Old Hollywood I recognize- residentially structurally challenged, on the sidewalk, mumbling, wandering, meandering, not shopping, no place to go, nothing to do. It's just like the eighties.
I pull into the corner strip mall. Shit. Wrong one. Plenty of parking. I drive to the next block. That's it.
Falafel is what I'm after. I pull into the corner strip mall. There's a delivery truck double-parked. Plenty of room, I pull around no problem.
There's no parking. One spot is open but the jerk to one side has hogged into it.
I think about vandalizing.
I pull out onto sunset. The signs say I can park. There are tents on the sidewalk and a filthy looking guy with a bun is lurking. I take the tools out of the back and lock them inside the cab; stuff the meter.
Russian neighborhood. Maybe Ukrainian. I can't tell the difference, but calling one the other is an insult. Two pale guys with buzz cuts in shorts and flip-flops order in Cyrillic in front of me. Former Soviet Armenia owners, I guess.
The workers all look Mexican or Salvadorean.
I can't tell the difference but calling one the other is an insult, I guess. Maybe it isn't.
I sit to one corner where I can watch the door in case of armed bandits or Chechens. Maybe I'm just being paranoid.
Is my car going to get broken into?