John O’Kane
In “Mining the States of City Minds,” a recent offering here, I introduced my approach to experiencing the texture of city life in Venice, California and writing up the resulting stories with a type of literary journalism. This kind of writing, with roots in the New Journalism of the 1960s, captures these stories as they happen in the streets and other sites of everyday life through scenes that are faithful to the action and events they emerged from. It lets characters speak for themselves, which gives the writing the feel of a fictional short story but also a more truthful approximation of the surfacing event through their differing perspectives or points of view. Like a Surrealist flaneur I amble through the city trolling for stories and find their potential elements in various clusters of activity, sometimes homeless camps, where these voices dramatize their challenging existences. They present the evidence that might lead to a larger story waiting to be told. My resulting scenes mix direct and indirect (playing undercover detective on occasion) observations and the reorganization of conversations. This is the ninth in my series.
In the first I capture the chaos ensuing from a crime in the streets, and especially the actions and impressions of one person suspected of committing it as he escapes. In the second I capture another scene in a park at night where several occupants confront the suspect and force him to move on. In the third I trace the suspect’s continued flight and his securing of temporary sanctuary. In the fourth I track his escape from there to the beach where he meets occupants of a camp who have created a kind of alternative, mini-society, and detain him as an alleged infiltrator. In the fifth I record his continuing experiences at this camp and his eventual escape. In the sixth I record his return to a friend’s place after this escape and his trek to the Dog Park where he encounters a woman who appears to be stalking him. In the seventh I record his reminiscences from the front yard of a house he stumbles on about the limits of street life but also how it helped him nurture a different existence and lifestyle. In the eighth I capture the moments after he surfaces from his reflections when he has a discussion in the house with activists he encountered earlier on the beach about their philosophy and how to improve the city. In the ninth I record his return to a friend’s place where he recharges his batteries and contrives a new appearance before retracing his steps to the scene of the crime, hoping to jar his memory. In the tenth I capture Wyatt’s experience when he returns to this scene. Here I document his continuing journey to another familiar haunt in search of friends he shared experiences with on the street, and who can help him reconstruct important events from the past. He finds someone and they reminisce, while discussing how to get off the street.
Ghost Camp
The Dog Park! There must be some of my mates there, one of the liveliest camps in town. As Wyatt approaches the park from the north along Pacific he sees no signs of life, not even the forms it’s named after. Have the cops swept it? He creeps along the edge, angling between two trees, and spies only an abandoned grocery cart. There’s a bench about ten feet inside the park and he plops down, perplexed by the absence of activity and bodies and feel of his once familiar habitat.
“What’re you doin here?” a voice echoes before splicing with the sound of a wailing animal, which makes the source difficult to locate.
“Who’s there?” asks Wyatt. “I’m just passing by and…I’m looking for a friend.”
“None a yer friends are here so go on bout yer bizness!”
He thinks he recognizes the voice but still can’t pin down where it’s coming from. “Was here a while ago and there were lots of familiar faces.”
“Na, ya got the wrong place…been no one round here fer a while since…”
“…I’m sure it’s the right place…been hanging here for a long time. Why aren’t there other people here? Did something happen?” The voice now seems to be coming from a different direction. Or is it a different voice? Before he can respond the staccato screams of an iron hog doppler by, ripping the veil of silence. As his hearing stabilizes he hears the sounds of what seem like a cart’s wheels beginning to move, then stop and move again, gaining speed and rushing down the slope toward him, the driver in tow, rattling past to rest in a bush at the park’s south edge. This effort apparently exhausts the attacker.
“What’d you do to me?” he asks, while trying to gather the belongings that scattered from the impact.
“What did you do to yourself? I don’t mean you any harm. You angry at someone?”
“They was here yesterday and took my friend…put all his stuff in the dumpster and…everbody got otta here fast…you finishin’ the job?”
“Don’t know anything about that. My job is to find some friends.”
“You ain’t one a us…never seen ya before. What kinda friends you got that would be around here?”
“One of them is…Willow…know her?”
“Ya…not really…what’s she have to do with…”
“…she’s a good friend…we’ve known each other for a long time. So you know her?”
“I never seen ya round her.”
“You must have. But I look…different…because…”
“…you a cop?”
At the mention of a cop Wyatt shifts back into his vigilant mode, scoping the park’s periphery. “You gotta be kidding. That’s about the last thing I’d ever be!”
“They looking fer someone who offed this guy over on…”
“…so they’re going around and harassing everyone on the streets?”
“Ya, they been doin’ that fer a long time.”
“Lionel, that you? You look different…and your voice too.”
“How ya know me…never seen you before.”
“Yes you have…we hung together over on Indiana for a while.”
“I woulda known anyone who…yer voice sounds kinda familiar but…wait, yer the reason we all gettin’ in trouble!” He now clearly recognizes Wyatt, and steps quickly away from him. “Keep back!”
“What do you mean? What could I have done to cause any trouble?”
“Why ya dressed like that then? Must be guilty a somethin!”
“You don’t seem the same either…you…”
“…had bad coupla days…got separated from some pals was movin’ with when they came through here and put us out.”
“They’re always doing this…remember? It doesn’t take much for them to strut their stuff in victims’ faces.”
“Well, okay…but ya didn’t help matters.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everbody says you had an argument with Medic…they was right there and heard it and…”
“…everybody had arguments with him, and much more heated ones than I ever had as far as I can remember.”
“But ya had one that night when he got it and…”
“…were you there? Did you hear an argument?”
“Member…somethin’ but…don’t think I stayed around.”
“Then how do you know what…”
“…Dingo’s cousin said he heard it from this filpino chick over on California…but there was others too cuz everbody just kept talkin’ about it and…”
“…they see anything though?”
“They musta cuz no one said any different and…why would they make it all…”
“…why wouldn’t they? Did anyone see me do anything that you can be sure about?”
“I…not…you gots a rep now so…but don’t seem like you from what I remember. We had some good times when you was around.”
“Yeah, we did. So…what are you doing here now by yourself?”
“Oh just got some noostalgia bout this place…and…need to catch up with Dingo and a few other pals before I lose touch with ‘em. Thought they might be here.”
“So you must‘ve seen Willow then, or Esther for sure. Remember her?”
“Yah, Esther coupla days ago but Willow…not sure…heard she was hangin’ with Pearl for a bit in this shack in the alley off Rose. But no one’s stayin’ put much now…we’s like guerillas, movin’ all over ta beat the heat. What ya want her for?”
“I think she can help me because she was there that night from what I can recall and…well, she’s a good friend and I wanna keep in touch. How do I find Pearl?”
“At that shack if she’s still there…she used ta be at a camp on Brooks once in a while.”
“Well, that’s a start anyway…appreciate it! What you gonna do now, once you find your friends?” A large fairly-new black Ford sedan cruises by along Pacific and makes a sharp turn left on Westminster, slowing for a look into the park. It creeps to Main, turns right and parks on the corner. Wyatt’s not sure if whoever is in the car saw them. He pulls Lionel to the northwest corner, as far away from the car as possible in readiness for an escape. “Here we go again! They won’t leave us alone. Maybe we can make it to that construction site across from Beyond Baroque.”
“Anything that gets us otta this…and back to sanity so we can live together again like we did.”
“But you gotta get off the street!” Wyatt blurts, keeping an eye on the car, which now moves slowly away from the curb and accelerates down Main. “There’s no future here, especially now with all the heat.”
“Future? I’ll settle for a perty good few days next week where we can all git some a that community spirit back! Would love ta git off the streets if I could do…somethin’ that might git me a better attitude about things.”
“More than that…something that gets you away from the danger and…”
“…well…we all for that but…it gits perty scary sometimes up there too, above ground. Been there and did that as they say.”
“When was that?”
“Last time was a year or so…thought I had a good gig but my shack a cards got bulldozed!” he responds, the pride in his pun reflected in his facial glow, as a black SUV with its base pushed to the pain threshold with AC/DC riffs angles to the curb, its high beams flooding the park, bleaching the foliage and sending them into the shadows for refuge. Lionel’s cart vibrates. Eyeballs dot several dark windows across the street. The vehicle’s lights go out and then return before it blares into the night. They look at each other in disbelief. Wyatt wonders what new form of urban theater they’ve witnessed, and decides it’s the perfect moment to split.
“Maybe it’s time to give it another try,” Wyatt says as they cross Pacific. “Who knows what’s coming at us next.”
“It’s worse ever time I do…no jobs that pay a nuff ta make it for long.”
“What kind of jobs can you do?”
“Got some trainin’ in the military to be a cook…learned how ta burn meat fer a while mostly. Eatin’ in the military is some kinda experience!”
“Hey, tweak that a little and you can start chefing at Hal’s!”
“Yah, you got it! I usta hang in the alley behind there fer a while when I came here way back…maybe that’ll git me in the door.”
“Not there…but cooking might be a good bridge to something else.”
“Was thinkin’ that once. Me and this military bud was eatin’ at this burger stand in Inglewood and the dude that owned it musta liked how I took to the product cuz he recrooted me ta do some flippin’. I was perty excited and got big aspirations. I wanted to get a position at Tommy’s number 15 or so on Slauson or somewers where I hung before I went into the military. Kept buggin’ this guy there and had my military reference with me too and he said was no openings. But was a sign right in the window!”
“What about the mom and pop places?”
“Tried, but guess my experience was like some virus. Got in ta Wendy’s fer a couple weeks not long after that and…they got a budget crisis!”
“Maybe the employment office can get you into something better…something different.”
“Went there right after that and they sent me out to the same Tommy’s!...said I had excellent qualifications… shoulda seen the look on that guy’s face!”
“What do you expect from government agencies?”
“Couldn’t git a nuff for rent on just that for my room in this house with these so called artists I met in Downey. They was runnin’ some kinda scam and was always threatenin’ to kill each other anyways. One day all my stuff was sittin’ out on the curb and they wouldn’t let me back in. No way coulda ever got my own pad with what I was makin’.”
“Can you get some new training?”
“Wanna work with my hands…was good at that in high school but got lost in some sorta scene and…”
“…that can happen. You probably got talents that have never been used.”
“I’m sick a tryin’ to be part of all that…not my world…the people ya meet up with aren’t in ta yer way of doin’ things and…well, I miss the community we had before all those spicious characters started showin’ up. I know was problems out here but, well somethin’s missin’ up there that we had.”
“Yeah, know what you’re saying. But where do we get our next meal, and some respect? How do we avoid getting wasted?”
“Stay away from people like you, killa!”
Wyatt’s not sure how to take this. Lionel isn’t known for his irony. He’s still unsure about what happened that night. “You for real? Haven’t you…”
“…hey, wanna git together with some a the folks we hung with and do a business or somethin’? Pearl was sayin’ there’s some folks that’s buyin’ properties and fixin’ ‘em up ta give ta some of us at good prices and we can be part of it…be partners. And we can live over off Lincoln in those houses nobody’s usin.”
“Heard something about that…excellent idea!”
“Can work with my hands again.”
“Am all for it,” Wyatt says as they reach Speedway. “I’ll see you in a while…need to find Willow and take care of some business.”…
John O’Kane has published over a hundred fifty stories, essays and poems in a variety of venues, blogs regularly on Huffingtonpost, and edits and publishes AMASS Magazine. His most recent book is, A People’s Manifesto (2015). He has a short story in the annual Goose River Press anthology. He has a book of short stories forthcoming in 2018.