Blood and Guts: Helena Lazaro

Today my dad came over for dinner. When he arrived, there was a homeless guy on the corner drinking something out of a brown paper bag. I let pop in and was looking out the window that faces the street when I heard glass break. There was a petite woman and a small boy (maybe three) standing just in front of the guy, and he was sort of swaying around them.

The woman began, shocked, “What the fuck? Who do you think you are?” He advanced towards them, and the lady then picked up her son’s scooter and held it at arms’ length. “Do you realize you’re threatening his life? He’s a little boy! He’s my son! Who the FUCK do you think you are?” Guy seems a little taken aback, and at this point, Mom is more than a little agitated.

The man looks menacing, he’s very tall. He keeps throwing his arms open and sort of lunging towards the two.

I yell out the window, “Leave her alone, I’m calling the police,” and move to grab my phone.

My dad starts saying that she’s hysterical, probably no reason for that kind of yelling.

“He threw a glass bottle at her kid, Dad! What do you expect her to do?”

My dad seems skeptical that the man threw a bottle at them. I know that, in my father’s mind, this woman is like any other, prone to fits of hysterics for no good reason, likely to need some mild sedatives in order to function in a way he finds acceptable. And I’m enraged.

Outside, my downstairs neighbors (both big, healthy guys) are coming out too, and start walking over to the scene. The woman is waving the scooter at the man, and screaming, “I’ll fucking KILL you! I’ll KILL you! Threaten my son?” They reposition, dance around each other. I think of the stories about women lifting cars to free their trapped children, and I think of bears.

For a moment, he walks away, out of my range of vision. She puts the scooter down. Then he comes charging back out of nowhere, and I’m sure he’ll knock her down. But super adrena-mom has her weapon ready and poised by the time he reaches her, and now he sees the three of us advancing towards them, over her shoulder. He retreats to the boardwalk while we phone the police, where he taunts her by dancing around, and flipping her off.

Turns out this is not the first time that particular guy had stopped her and her son for change, and gotten beligerent when denied.

She comes onto our patio to wait for the police. I bring her a glass of water, and some bubbles for her son to play with.

He has said not one word this entire time.

“Do you like bubbles?” I ask him.

He glances at his mother for approval first. She opens them and blows some for him, saying, “Look, baby, bubbles!”

Seeming a little distant, he looks on and whispers, “I’m sorry we came down that street.”

I tell her my name and point to my open door, in case she needs anything.

Inside, my dad has unpacked the dinner he brought over for us. Some linguine with clams and calamari, and a tray of plump little ravioli. Frappuccinos to drink. I say, “Poor kid.”

“Yes,” my father agrees. “All that screaming from his mother is sure to traumatize him.”

I bite my tongue and let the little ball of anger in my stomach grow. Sometimes, when we see people rarely, we just really want that time together to stay special. It almost seems worth it ignoring the things that are imperfect, even painful. But what kind of relationship does that leave? All surface talk and inoffensive (at least for my part) banter. I guess I could also call it choosing my battles, because I am not always such a quiet little mouse.

Did I mention I am SO over Venice? Westside Rentals, here I come.

Oh, man, you’re not going to believe this.

Ok, so I go to Sav-On to get change for stupid laundry day, and on the way home I am driving down Pacific when I see The Van turning down an alley just ahead. I gun it, and nearly hit some lame-ass who comes pulling out of the alley blind. Once behind the van, I am kicking myself for not having my camera with me. It’s The Van! In motion! Right now! He has an Arizona plate, and a bumper sticker that says, “Be Yiddish, Say Kaddush” (the last word I’m not sure about, but I know it was not Kaddish). Anyway, he turns onto Speedway and I try to catch a glimpse of him, but no luck. At the first pay lot, he pulls over. Finally, I see the driver of the mystery van. He looks Caucasian, mid-30s, and pretty clean cut (short hair, shaven). There is a big golden retriever in the backseat. I pass him, and head the three blocks back to my apartment.

I run inside, grab the digital camera and memory card, and look out my window to see he is a mere three blocks away. The card won’t go into the camera. He’s two blocks away. My gauzy drawstring skirt has come unknotted, and is starting to slide down my waist as I throw open the front door. One block! With the camera in one hand and keys in the other, I try to pull the skirt up and get to the gate before he hits my street. I stand at the corner and snap this shot, right before he turns onto Park Court. Damn!

Briskly walking up to park court, I round the corner to see that he has stopped halfway up the block. Excellent. I stealthily approach the van from behind, I am holding the camera down by my waist, and looking down at the viewfinder so it isn’t obvious I’m taking photographs. He starts moving forward slowly as I am right next to him. Then stops. Then he puts it in reverse and nearly runs my ass over! He backs up into a parking space at some building where he clearly does not live. He must have noticed me, since he nearly killed me. But I can’t leave without getting a shot of him! So I stand in the alley and make some unnecessary phone calls while I’m waiting for him to emerge. You know, to seem less suspicious.

“Hey, how’s it going? Oh yeah? Me? Not much. Just, you know, did I tell you about that van? Yeah, I’m stalking him right now. He’s looking at me. I think he knows I’m taking his picture. I just…oh, ok, no problem, call me back later.”

He gets out, and is pulling something out of the backseat of the van, where his enormous dog is looking right at me. The dog so knows. He brings out what looks like a blanket or flag. I snap a photo. Oh my god! He’s getting dressed! And I took a picture of him getting dressed! I feel like a total perv and walk down back down the alley before he asks me what the hell I think I’m doing.

So that’s what I did this afternoon. I feel an odd satisfaction, having a face to put with the mystery van. But I still have so many questions. What’s the deal with the little room on top? Do you go to temple? Why did you leave Arizona? Why do you put a pair of shorts on, over another pair of shorts?

Ah, the mysteries of life.

This crazy-ass VW Van is all over Venice. Today I spotted it here on Rose. I’ve seen it on just about every street in the neighborhood; in parking spaces behind my building, up on Main Street, and even on Lincoln by Brennan’s. I think someone lives in it, since there is like a little bedroom mounted on top. Who the hell does it belong to? The curiosity is killing me. I wonder if anyone else has ever noticed it. Expect more shots of The Mystery Van as it makes appearances in Venice.

This crazy-ass VW Van is all over Venice. Today I spotted it here on Rose. I’ve seen it on just about every street in the neighborhood; in parking spaces behind my building, up on Main Street, and even on Lincoln by Brennan’s. I think someone lives in it, since there is like a little bedroom mounted on top. Who the hell does it belong to? The curiosity is killing me. I wonder if anyone else has ever noticed it. Expect more shots of The Mystery Van as it makes appearances in Venice.

…to mourn the demise of my egg-shaped alarm clock, new answering machine, and jambox. They met their untimely ends as a result as a series of a building-wide power out-ages and on-ages, as maintenance (Ray) figured out what the hell was going on. For a while it looked like the jambox was going to pull through–even after spewing smoke from both the CD and tape compartments, it turned on and played discs. Alas, there is a constant buzzing sound that seriously detracts from my Violent Femmes listening pleasure. Into the dumpster it goes. I’m sure our regular scavenger will be thrilled at the proliferation of appliances there this evening.

Fortunately, I had surge protectors for my major electronic goodies (namely computer and entertainment center). Some tenants in the building were not so lucky. So I guess I shouldn’t complain about my gadgets. It’s just sad–what could be more pathetic than a machine dedicated to one purpose, when it can no longer serve that purpose?

The above was a comment shouted outside my window on Saturday afternoon. Other things heard outside my window:

Someone tagging up the building across the alley (rattle, spray, rattle, spray)
Honking, lots of Honking
The Drum Circle
Homeless people diggin’ through the dumpster for bottles and cans
“You’re Going the wrong way!” (it’s a one way alley)(theoretically)
Bob Marley from the shameless reggaesploitation souvenir booths

It’s a mixed bag by the beach. But overall, it’s been fun.

Between the ranting calls at The Network (“I’d just like to thank you for reminding me why the Muslims hate the Western world so much!” *click*) and moving into the new place, things have been pretty hectic for me, as you may have been able to tell by the reduced entries. But don’t despair! More snarky phone scripts to follow.

The place I ended up moving to is actually on Brooks, but closer to the water. It is right off the alley by the boardwalk, which is great and lame at the same time. Great because I can smell the ocean. Lame because I can feel the truck picking up garbage. For my neighbors. But it’s all good!

I’m looking forward to getting some furniture, so I won’t have to sleep on an inflatable mattress anymore. Although it is surprisingly comfortable, it’s going to get old I think. As soon as that’s done, I’ll be feeling a lot better about things generally, I’m sure.