopher," he says.

"let watch," i say, trying to ignore the blossoming wet spot on his trousers.

"you can stand in the kitchen," i say. 

"thank you," he says.

we watch. 

charlie's eye's water up and we both laugh foolhardy laughs as we watch his hi-jinks of yore.

after all there movies are viewed, i stand and replace them in their given spot and ask charlie to leave.

just like that.

"leave," i say.

"but chris-," he says.

"its time to go," i say.

"but chris-"

"its time to go."

"but chris-"

"GET OUT," i say.

i escort him through my door. he looks back.

-like a dog that's crapped his master's floor. 

"goodbye, see you tomorrow," i say.

"but chris-"

i close the door and slump against the wall. i wait five minutes and return to the window. again, i gently pull down the blinds.

he's there.

sitting.

staring.

he gets up, approaches my stoop. 

knocks.

"chris?" he says.

i say nothing, but continue to look through my window.

"chris?"

cat butt tat

think i've seen this guy roaming the streets of downtown san pedro...

 

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