As I pull into the parking lot of the Burger King, I feel the familiar twinge of nerves kick in. It’s been a while since I last went to Skid Row, at least eight months. Even though I’ve been away, I know nothing on The Row has changed. Anything can happen, and it usually does. As I get out of my car, I can tell by the way the volunteers have clustered at the tables that I’m late. That’s not new, either. I don’t recognize anyone, and I stand off to the side of the group and briefly chat with a first time volunteer.
Mel arrives, our fearless leader and organizer, and we go through the standard pow wow of precautionary measures and full disclosure of potential exposure to diseases like TB, hepatitis, and various other things. There are a lot of new volunteers, and I see some of them freeze up or look at their friends with concern. No one bails on the Skid Row excursion, and I’m a little surprised. It happens sometimes.
I hitch a ride with a guy named Kevin, along with three other volunteers. Before we pull out of the parking lot, one of the girls in the back seat claims her mother just sent her an alert; there was a shooting on 7th and San Julian just a few minutes ago. Three dead. Monday Night Mission takes ground on 6th and San Julian. I shrug it off, thinking that if ever there was a safe time to hit Skid Row, it would be now, with the presence of police one block over.
It’s a quick ride down Grand and onto 6th. The differential line between the two worlds of hipster DTLA and Skid Row comes up fast. The second we cross over Los Angeles St., the degradation is immediate. The over-priced cafes and gastropubs are replaced with dirty metal roll gates and trash-strewn gutters. There’s more purpose to the pedestrian activity on the far side of Los Angeles St. There’s no such thing as a leisurely stroll on the Skid Row side of town. People here are looking to buy, sell, barter, hide, find, and get lost. It’s like sharks in the ocean, keep moving or die.
We cruise down 6th, and the traffic lessens. We cross Wall and pull up and park behind the other cars filled with volunteers. These days, nightfall comes sooner, and the temperature has dropped. The sidewalks are already lined with tents and bodies. I get out on the passenger’s side and do my best not to step on someone’s blanket. The stench isn’t as foul as I remembered it to be, but that’s because of the extra layers of clothing everyone is wearing: it keeps the cold out and the smell in. My friend Garry, who lived on these very streets for nearly 15 years, told me of all kinds of Skid Row hacks and DIYs long before there were hashtags and YouTube channels. In his day, it was simply called survival.
“What you guys got tonight,” calls out an old man sitting on a broken lawn chair with a blanket over his shoulders. His skin is dark, facial hair coarse, gray and white.
“Fried rice and PB&J,” someone hollers back.
“Oh, that sounds good,” the old man says, nodding his head.
The sidewalk has too many bodies and tents to walk on, and we navigate to our designated spot via the gutter, avoiding the debris and toxic pools of stagnant water. Within minutes, we’re set up and handing out food and bottles of water. I’m curbside perimeter watching the street action. There‘s a lot of activity, and I’m hesitant to pull out my phone to take pictures. First, we’re not really supposed to. We’re there to do a job, provide a service. As someone on watch, I have to pay attention to potential threats. I’m looking for weapons, agitated people, someone looking for trouble. Second, there’s no rhyme or reason to the rationale of some people on The Row. Just the mere act of taking a picture of someone or something could send a drug-fueled/bipolar/schizophrenic into a psychotic rage. I snap a single frame of Mel in the street keeping watch, and put my phone away for the moment.
Despite the shooting on the next block, or maybe because of it, the night is relatively quiet. There’s a black guy named White Boy who has been observing the Monday Night Mission volunteers for quite some time. He had been coming around long before I took my hiatus, and back then, his demeanor always teetered on the verge of volatile. He never smiled, didn’t really talk to anyone, and looked at everyone with suspicion. The few times I did hear him speak, I thought I detected a slight accent. Despite him being on The Row, I never thought he was homeless. He was always clean and put together, and I had never seen him high. I always wondered why he was down there and what his origin was. I become even more curious when White Boy rolls up on the group on a skateboard outfitted with lighted wheels and begins chatting. I smile at him, say hello, and he smiles back with a nod of his head. He’s wearing a Misfits t-shirt and says something about The Cramps. I tell him Fur Dixon used to come into the studio I work at. He goes off on a happy tangent and includes me in the conversation. I guess things do change on Skid Row, after all.
The line of people for food was relatively short tonight. It’s the beginning of the month, and most people still have their GR check money. The addicts probably don’t, but they’re not really interested in free food unless they can sell it. We have a lot of leftover PB&Js despite people having come back for fourths and fifths. On a spur, Mel decides we’re “taking the walk.” The walk consists of a group trip around the block, up 6th and a right onto San Julian, a right onto 7th, then down to San Pedro and back over to 6th, handing out the remaining sandwiches as we go. From there, we go to our cars and head back to the Burger King for an exit pow wow. I’m excited to do this because I was never present any of the other times he did this. White Boy joins us and continues a conversation with one of the volunteers. He’s right in front of me, and only now do I realize he’s quite tall.
“How tall are you,” I ask over his shoulder and into his ear.
“6’3.” He pauses to see if I have anything else to say. I do, but I don’t, and he goes back to speaking with the other volunteer.
However, our around-the-block journey is altered because of the shooting everyone forgot about. It’s easy to see how we forgot about it. A single cop car and lines of yellow tape block our way. It doesn’t look like much of a crime scene for three people being killed. There are no flashing lights, no gathering of detectives and officers. There wasn’t even an ambulance there yet, and it had happened over an hour ago. But this is the reality of Skid Row. No one rushes to help the people on The Row. Garry told me about how a woman’s body was pushed out of a moving car at 3am somewhere on Gladys. She was still there when he strolled by hours later on his way to the produce market to unload trucks for money to buy crack. I find out the only reason the one cop car is there is because they were on the next block on another call, and even then, they took their time getting there.
Unable to make the standard trek, we retreat on San Julian back to 6th, and I take a few quick pictures as we walk, not knowing if I got anything decent or not. We take a detour into the church on the corner where they’re holding Karaoke. How nice, dinner and a show. We hand out the rest of the sandwiches to the handful of people inside while a guy sings his song of choice. I recognize the song from my parents’ repertoire from when I was a kid. I remember a couple of the lines without the prompter and sing along, but can’t remember the name of the song.
We head out the door and back to our cars. The old man who asked what we were serving was still in his chair. He never came to get a plate. He looks at us as if our presence reminded him there was food.
“You got any of that fried rice with ya?”
“I’m sorry, all the food is gone,” someone says. “We’ll be back tomorrow.”
“You got any water?”
“Sorry,” someone else says.
The old man seems disappointed, but there’s nothing anyone can do for him now. Maybe tomorrow night he’ll make it to the line.
One Story at a Time 