Hard Meat

Back when I was in my smoker phase, smoking my two cigarettes a day-one on the way to work with my morning coffee and one on the way home with my early evening Dr. Pepper-I would have to go to one of two specific liquor stores to get the only brand I smoked. This is thanks to my first roommate in Los Angeles, Christine, who is from suburban Chicago and must smoke menthol-like cigs as a requirement of being from suburban Chicago. And from the 1980s.

She moved up from Kools to Newports and, until she got pregnant, would only light the cig hanging out of her mouth if it were a Nat Sherman Mint. When I made the move down to Southern California, that became my cigarette of choice also. It had to be. I never actually bought my own. I would just smoke hers. Some may have referred to me as a mooch. As long I wasn't buying, I wasn't a smoker. Everyone knows that.

Then I ended up buying my own. Until today, right now, I would have never admitted I was a smoker. And now that I'm down to one or two a week, I guess I will. Fuck.

I'm really allergic to smoke.

That's a side note to illustrate what a dumb ass I can be.

This entry was not supposed to be about whether or not I am, have been, or may not be, a smoker of cigarettes. But to talk about Sam who works at one of the two liquor stores that carry Nat Sherman Mints. After a particularly rough couple of weeks, I decided to buy a pack. So I went to visit Sam.

I pushed the shatter proof glass doors to the store open and looked behind the counter to see who was working today. Usually one of three guys. Today is was Sam. Sam is a big guy with a recently acquired, neatly trimmed, salt and pepper beard and a very thick accent. The accent not recently acquired.

Sam had his bare foot up on the back counter, slightly hidden behind the display of male hormone supplements and beef jerky, and was carefully bandaging his pinkie toe. He looked a bit busy so I gave him some space.

When he was ready, he came over and asked me how I was doing as he pulled out a pack of my smokes from under the counter-where they keep the fancy stuff. I was fine, but asked him if his foot was okay.

"I have, what do you call...hard meat?" 

I could take this a couple of ways, but tried, "Callus?"

"Corn! I have a corn. So I cut at it with knife and now it bleeds."

"Bleeds" was escaping his caterpillar trimmed mouth as he handed me my pack of ten sticks.

I tried and act natural and tell him he should get some of those corn removal patches (What do I really know about corns? Nothing.) and said goodbye before running to my car and dousing my hands with hand sanitizer.

Besides being highly allergic to cigarette smoke I have found another deterrent to this bad habit with the visual of Sam cutting his "hard meat" and having it bleed right before handing over that pack of Nat Sherman Mints.

I do have a photo of Sam, pre-facial hair, to go along with this but just can bring myself to out him and his corn like that. 

The Rastafarian

I live down the street from a home. And when I say a home, I really mean a "home". I used to think it was for recovering addicts but very soon I realized that it was for the mentally challenged. I think. I hope. Otherwise I've completely misinterpreted the personalities of the residents. But what do I know. I'm no doctor.

 

It's a long trek from the top of the hill where the home sits, to the bottom of the slope to where I live. Every morning there is an exodus of home residents down the uneven sidewalk and onto Sunset Boulevard. And every night they make the long asthma inducing climb back up. It's a steep hill. Are you getting that yet? I mean, really, how many ways to have to put it. 

 

I know a handful of the residents by face, but once they board their city buses and leave my street every morning, I don't know where they disappear to for the day. One guy doesn't board the bus with the rest of them. I think had a previous life as a gentle biker. They have those, right? He has a full head of wiry gray hair that he keeps in a tight ponytail and covers it with an old baseball hat. I imagine it's a full on afro if he let it out of that ponytail and that hat. He has a stiff walk and a stiff gaze. If he gazes at you at all. He usually keeps his head down as sweeps, waters and sets up the outdoor tables for the day at the restaurant next to my apartment. I'm not sure how much they pay him, but he takes his job seriously and you can tell it's very important to him.

 

I've seen the folks that hang out in front of the home starting at dawn and ending after dusk. They sit under big blue tarps, smoking in their plastic lawn chairs. I have a feeling the restaurant sweeper keeps himself separate from the other residents because he knows he's not one of them. And he needs to make sure that stays that way.

 

A few of others that live at the home that I keep track of by way of my front window. Some are hard to ignore. One is a yeller. Yells to himself and at himself. I never understand what he's saying so I can never understand what he's so vehement about. One day I will get a little bit closer so maybe I'll know what's been pissing him off for the past three years.

 

There is a new couple, man and woman, that have appeared in the past few months. They fascinate me. Every morning they walk down to the bus stop, arms linked tightly around each other's waist. So tight they have to walk in unison. She in short lycra dresses and he in high waisted pants and a dark black wig. It's a May-December Romance but I can tell who is May and who is December.

 

They walk down every morning like this, arms so tight around each waist, I'm sure they leave bruises. Once at the bottom of the street, they wait stiffly, barely moving, definitely not talking, for the bus to come to take them away for the next ten hours.

 

Then at dusk, the bus drops them off at that same stop and they trudge slowly up that hill again, arms squeezing,  but now she has a single cellophane wrapped rose in her hand.

 

Everyday this happens. Everyday a new rose.

 

Today, I looked down from my window and saw them across the street. They'd stopped to pet the neighbor's new puppy over the short chain linked fence. The lycra mini dress lady, rose in one hand, the other hand being devoured by the puppy, was wearing a Rasta hat with fake dread locks. Her boyfriend, still with the black Halloween wig, could not NOT touch her. He held onto her Rasta braids as she leaned over to play with the puppy. He kept on moving his hand up and down the braids with the movement of his girl.

 

Done with the puppy's affection, she withdrew and the man with the thick fake wig snaked his arm back around her waist, and they walked slowly up the hill and back to the home.

 

The List Grows

The large man in front of me ordered his large ice blended coffee and moved aside to look at the muffins. And when I say large I mean tall. He was tall. Well, and a bit round too, but mainly tall. With sandals on. I find really tall men with sandals disturbing. I think it's their extra large toes.

I placed my order and he turned to gaze at me. Long enough to turn into a creepy, uncomfortable gaze. It made me edgy.

"You look like that actress. You know who I'm talking about."

He said that last part like he was accusing me. Which put me on the defensive. He obviously lacked social skills and I'm usually forgiving of this. But I've been sick of Los Angeles for at least three years now and on top of the recent sightings of girls modeling themselves after reality stars from Laguna Beach driving their Mercedes through my neighborhood, this is just another check on my "Why I Need To Move to [Insert City (currently Portland) Here]" list. No stranger would come up to me in any other city and say I look like some actress, outside of Los Angeles. I'm sure of this.

"No," I responded, "I don't who you're talking about."

God. I felt so rude.

"No, you know! That actress!"

He thought his descriptive "that actress"  would help me identify who he was referring too.

"No, I don't. Are you thinking about TV or movie? Because if it's TV, I've gotten MacKenzie Phillips before."

He had a look of confusion on his 40-something face, "You know, I don't watch much TV. I don't think that's who I'm thinking of."

Now I was confused. How would a 40-something year old, who was surely raised on television as anyone under the 50 was, not know "One Day At A Time"?

This had the promise to come to no conclusion, which made me a bit giddy. So I gave him some more bait, "Oh! Recently, I've been told by a few people I look like that actress from, 'The Departed'?"

Blank face.

"You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?"

Now I was accusing. Take that Mr. Big Toe Man. 

I felt he was losing steam, "I don't go to movies much. But I'm sure if I saw that actress, I would know that was the one that you look like."

This would never happen in Portland. 

Bruce Lee Could Run With 40 Pounds of Weight...In Each Hand.

I met Johnny Appleseed on the trails in Elysian Park last week. I have a feeling his name was probably Richard or Dave, but he was tall and scrawny with a full salt and pepper beard and reminded me of a modern day Johnny Appleseed. Without the appleseeds or the Swedenborgianism belief system.

I was running past him and his dogs loitering on the trail when he yelled out to me, "Hey!" Johnny Richard Dave yelled, "You should try running with two of those bottles!"

I was feeling social, easily explained when I remind myself that I've been working from home with little verbal or tactile exchanges with people outside of myself, and I've already heard all of my stories. Boring. It's actually hard to get those first words of the day out sometimes when your first opportunity to speak happens after 5:00 P.M.

I held up my one hand-held water bottle strapped to my hand (It has a case. But if you'd like to picture me as a duct taping running freak, that's cool too.) and yelled back, "I usually do!" with a conversation deterring smile-the "closer" smile- thinking that would be it and I'd be on my way.

Richard Appleseed, from 10 feet away, began with a conversation opener that I couldn't walk away from, "You know Bruce Lee used to run around here."  Resigned to an unwanted conversation, I took a few baby steps closer to him and his sluggish trio of haggard looking dogs.

"Really?" I asked.

"Oh, my friend trained with Bruce. He would have him start out with just a roll of pennies in each hand. And then you know what he would do?" 

He was a nice guy but I really wanted to nip the full story telling conversation in the bud so I could get moving again, "He had him used nickels and then eventually rolls of quarters?"

Johnny was excited that I'd caught on quickly, "Yes! This place has changed so much, this park. You know I've been here since 197(something) and you know, this park used to be..."

I started to fade and decided to zero in on his friendly beard and wait for an open to leave. But in zeroing in on his beard I began to see little bugs bounce off and on and in and out of the wiry swirls of hair. Startled, I looked down into the pure red eyes of the dog I'll call Santa's Little Helper. Jesus! I don't know what pure red eyes on a dog mean, besides the obvious (alien) but I ruled out that he was a devil dog. He was too cute.

To the left of Santa's Little Helper, the other two dogs of Johnny's began closing in around me. They sat at my feet hell bent on scratching their necks, backs and chins. Oh God. Fleas.

Johnny and his dogs. All of them. Nests for fleas.

That was it. If I didn't leave now I would be covered in flea bites. I'm one of those people.

(Reminds me: I still need to get a cat.)

I cut the conversation short and bid a farewell to Johnny Dave and ran swiftly away hoping to out run the fleas.

I didn't.

Damn, but I'm a sucker for a Bruce Lee story and a man with a beard.

Those Corrs Girls R Hawt

Russ and I rented a car at the Dublin Airport in order to drive to the other side of the country, a paltry four hours away. I'm not sure if you can get anywhere in California in four hours.

Except the other side of Los Angeles.

On a Saturday.

Between 8:00 A.M. and 11:00 A.M..

On a light wind advisory day.

We figured our major obstacle to overcome if we were to make it to Galway by sundown was re-learning how to shift a stick with our left hands. The last time I did this was three years ago in Bath. I stalled the car a two or seven times trying to get us out of the rental place and the result was driving with the "Check Engine" light bright and red for the next six days.

Within five minutes of sinking my ass down into the anti-plush Yaris bucket seat, I was driving like a champ (obnoxious and cocky) as we made our way towards the N-something to the M-something headed West.

At first, conversation kept us going, but after about a few hours-not to quote Dan Folgelberg but-our tongues were tired. We were ready to explore Irish radio programming.

Russ pressed "Seek" and we were off. Three notes into Gwen Stefani's "The Sweet Escape" and Seek was pressed again with a growing sense of urgency each time the radio stopped seeking. Everyone knows that the sooner you change the channel when an awful song is playing ("Horse With No Name", "In The Air Tonight", "We Built This City", "Abracadabra") the better chance you have of not having said awful song stuck in your head. And we were dodging bad music at every stop on the dial.

This pattern was repeated over and over again until we reached our destination four hours later. We held out with hope in our hearts that radio in Ireland wasn't as bad as it actually was.

There are many issues with the programming in Ireland besides bad song choice. One is that there is no commitment to actually finishing a song to completion. If it is time for a commercial break, they have no qualms about cutting off a song in the middle of a word in the chorus. This hit us pretty hard when we heard some Steve Earle. I was a bit over excited to hear a song I actually liked-regardless of the scale of how much I liked it. At that moment, that song became my favorite song ever. It was as though some saint that I don't know about but would like to meet, looked down upon us and gifted us with a lovely traditional Irish song. Sung by an American. It was golden, that voice coming out of those tin speakers. And rays of light shot out of them as faeries flew about. That's what I remember. Faeries.

Until they tore the wings of the faeries to sell tires.

We hit the road two days later, leaving Galway for the Cliffs of Mohr, and Russ pressed Seek once again, we found ourselves in some horrible Seek and Off downward spiral. Desperate and visiting a castle that moonlighted as a Medieval Banquet hall, we avoided the tour of the ancient ruins, mead and wenches, and went straight to the gift shop. Russ chose The Pogues, and I chose the Chieftains. I had high hopes for that one.

We jumped into the Yaris, ripping plastic and tape off our treasures. I went first and slid my CD into the player, driving off towards the Cliffs of Mohr.

There could have not been a more unmotivating CD than the one I chose for a drive through the beautiful Irish countryside. It was sad, woeful, and melancholy. It made me want to write poetry like a whiny 15 year old girl and have a cry. All except for one precious gem of a song that may have not been that good outside that little car 5000 miles away from home: The Corrs.

Yes. The pop family jewel of Ireland played a song that I repeated enough times in a row that we had to put in the Pogues and repeat that CD a few times to flush the Corrs out of our brains. We had a new Corrs-Pogues cycle with a bit of Irish radio mixed in. Until frustration took over and The Corrs were back on top.

Four days later on our way back to Dublin both CDs were off limits for the remainder of the trip. We had destroyed any beauty either of these held through overuse.

Two months I was later driving from Portland, Oregon to Walla Walla, Washington for my mom's birthday with that very same Chieftian's CD with that Corr's song. I was planning on passing it on to my mom, thinking she might enjoy it.

Turns out the radio programming between Portland, Oregon and Walla Walla, Washington bears a striking resemblance to that of the radio programming between Dublin and Galway. I heard enough of Gwen Stefani's "The Sweet Escape" in that first hour through Oregon that I put in The Corrs and played that precious song until I could almost understand all the words through their not so thick Irish accents.

That CD never left the rental car, but got me through the dark radio hours of Washington's high desert "Sweet Home Alabama" obsession on my way back to the PDX.

It now lies in its final resting spot buried under a pile of old mail on my desk.