Last week I was in LA for an event, and stayed at the W on Hollywood. W's are fine, but for my taste, a bit too ... rambunctious, and sort of amateur. It's the kind of place where guests wear sunglasses in the lobby, and the staff are prompt but hamstrung by policy. It's at Hollywood and Vine near the Capitol Records building, and sits on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. It's touristy around there. But the artist I was working for lived up the road, so it was a quick shot to his house. I usually stay at Le Parc, a few miles from there, which is a low-key, nondescript, roadie-haven. The W upgraded me to a suite, and I had a chauffeur in a black, tinted-out, SUV to go between the airport, hotel, and venue. So I couldn't complain. It was a pretty easy gig.
The morning after I arrived, around 9am, I walked out of the hotel and headed one block east, down Hollywood, to hit a breakfast-burrito spot I had scouted on my phone. On the short walk, I passed a young, say, looked like in his late-20's, blond-haired, blue-eyed, stringbean of a man who sat on the sidewalk with his back against the wall of a Starbucks. His clothes, a plain t-shirt and blue jeans, were tattered, and he had dirt on his face. He asked me for change. He asked everyone for change. I mumbled that I would get him on the way back, as if that meant anything to him.
I walked into the burrito shop, a greasy-spoon style spot, that smelled like refried beans and chorizo. Mexican football played overhead on a TV hung in the corner. It was perfect. The restaurant was narrow and long, and was lined with high counter-tops and aluminum stools. There were two people inside, a short Spanish-speaking line-cook behind the counter, and a large beastly-looking fellow who sat toward the back, on a stool, elbows on the counter, huddled over a cup of styrofoam-cup coffee. He was wrapped in a woven Mexican-style falsa blanket. It was January, so it was chilly by LA standards. His brown, shoulder-length hair was matted, and his beard was wild. He stared straightforward disconnectedly. It looked like he had been on the street for a while.
The homeless situation in LA is jarring. The same goes for all the cities up the West Coast: San Diego, LA, San Fran, Portland, Seattle, Vancouver. Anecdotally, as someone who has been to every major city in the U.S. and Canada more than several times in recent years, I can say that it's worse in those cities than anywhere else. And in LA, it feels particularly shocking juxtaposed against the glamour of Television and Film – the twinkle of in-vogue fashion, and luxurious wealth. Tent-cities under over-passes, and on sidewalks, are a ubiquitous, harsh and hushed reality against the delusion of optimistic starry-eyed aspirations. Every time I arrive in LA, I'm appalled. But after a day or two, I grow numb to it. Just like everyone else.
Inside the burrito spot, I stood looking up at the menu posted on the wall behind the cook, who waited for my order. While I stood and scanned, the fellow wrapped in the blanket asked if I could buy him a burrito. I was hungover, and edgy. Indifferently without looking at him, I said something along the lines of, "Sorry I can't". He then, probably picking up on my annoyance and callousness, mumbled something under his breath. I had incited agitation in him, which then agitated me. Indirectly, and under my breath, but audible, I uttered something along the lines of "I can't walk one block without getting harassed". (I realize that working in Manhattan for half a dozen years, half a dozen years ago, caused me to develop a certain Pavlovian response to strangers in the street. I learned to detach and push back when necessary.) He, now in a raised voice, and snarky tone said, "Oh I'm sorry a lot of people are out here SUFFERING". He then turned, and faced forward indignantly, with both hands wrapped around his coffee.
I felt bad. Actually, I felt like a fucking asshole. What I said was completely tone-deaf. Who was I to this guy? Some tourist staying in a fucking suite, getting chauffeured around in a black SUV. I, of course, didn't see myself that way. I'm a regular working-stiff trying to make it in the world. I struggle to pay bills just like everyone else. It's all relative. What – I can't buy a hungry person a $6 burrito?
Something struck me.
I stood up, moved two counter-seats closer, leaned over, looked him in the eyes, and said, "What's going on? What's wrong?" He stuttered, "I'm not sure, but I'm suffering and in pain. I hear voices. I have arguments with God. I love God, but we have arguments." I replied, "I can't understand your pain, but I'm sorry you are suffering". I looked at his skin. It was caked with dirt. There was black grime under his fingernails. I said, "I'm sorry, let me get you a burrito". He stammered and looked hurriedly at the board overhead, as if he wanted to order before I changed my mind. He ordered a "jumbo" and asked for double meat. The line-cook asked if it was ok. I said yes. He ordered another cup of coffee. The line-cook asked if it was ok. I said yes. I paid and grabbed mine to-go. I went back to him, put my hand on his back, and said "I can't understand your pain, but I'm sorry you are suffering. Hang in there". He nodded. I left.
If I had to guess, I would think that future generations will probably judge us pretty harshly for the way we currently handle the "homeless situation" or whatever you want to call it. That's not to say I have answers. I don't. Some think society should provide "basic income", and some think "we shouldn't give handouts". I don't have experience working in shelters or on the streets, but I do know that many of "those people" have severe mental illness, are Vets, are women and children trying to flee abuse, or are people with compulsive addiction trying to self-medicate. They are shunned by society, and have no family or safety net. Many have psychological conditions, which are exasperated via a negative feedback loop because they live on the street.
Buying a burrito didn't solve anything or make me a good person. I was just struck by something. Maybe it annoyed the line-cook because now the fellow would return, hoping for a second round of benevolence.
Homelessness is an ocean of a problem. It's in every city. People want to help but everyone is a working stiff. Maybe I should give more, and not be so self-involved and overly-optimized. The LEAST I can do is treat people like people. If someone talks to me, I can talk back and look him in the eyes. I can say "yes" or "no" or "sorry". That's the least I can do. Civilizations are built on tiny interactions. They don't go unnoticed.
I walked back to the hotel and clinked my change into the stringbean's cup who was leaning against Starbucks, 79 cents. He said thanks.