I'd never been to Skid Row but had read a lot of Bukowski and what he portrayed sounded similar to The Tenderloin in San Francisco, rundown hotels and seedy bars, sidewalks crowded by bums and hustlers and whores, but it wasn't at all. It looked clean, and quiet, as if everything that breathed had been vaporized, probably by a toxic cloud.
I saw a cloud mushroomed over downtown L.A. once, it was green. I knew that it was the after effect of the earthquake that had just occurred, otherwise I would have suspected some sort of biological chemical warfare result. They were always trying to solve the homeless population problem and what better way than just disappear them with some poisonous cloud of gas.
Red and blue pup-tents livened up the gray backdrop but it was otherwise bleak and completely void of people. The buildings looked empty and I wondered why they didn’t just stick the tent dwellers inside them.
The tents appeared to serve as portable tract housing for the homeless, and none was any larger or smaller than it’s neighbor. I wondered if they had a limit on number of occupants. Instead of cars in the driveway there were grocery carts parked alongside.
The cab dropped me off in front of a white one story cinder block building surrounded by a very tall chain link fence. I got out and realized the cleanness was an illusion created by the layer of smog dust that covered everything with a matte veneer. Sunlight did not reflect down here, it absorbed, and I wondered if the same grey glow shone day and night. A patriotic colored banner hung from the flat roof, American Outreach United. I found the name of the place not comforting but suspicious. I imagined myself wandering around some flat vista wearing a torn and singed faux military Scientology looking uniform, my eyes blank with Thorazine.
I checked in with a friendly black woman sitting behind a battered wooden desk with nothing on it but an old phone with a cord. She told me it would be awhile and to have a seat.
The waiting area was made up of a couple of couches and overstuffed chairs. Thrift shop rejects filled with decades of dust mite carcasses I suspected.
One of the chairs was occupied by an ancient lady wearing monochrome clothes, everything was peach. AN unrolled to the chin ribbed turtleneck was tucked into the high waisted flared slacks. Over this was an ankle length sleeveless vest. She had soft suede zipper sided platform boots, also peach.
I dropped my bags and sat across from her on an orange couch stained with grease where your head would go if you sat back.
The lady didn’t look like she wanted to exchange hellos so I didn’t. She was staring into a tiny address book and since she didn’t seem to take notice of me I watched her do this. I don’t like people staring at me, I doubt anyone does, but if she wasn’t aware of it she couldn’t mind.
She had tiny reading glasses perched at the end of a long nose. Her copper-colored hair was coiled up tightly into a cone that peaked at least eight inches above the top of her head. She looked like a Star Trek bartender and I wondered what kind of noises would come out of her mouth if she spoke.
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