The Man With the Cans

As anyone in LA can tell you, there is a thriving sub-economy driven by the homeless and illegal immigrants. We have one such guy in my neighborhood. He and his shopping cart are a fixture on my street. He patrols the neighborhood and picks over our recycling bins thereby scraping himself a living. Over the years, we've developed a...well not a friendship but an acknowledging connection. We always say hello. He asks about my dog who gambols over to be petted. He tells me it's a beautiful day and he's doing well.

The neighborhood likes the cart man. Many people leave their bottles and cans out bagged separately for him so he doesn't have to dig in our deep bins. He has a calm, kind energy about him.

Then last week on a long dog walk I saw him - the interloper; a new kid with missing front teeth and a battered pick-up. The kind of truck held together by twine and duct tape. He was scooting quickly from house to house, leaving the truck idling while he dumpster dove. I didn't like it.

Now I am not really up on how things work in the world of recycling scavengers. I'm not sure about the rights and rules of territory protocol. But something about this new kid and his truck rubbed me the wrong way.

This morning, I saw his truck blocking my driveway as he rattled around in the bin across the street. I went out for a dog walk and saw him speed around the corner. Up our hill trudged our regular shopping cart guy. He nearly turned down our street but his shoulders sagged as he saw the kid and his truck and he went straight instead. I walked up to him.

"Who's the new kid?" I asked as he petted my dog.

He shook his head and said he didn't know but that he was ruining things for him. I looked at him, an old man, pushing his heavy cart up the hill.

"But that's not right. This is your street. You're our friend." I was hoping he'd tell me about some kind of scavenger protocol that was about to handle the kid. I was aware of how bourgeosie my concern was.

"Yes. There's nothing I can do though. No respect from the kids. Maybe the people here can tell him."

He left if hanging there. A dignified plea for help. I was, as it happens, the people here.

I continued on my dog walk and before long I ran into the kid, jumping from his idling truck again. Just then the man with the cart trudged into view at the bottom of the hill. My territorial nature kicked in, this time including the cart man in my territory.

"Hey. Who are you?"

The kid was startled. "I'm getting the bottles," he finally smiled.

"No. This is his street. It's been his street for years. You have to respect that." I pointed at the cart man looking into a picked-over bin down the hill.

"Well no, it's mine. I'm just over here..."

"No, it's not yours. This is his street. You have a truck, it's easier for you to find another street. He's our friend here. You go."

He hesitated, still grinning his toothless grin at me, the crazy Gringa. Was I serious or just a pain in the ass?

"Go. Now." I teach self defense for a living and when I want to command intimidation with my words, I can. He went.

I kept walking up the hill and saw he had not stopped again. Turning back down the hill, my dog and I ran into the old cart man again. He was passing an untouched bin.

"Wait! He didn't stop here," I told him. He looked at me in confusion.

"I told him it was your street and you are our friend. I told him to go."

He finally smiled a soft smile. "Thank you."

I wished him a good day and went home. I have no idea if I wrongly interfered in a scavenger turf war or if I actually helped. For all I know the kid has six babies at home and the cart man is single. But I felt like someone had to stand up for the 'hood - for this man who I had called friend. I don't even know his name. But as heard his cart rattle by again outside, it felt like it had been the right thing to do. Middle-class Pollyanna and all.

It Works

I am constantly amazed by my students. I watched some of them in a performance of the Scottish Play yesterday and was moved to see their self-confidence on stage, their spirit and talent shining through. Because I train them to kick ass, I know they get to walk around just a bit more comfortable in their own skins, pursuing dreams that matter to them. I know they'll know what to do should every woman's worst nightmare come true.

Yesterday before the play we were visited by a former student - a girl still in high school. She pulled my co-teacher (and the president of the company) aside and explained that she'd been assaulted over the weekend. It was at a party. The man was trying to rape her. Scared out of her mind yet without needing to think, her IMPACT training kicked in and she fought him off. She told us she was positive she would have been raped if she hadn't taken our class.

Ladies, you have no excuses. One in three women will be assaulted in her lifetime. Get your asses in this class. Now. Get your daughters and sisters and nieces and moms in this class. Now.
Your life is worth fighting for.

Late Again

When I was in elementary school, I was late nearly every day. Every night, the principal would call my mother for yet another parent/teacher conference. On every call, she would be pulled to her wits’ end.

“She left home with plenty of time to make the walk. I told her not to dawdle. I just don’t understand.”

This is how I learned the word “dawdle”. But I still did not see how it applied to me. I was not a dawdler. I had very important business to take care of on my mile and half walk to school.

Being a hippy mountain town, one day the principal decided to detour on his bike ride to school to follow me. His plan was to observe my dawdling, no doubt, and hurry me on my way.

On the call that evening, my mother was irritated. “Why didn’t you hurry her along then?”

“She talked with each dog in each yard she passed. I didn’t have the heart to interrupt her.”

“Certainly petting a dog or two wouldn’t make her late,” mom reasoned. Allergic to every non-human creature and thus not a fan of fur, mom could not sympathize with my constant entreaties for a dog of my own.

“Well, she really talks to the dogs. And this was after she’d stopped at a Christmas tree at someone’s curb and proceeded to pull every single strand of tinsel off. Then she continued to an open meadow and stashed the tinsel under a rock. After showing it to a few dogs.”

Some days my walk-to-school business was more monumental in nature. One morning after a good snow, I felt it was very important that I practice the cursive writing we were learning. I climbed the fence into the local middle school’s football field and inscribed my name in lovely, looping, 20-foot tall letters by shuffling through the virgin snow. It was a thing of beauty. Not to mention a practical use of new scholastic skills.

Except for the dog conversations, these other events were just one-offs. They were not part of my over-arching walk plan.

Foiled in my quest for a fur-bearer, I decided I wanted a bird. Every morning, the field across from my school was filled with feeding black birds. I knew I would have one.

During the warm months, I practiced various approaches to the birds searching for the one what would not scare them off. During the winter months when there were no birds, I plotted and schemed so I’d be ready for their return. Finally, I had a sure-fire solution: I would bring a blanket with me and throw it over the flock. Surely it would trap at least one before they all flew off.

The plan had a kink, however, that I couldn’t see my way past. Once I had captured my new bird, what would I do with it all day until the walk home? I couldn’t bring it to school. The nuns wouldn’t have pets on the campus. I was afraid to hide it in the blanket off school grounds. What if some other bird-coveter found it and all my efforts were wasted? I couldn’t very well turn and take it home right then because, well, then I’d be late for school. And I couldn’t wait for afternoon for the walk home because, as my careful reconnaissance had shown, the birds only fed in the field in the morning. The blanket plan was flawless save for the issue of bird storage.

Sadly, I never did figure a solution. But my bird-lust must not have been so covert. For Christmas that year my parents got me a blue parakeet that I named Clifford after the big red dog. I was an early fan of irony. Clifford died the next day while I was at school so they got a replacement Clifford hoping I wouldn’t notice. I did notice but called him Clifford with no “2” appended to his name. I could play their denial game too. Clifford the Imposter, however, died immediately as well. It seems taking a parakeet through the snow world between the pet store and the car was just too much for the little things. After C2, the store had only green parakeets so the illusion of parakeet survival could not be continued. My parents ‘fessed up and I had to admit, having finally had one in a cage wasn’t the fanciful experience I’d imagined. I lost interest in birds. Turns out they just weren’t as conversational as dogs.

I found other necessary tasks to occupy my daily school walk between dog visits. That Spring, I busied myself surveying the intricacies of my school route which I then reproduced on an accurate map. I put my stamp on my town by renaming all the streets and paths of my route after my favorite horses: Arabian Way, Thoroughbred Trail, Clydesdale Cut, Pegasus Path. Unfortunately, the city planning commission did not take my improvements into serious consideration; the first of many disappointments in bureaucracy.

The year after that, I moved from my mountain town out to California. My new school was much further from home than my old one had been. My dad got me a fuchsia bike with a banana seat, a basket, and pink handlebar tassels. We rode the route on a Sunday so I’d be able to do it myself.

I started my California school as a bike commuter and I made it to school on time. As far as my parents were concerned my punctuality must have been because the bike was faster than walking. That wasn’t it. I’d have stopped more if I wanted. I did miss my tinsel collection from time to time. But the thing was: my dad wasn’t allergic to pets. Now in California, I finally had a real dog of my very own and I had to hurry home to walk him. Plus, the added bonus of his companionship meant I had someone to talk to while I built my new rocks-from-people’s-yards collection.

It Girl

It's been a big, bloggy week for me:

• I came full circle on one of the life narratives that had been driving my blogging. (See previous post)


• I posted my 100th blog essay.


• And my blog got tagged by a fellow blogger as rated E for Excellent.

If only the book publishers would pay attention and give me that essay book deal now!

I am flattered and validated to be "it" for the moment. And the best part of being it is the ability to tag others. So I would be remiss if I didn't tag my tagger right back:

Mutant Poodle is a provocative writer's writer with strong politicial opinions and the moxie to back them up.

And then, I tag some other blogs for your reading enjoyment:

Zazamada follows the life of a Hollywood friend as she navigates the studio job world while falling in love, getting married and now (!) having a baby.

Gavin Shearer is a super-smart guy who has reviews and interesting things to say about life in Seattle, movies, sports, technology, rollercoasters and life in general.

Kid Sis is a real-life comic book character whose journey as a rabble-rousing writer and feminist will always give you something to talk about.

See? Writers aren't all bitter, resentful people who hate each other. Enjoy!