There's a feeling I get when I look to the west,
And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who stand looking.[1]

The Street, 1988

I had been on the streets for about six months, dropped a lot of weight, and had a pretty lengthy beard. My clothes: three shirts, and two pairs of pants, were looking rough and stained from the many nights sleeping in parks and back alleys.

It wouldn't be until 1989 that I discovered Prozac and other medications. Perhaps, if I had given my life in LA a little more of a chance, I wouldn't have ended here, walking the streets.  I'm, also, not sure I would have taken any drug at that point in my life, having had some bad experiences after leaving school.  Prozac had come on the market in the latter part of 87’ a few months before I said fuck it and walked out.  My shrink, Dr. Felmer had not entered my life yet and introduce me to a cerebral tranquility that could never have been accomplished, or at least for me in a non-antidepressant state of mind. As I walked the streets in those days—having no awareness of what was going on in the world including the advent of Prozac—I had constant turmoil going on in my head.  I missed my friend, Harley, although it had been many years since I had seen him.  I wished to touch Rita again.  I guess it was my youth I longed for.  It seemed so much simpler then. Harley said it would be easy for us to become stars, I thought as I looked up at billboard advertising the movie, The Dead Pool.  There was Clint and the cannon-like a barrel of a smoking .44 magnum pointed down at me. 

"We should have been in that film with Clint," I said aloud as a few pedestrians cautiously passed.  "We knew they would still be making Dirty Harry movies when we came to Hollywood," I said my voice escalating as my frustration grew.  I yelled, "What the fuck happened, Harley?"

Some kids, maybe 15 or 16 years old were passing.  One of them reminded me of a taller version of Edwin Richards; the annoying midget asshole from my youth and the three others with him reminding me of his fucked up brothers.  He shoved me.  "Shut up, you crazy fuck," he said and then he said something about getting his hands dirty.

I was, on the verge of insanity perhaps, but I wasn't crazy enough to confront a wise ass teenager and his buddies. I had heard a story from one of the men down at the mission about a homeless guy named, Jimmy (no one on the streets cares to use a last name) who had been beaten up by some kids and then the little fuckers poured gas all over him and lit him on fire.  The thought of this angered me so much I wanted tell that little cock sucking wise ass standing there to go fuck himself . . . but, insanity often plays a lesser role to fear when living on the streets.

They kept marching on and I looked back up at the .44 magnum pointed directly at me and said,  "Go ahead, Clint. Make my day... Pull the fuckin' trigger." Clint just stared.  "Go ahead, Clint, don't feel bad.  Nobody would fuckin' care and most people would thank you for ridding the streets of someone like me." Clint just looked.  I could see the disappointment in his eyes underneath his tough guy persona.

I thought I heard him say, you’re doing it to yourself. Why would you need me?

Whereas I thought I could find happiness on the streets, it seemed to elude me to a point where I began to fear the world around me as I heard stories such as the one about Jimmy.  I had heard you couldn't trust the cops either.  There were stories of LA's finest beating up homeless and driving them to other counties, before tossing them out of a rolling patrol car onto the pavement to see how far they'd "bounce.”  I had also heard they beat a guy up so bad with those triple D flashlights they carry, that they crippled him and fucked up the poor bastard for life.  No being a "hobo" wasn't an adventure anymore or as glamorous as I once perceived it to be.  All I had really wanted was to have no needs.  But what I really wanted was freedom and there was even less on the streets. 

Many of the homeless I crossed path with had no choice.  They were neglected vets that were fucked in the head, or lost a limb or two; and abused women that had been knocked around by assholes so badly they trusted nobody and feared everyone.  They were the uneducated that couldn't find work and the violated children of the dregs of the earth. There were people with every different addiction that exist on this planet from alcohol, heroin, and barbiturates to sniffing glue or paint or rug cleaner and skimmin' sterno for its alcohol content.  I thought watching CNN 24 hours a day was a downer.  Who the hell was I kidding—CNN was a situation comedy compared to the streets—its images someplace else so far away, all compressed and glossy inside my RCA 32 inch television, whereas this place was fucking real and its nightmares around every corner.

But, I had made the choice myself, and now there wasn't an out.  Except Clint pulling that trigger up there.

Death may be the only true escape, I thought to myself.  It was getting dark, and time to move on.  Maybe head towards a Mission for some soup and bread, or, the thought shot through my mind, just walk out in front of a truck.  I looked up at Clint. "See you in the movies," I said half sarcastic and half mocking myself.

I could tell by the orange glow in the distance above the buildings before me I was walking west.  The streets had emptied quickly at this time of day.  Most sane people were probably at home eating dinner with their family and loved ones.  The air was still and I could feel the escaping heat rising from the black-tarred road to my left.  A car passed; its radio playing something heavy and its bass rattled the windows on a store front beside me, and then there was silence.  I seemed to be very alone: as if a bomb had been dropped and everyone had either died or killed each other in some mass exodus of madness.  I listened and heard nothing.  It was calming.

The end of the world, how peaceful is that, I thought.

I heard laughing.  At first it sounded like children enjoying themselves in a park. From an alley came the teenage boys that had fucked with me earlier.  They were laughing and moving quickly.  Two of them passed me and a third kid ran at me and knocked me down.  The fourth, the Edwin look-a-like, stopped to kick me.  I turned quick enough for him to only slam me in the back of my thigh.

"Fuck you. You piece of shit." He snapped. 

I curled up into a ball, hoping he wouldn't kick me again.  I quickly covered my eyes expecting a barrage of punches.  But there was only one to my right cheek.  It hurt the back of my hand worst than the area of my face where it would have landed if unprotected.  I heard the sound of his feet hitting the pavement as he ran off and in the distance the others were still laughing.

I yelled, "Fucker," loud enough to appease my trampled manhood but, soft enough to not cause any retribution by the pack of laughing assholes that were now rounding the corner and a block away.

I rubbed the back of my leg making sure nothing was broke.  A car drove by, I looked up to the man driving. He turned away attempting to appear as if he didn't see me. My thigh was aching, the back of my hand throbbing.  I could probably still walk and there wasn't much pain in my cheek where the dip shit slammed his fist against my hand.  I felt lucky. It could have been a lot worst.  I thought, I could have really fucked them up if I wanted to. I laughed.  And then I got more pissed off at myself. 

“FUCK!” I screamed.  And got to my feet.

I heard something coming from the alley and considered avoiding it entirely if not for the fact I knew there had been only four assholes in that pack, and they all came out of the alley and passed me.

It was a man's voice.  It was deep and bassy, and as I got closer I could hear it resonating off the walls surrounding the alley. 

"A," the voice cried.  "Somebody," the voice not of someone in pain, but like that of the voice of Barry White—soulful and powerful.

I stood at the entrance to the alley.  It was dark and my eyes were adjusting.  Was this a trap, I thought, was someone trying to lure me in and perhaps kill me?

The voice boomed, "Hey goddamn it!"

Through the dark shadows I could see a large man.  He was sitting in a corner against the wall up against a dumpster.

“How 'bout some fuckin' help?" He said.  "Pleeez."

I walked to where he was sitting.  When my eyes adjusted I could see he was a large man.  His head was bald and his skin as black as the shadows beneath the dumpster to his left.  Blood was trickling down the side of his face onto a short beard that laid lower than the longer goatee and mustache he may have once sported.  He was perhaps around my age or in his early thirties.

"You all right?" I said.

Does, I fuckin' looks like I is all right?" he questioned in that Barry White voice.

"No.  You look pretty fucked up."

"Thanks, brother.  I appreciate the complement."

"Anytime," I said.  "It was those little assholes, wasn't it?"

"Little bastards.  A year ago I would have fucked them up so bad they'd not know their asses from those shit eatin' grins. Mutha fuckers.  They took my fuckin' brew and crack the fuckin' bottle over my head.  I hadn't had a drink in a week, only got through half the bottle, and I was minded my own fuckin' business. Fuckers, I wish I had my gun."

He reached up and placed his hand over the slash in his skull. 

"How do I look?"  He asked.

"It's to dark to tell.  We need to get you in some light." I said.  "Let me help you up."

I reached over to grab his arm.

"My chair is in the dumpster."

"What?" I said.

"In the fuckin' dumpster." He boomed.

I stood up, and opened the dumpster.  The smell was overpowering like that of rotting fish and it hit me like the punch to my face I had received ten minutes earlier.  I backed off to catch my breath.

"Is it all right?"

I took a deep breathe and looked in the dumpster.  There was some light bleeding in from a yellow light on the building towards the back the alley.  I could tell right away from the stainless steal bike-like spoke wheels he wasn't asking for his office chair.  I reached in and pulled on one of the tires. It spun. I grabbed it tighter and began to tug at it.

"You got it?" he said.

I had to release the fresh air I had been holding in, and without releasing the chair, take another breath.  I felt my chest, stomach, and throat starting to gag.

"You got it?" he yelled.

"Yes, goddamn it.  I fuckin' got it." I screamed.

I could hear him laughing from below the dumpster.

"Damn, weez got an angry white boy." He laughed.

I was able to pull the wheel up the side of the dumpster enough to be able to grab the handle.  The whole time my stomach wanted to regurgitate what small morsels of food that may have been in it. I pulled it to the lip of the dumpster; and then was able to lift it over my head and to the ground.

"Is it all right?" He asked... again

"Jesus Christ," I exploded, still aching from the asshole onslaught earlier. "What am I a fuckin' wheelchair inspector.  How the fuck am I supposed to know if it's all right?" I turned toward the street, my stomach pumping nothing.  I could taste the pea soup from the night before in my throat.

"Does it roll, dude.  That's all I'm asking."

I turned to the chair and pushed back and forth.  "It appears to be all right." I said.

"Thanks, brother," he said.  "How 'bout turning some of that anger into some strength and liftin' me in."

Jesus, I thought.  I never even considered I was going to have to pick up this huge fucker and help him in his chair.

"Give me a minute," I said.  "To catch my breathe."

No problem, bro," he said. "What's your name?"

"Harry."

"Mine's, Leo, but they call me 21. Can you roll my chair over here?"

I pushed the chair to him.  He reached in the side pocket where he had a stash of napkins.  He pulled them out and started patting the blood, which had begun to coagulate on his head.  He reached back in the pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

"Cig," he said, offering up the open end of the pack.  "Little bastards weren't smart enough to know I had a pack."

I took a cigarette and sat down beside him.  I could smell the liquor, not sure if it was from the smashed bottle or 21's breathe. There was silence as we took the first few drags of the cigarettes.

"What are you doin' out here, Larry?"

I wanted to say, what are you talking about, as if I didn't know what he was talking about, but I knew exactly what he was talking about. He was talking about out here on the streets, alone.

"Couldn't pay my rent," I said sarcastically.

"That's it?" 21 asked.

"Yeah, that, and I don't give a shit anymore."

"You sounds like a man destined for an early death.  Maybe blow your brains out, if you had a gun, O.D. if you had the money for the drugs, maybe hang yourself if you had a rope... or the guts." He took a drag off his smoke.  "Maybe smoke yourself to death."

"Thank you fuckin' Zig Ziglar, for the motivational speech." I said.

"Hey, man. Life sucks and then you die."

I took a drag.  "What's your story?" I asked.

"Got shot... Exploded my spine.  Been this way for a year.  Happened after a gig."

"A gig?" I said.

"Yeah, man.  Doin' hip hop.  I was a rapper.  Pretty damn good until I fucked the wrong woman and her man didn't dig it too much.  Was headin' for an album."

He stopped, taking in a long toke from his cigarette and then expelling the smoke. 

"Funny thing was I actually cared for that one.  But fuck it, Larry. Caring is the worst part of the hurtin'."

He rubbed the wound on his head.

"I've had enough fuckin' pain, and I'm through caring"

He tossed his smoke to the ground.

"Think if I can grab those bars on the edge of the dumpster I can help you lift me into my chair."  

He lifted his upper torso walking on his hands while dragging his paralyzed legs to the side of the dumpster.  He reached over and grabbed the wheel chair pulling it close. He stretched his left arm up to the bars protruding from its edge and while pulling himself up he took hold of the bar with his right.  

"Grab me around the waist and lift."

I extinguished my smoke, got up, and placed my arms around his large framed chest.  I could smell his body odor mixed with the smell of my own as well the stench from the dumpster.

He was heavy.  Maybe 250.  I struggled at first but the interweaving stench strengthened my haste to get the hell out of there. I pulled quickly to a position where he could release an arm and grab the chair.  When he did I felt the dead weight shift to my back and thought I was going to drop him.  I also felt pain shoot through my thigh where I had earlier been kicked.

"Come on," I said.

I felt him lighten as he pulled up with his left arm and shifted the chair underneath and at that point I was able to knee it into position.

"Okay," he said, as I could feel the release of weight from my back and legs to the chair.

"Thanks," he said as he rolled towards the open end of the alley.

"Another smoke, Larry?"

"Of course. My only addiction."

"Right," he smiled.  "Which way you heading?

We both lit up.

"Not sure," I said.

"Me, too.  Do you mind if I tag along for a bit, I could use some company?"

"No," I said.

"Have you ever been to the Santa Monica Pier?" he asked.

"Just once. When I first came to LA."

"I think I'd like see it."

"We're heading the right way," I said.

He stopped for a moment and tilted his head wound towards me. "How do I look?" he asked.

"You'll live."

His head turned back towards the west while his eyes shifted to the horizon. 

"This ain't living," he said as he began to roll his chair again.

We walked towards the last glimmer of orange above the Santa Monica skyline.  I knew what I had to do.  There was no hope.  I was tired of being tired.  I no longer wanted to find happiness.  It could be lost as fast as a car accident or bullet into a healthy spine.  I gave life a chance and it never returned the favor.  I would soon find hope at the ocean edge . . . or on the ocean's floor.

---

[1] Robert Plant, James Patrick, Kenny Gamble, Leon Huff, performed by Led Zepplin