Mean Streets
Now THIS guy is a professional. My guy could learn a thing or two from him.
It was about 12:30 AM this past Friday and I was making the
mile long trek back to my apartment from a local tiki bar, feeling rather glib
after three or four drinks that were boozier than Whitney Houston’s ex-husband
and fruitier than Rick Santorum’s most secretive fantasies. It was a lively
evening – Lankershim Boulevard was flooded with cars and the streets were full
of people patronizing my neighborhood’s five bars, eight restaurants, and
sixty-three medical marijuana dispensaries.
So there I am, marching up the street, looking forward to
getting home so I could hop on Netflix and finish off season 3 of King of the Hill, when I heard a voice
from behind me:
“Hey, man, hey! Hang on a second!”
I stopped and turned to see a guy in his early 30s running
up to me, clad in loose fitting jeans and a freshly pressed collared shirt. In
the three steps it took him to get close to me he looked over his shoulder two
times.
“Hey.” He said again. “You know how to get to the Metro stop?”
“Oh, yeah.” I pointed up the street in the direction I’d
been walking. “We’re on Lankershim right now. You just walk straight up a few
blocks and it’s right there at Chandler. You can’t miss it.”
“Oh, cool, cool, thanks.” He glanced over his shoulder
again. “You going that way?”
Yes, I was going
that way, but I definitely didn’t want to go that way with him. It wasn’t out of any concern for my safety – keep in mind,
there were mostly-sober people everywhere – but because I just didn’t have the
energy to make stilted, achingly polite small talk with a complete stranger who
would only be a part of my life for the time it took to walk four blocks.
Yeah, I’m heading this
way. My name is Truman. Hi Grxfib, pleasure to meet you. Yes, I do live around
here. I too enjoy a good pizza from time to time. No, I do not have a dog.
Thank you for showing me pictures of your brother’s dog on your phone. Well,
this is the Metro stop. Bye Grxfib! While I hope that the rest of your life is
pleasant, your very existence is ultimately meaningless to me!
See? It’s exhausting.
“Uh, I am,” I stammered, pulling out my phone. “But I’ve got
to make a phone call. You just head straight up Lankershim and it’s there. You
can’t miss it.”
He nodded quickly, glancing over his shoulder six or seven
more times. “Yeah, well, I think I’ll wait and head that way with you, just to
be sure.”
Something inside me died. I’d made it perfectly clear that
the only thing this guy had to do to find the Metro stop was walk in a straight
line – in fact, I was so confident in his ability to find the street in
question that I staked my reputation as a direction giver on the claim that he,
a man I had never met, could not
physically miss it, but he was still insistent on me escorting him there.
This could mean one thing and one thing only:
He wanted to talk to me about either animal rights or Jesus
– two things that I appreciate conceptually but have very little use for in my day-to-day
life.
“I guess I can make the call later,” I sighed, slipping my
phone back into my pocket and plodding up the street once more. Random Dude
fell into a swerving, anxious swagger beside me, ever constantly craning his
neck and throwing looks over his shoulder.
“Thanks man. I’m not from around here and I don’t want to
wind up in a bad neighborhood, y’know?”
At the time, we were walking past a gelato shop adjacent to
a childrens’ ballet studio, across the street from a community theater. Given
these incredibly threatening surroundings I could understand why this 5’9 black
man had sought out the toughest, most physically intimidating guy on the street
– me – to protect him.
“I don’t think you have to worry about that in the North
Hollywood Arts District.” I said.
“Oh, okay. Cool.”
And so we walked – him veering back and forth across the
sidewalk and scanning 360 degrees for threats, me desperately trying to make
small talk so as not to seem racist. Throughout our conversation he muttered a
few details about being from Culver City, not knowing his way around the
Valley, and needing to take the Metro home. For a stranger in this part of
town, though, he seemed to know an awful lot of people – he exchanged greetings
with three separate guys on our walk up the street, and I started to wonder why
one of them couldn’t just walk him to
the train. Looking on the bright side, he wasn't lecturing me about factory farms or the Second Coming.
We were one block away from the Metro stop, so close we
could see it, when Random Dude began veering to the right.
“C’mon, man, let’s cut around this way.” He said, heading
toward – I shit you not – a dark alley
behind a Wells Fargo. The alley ran parallel to the street we were on; there
was absolutely no reason whatsoever for us to cut through there to get to the
Metro stop, save for being out of sight of about two
dozen potential witnesses.
Holy shit. I
realized, standing there on the corner and watching Random Dude inch toward the
alley and nervously beckon me to follow him. He doesn't want to talk about Jesus. I think he's trying to rob me! That is adorable.
I shook my head. “No thanks. I’m going to walk around this
way. Have a great night!”
I proceeded up Lankershim, and a second later he was
galloping up beside me, exasperated and begging me to slow down. We crossed
Chandler and arrived at the Metro stop – a huge transit center that spanned the
entire block.
“Well, here we are!” I said as we walked past the throngs of
people flowing out of the station. “Just head down that escalator and get on
the Red Line, then transfer to the Blue for Culver City.”
He bobbed his head nervously, still checking over his
shoulder. “Yeah, I think I’m going to take a bus. C’mon, let’s head to the
buses.”
The bus stop was located on the far side of the transit
center – an area with fewer streetlights that was totally deserted. I shook my
head again and kept walking.
“There isn’t a bus to Culver City. You have to take the
train.” I pointed to the station. “To do that you need to go over there.”
“Nah, I’m going to take the bus to my friend’s house for the
night. C’mon.” He started to veer toward the dark parking lot that led to the
buses.
“Alright, have fun walking over there!” I waved to him and
continued up the street, and sure enough he kept following me.
At this point, I was getting fed up – we were moving out of
the heavily populated, well lit part of North Hollywood and into territory
where even this sad sack George Michael Bluth excuse for a criminal could rob
me.
“The Metro is back that way.” I said, continuing forward.
“Yeah, the buses aren’t even running. I’m just going to
chill at Denny’s up on Burbank Boulevard.” Perhaps noticing that I was keeping
an increasing distance from him, he said, “Damn, man, get closer.”
I came to a stop outside a crowded Mexican nightclub and
shook my head.
“Alright, you clearly know where the Denny’s is – even though
you’ve supposedly never been here before – so you can get there on your own. I’m
done.”
Desperation filled his eyes. “No. C’mon. Please. Please? Just walk me to the Denny’s.”
It's an odd emotion, feeling sorry for somebody who you're 80% sure wants to trade your iPhone for crystal meth. I almost let him rob
me out of sympathy (and to alleviate some of my white guilt.)
Instead, I took drastic action by entering the Mexican nightclub and starting a
lively chat with the bouncer, which prompted Random Dude to finally disappear
from my life forever.
I’m as surprised as you are at how calmly I handled the
whole thing, but I can’t stress enough how pathetic this guy was. Say what you
will about his intentions or his competence – he was by far the most memorable
complete stranger I’ve ever been forced to make small talk with.
Truman Capps apologizes for neglecting to mention this on the phone this weekend, Mom - it was such a nonthreatening situation that I forgot.