My Hood Is A Trip

By Marlan Warren

Faith, hope, charity…the greatest of these is charity.

                         — King James Bible 

I was on a rare walk outside the comfort zone of my apartment — on my way to pick up free nails from a neighbor in East Hollywood — when I rounded the corner of a closed Starbucks and almost stepped on an unmasked older Black man wrapped in a blanket and crumpled against the wall next to the sidewalk. As I rapidly socially distanced, I heard him groan something that sounded like an ask.

I stopped and looked in my wallet. I’d stopped giving handouts long ago because (a) It’s hard not to size up the asker’s situation and wonder what the money will be used for, and (b) I need money, too.

My wallet only held a dollar, but he refused to take it from my outstretched hand:

“I don't need money! I NEED FOOD!”

Food. Where? How? I was in a hurry to get to my destination and unsure what to do next. It was too early for even the taco stand across the street to be open. I mumbled something about being sorry and hurried on. But my head kept chattering logistics.

Could I buy him food on my way back? I thought wistfully of McDonalds. So cheap. So open early in the morning. And such a long walk for this carless woman.

Well, wait a minute, the IRS did drop $600 “Stimulus” money into my account yesterday. Why not help him out with a free meal? Or would that be taking excessive responsibility? No. This man clearly needed help. And clearly needed to eat!

Or maybe he'd already gotten someone else to help.

When I returned 30 minutes later, I saw his spot was vacant. I looked around. So maybe he was off to a more lucrative area. But then I saw him across the street — sitting on a bench in a bus shelter looking exhausted and dejected.

Behind the shelter was the Bank of America where a queue of customers streamed from the front door into the parking lot. Patiently waiting to retrieve their $600?

I approached him and casually asked: “Do you still want food?”

He nodded yes. 

“Okay, what would you like? I'll get it for you.”

“I want a burger,” he said. Now I could see his only teeth—two on the bottom of a mouth that was shaking hard when it tried to form words. “And a bag of chips and a soft drink.”

He indicated the Fatburger that was a few blocks away.

“They have fries, not chips,” I said.

“They got chips...” He nodded in the direction of the gas station quickie mart, even farther away than the burger joint.

“What kind of drink?”

“Orange Crush.”

“And what do you want on your burger?”

“Tomatoes and cheese.”

“Mayo? Mustard?” He shook his head no.

I admired his specificity.

Okay. I'd made this commitment. Now all I had to do was see it through. We were in the exact spot where Hollywood Boulevard, Vermont Avenue, and Prospect Avenue intersect in a rush of heavy traffic and lights that take eons to change. Folks were starting to buzz about — Tent People were emerging on the traffic island.

Thanks to the long waits for the lights, my mission took about 20 minutes. The quickie mart was quick. Fatburger was devoid of customers. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d eaten there. In fact, it was the first time I’d been inside any eating establishment in a year. The sign on the door said:

“ONLY 2 CUSTOMERS AT A TIME ALLOWED INSIDE.”

No cars at the drive-up window. What luck!

I ordered his burger...and one for me. Their burgers hadn’t thrilled in the past, but I was getting hungry.

A few minutes later, the place filled up with 12 masked, agitated men. Behind the counter, the manager was on the phone taking an order with his mask hanging under his nose. I saw a customer note this and adjust his own mask more tightly.

I opened the door and just stayed there, letting fresh air blow inside (or as fresh as L.A. air can be). Another customer exited to wait outside.

A young woman worked the grill by herself. Eventually she was joined by another.

It felt like the longest wait of my life. But I had time to think. His meal cost $11.00. Was he going to get his IRS “Stimulus” money? Who watches out for the disenfranchised? Those without mailboxes? The physically and cognitively “challenged”?

“Maria! Mary!” shouted the manager dude. That was the name I'd given them. I grabbed both hot bags and headed back.

Of course he'd moved.

I walked inside the vacated bus shelter. Where did he go? Then I saw him lying inside his blanket on the cement barrier of the Bank of America parking lot.

As I moved towards him, he sat up, a long thread of drool falling out of his mouth (lack of teeth can do that).

I handed him the bag and set the chips & soda next to him.

He said: “Thank you very much.”

I wished him well and moved on.

My new nails were in my purse, waiting to be pounded into my walls so I could hang paintings that have been on the floor for the last 10 years. They were a “gift” from a member of our “Buy Nothing” neighborhood group. I started participating a year ago, and the generous heart of the members has kept my spirits up. There are even a few who regularly give food, clothing, blankets to “The Homeless.” Was my impulsive generosity the result of osmosis?

Can charity be as contagious as Covid?

This was what I pondered on my way back home as I devoured my burger with pickles and lettuce, which was hot and tasty. The best one I ever had.

Marlan Warren is a journalist, novelist, filmmaker, playwright, and publicist living in Los Angeles. She blogs for L.A. Now & Then, Roadmap Girl’s Book Buzz, and Medium.