I knew I was going to hate LA, and the professor’s e-mail describing the head of the department as a “fat sexist pig” made me certain I wasn’t going to do my graduate work there.
But when I met with the faculty, I realized it was the only place in the country with the research I wanted and I had no choice. I went walking through Westwood to try to convince myself that this silicone valley where the handicapped spaces are reserved those with collegian injections could become my intellectual mecca. I soon heard comforting words.
“Spare some change?”
Ah, the familiar. Like fickle weather and games at Fenway, interesting encounters with those who live on the street were a fundamental part of the Boston experience.
A suspecting man would shout: “White woman! I wouldn't sleep with a white woman if she was the last woman on earth!” Friends who were just sober enough to stumble home made out with bums in the street. And there was the time I met our Lord.
I was waiting for the bus at night. It was misting lightly and I was standing in the light of a mercury lamp. A man stepped onto the sidewalk.
“Got a light?”
“Um. . . no, sorry.”
“See that bar over there? They just kicked me out of that bar. I don’t even drink. . . you believe that? I don’t even drink and they kicked me out of that bar.”
Well, it is a classy place. Sometimes, I hear gun shots.
“You know, I’m Jesus Christ. They kicked Jesus Christ out of the bar -- that’s why I don’t drink. Jesus Christ does not drink.”
Right, no wine, just Camels.
“Jesus Christ needs a wife."
Shit.
"Do you think Jesus Christ needs a wife or a girlfriend?”
Retreat! Retreat!
The encounter prevented my trip across the Charles River that night. So, it's strange that I was glad to see that an A-list terminator was no better at dealing with poverty, the mentally ill, and disturbed veterans than the embezzlers and mobsters who ran the east.
A tripping prom queen, LA had a blemish it couldn't conceal.
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