Los Angeles isn't much different. Though the homeless here seem to be psycho. No, seriously. Like, clinically disturbed individuals. I'll take a druggie over a schizo any day. The druggie just wants your money. The crazy could think that you're the CIA trying to read their mind. If the druggie pulls a shiv on you, just hand over the wallet. If the psycho pulls out a shiv, start praying and run like your hair is on fire. Aside from the obviously disturbed, you have the guys (and gals) at the bottom of the freeway exits. There's this one guy who works the Laurel Canyon exit off the 101 who, by now, could be a Foreman at a factory if he just put in the hours there that he puts in over at that ramp. He's got sign telling me that his wife's just died. I suppose she was the one who worked and now he's looking for someone else to support him. Namely people at the CBS Studios on Radford. The one that really disturbs me though, is the one that seems to work the 7-Eleven and the Bank of America on Laurel Canyon between Magnolia and Chandler. I'll call her Large Marge.
Large Marge is HUGE. Really. This woman is so obese that she's confined to one of those zippy wheelchairs that are usually reserved for quadriplegics. She looks like someone you would find parked in front of the nickel slots in Vegas. Big, round glasses, pink sweat pants, and a t-shirt pulled down over her stomach. There's something excessive about her and I'm not just talking about the puddles of fat. Honestly, I'm not lying. I can't even explain how upsetting I find her. Especially, when she's sitting outside my bank asking for money.
I want to feel bad for her. I do. I want to feel some sort of humanity when I look at her. "There for the grace of God, go I," and all that rot. But I can't. And -- this is going to be unbelievably cruel -- but I can't help but judge her and wonder what she needs the money for? Druggies need that next hit. Alcoholics need that next drink. And the homeless are pretty much one step away from being locked up in a state institution. And as much as I acknowledge that I'm an obsessive eater myself, there is a point where one has to start saying No. And all I can think of is: Isn't she on state aid? Where did that zippy wheelchair come from? And those rhinestone Elvis inspired spectacles? She's always clean. I'm assuming her medical bills are being taken care of through Social Security and Medicaid. Which means, aren't I already paying for her through my taxes? Why does she need more money? I'm not paying for her McDonalds supply. I'm more forgiven of the drug addicts! I completely admit that my prejudice is unfair. But I can't help myself. From a far, she disgusted me. And for that, I felt guilty. Awful. Awful that I judged her so harshly. And then, one day, I finally came face to navel with Large Marge myself.
Two weeks ago, I rode my bike down to Bank of America to deposit a couple of birthday checks. Large Marge was outside. I inwardly groaned. As is often the case, the panhandler did not talk to me when I went into the bank, but waited for me to come out. Because, you know, people have spare twenties that they just can't wait to give away. "Can you spare a dollar?" Large Marge asked. "No, I'm sorry," I answered. "I don't carry cash."
Large Marge looked at me and said, "Bitch."
Yeah. Thanks.
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