What I Saw...

On Saturday, January 14 around noon, two signs during my bike ride (yes, I bought a bike, no, I hadn't been bike riding in 11 years, yes, my ass hurt like it had been stomped by trolls, no, I couldn't even relax on the couch later cuz my heart was beating so fast, yes, I'll do it again and no, not this weekend because it's too... too... bright?) from Playa del Rey to El Segundo with my daughter and husband.

So, yeah, it says Tsunami Hazard Zone. My seven-year old freaks out whenever we see these signs around Marina del Rey. And while we kind of talk her off the ledge, we know that anything's possible even tsunamis. And I like the No Stopping sign beneath it. Don't dilly-dally cuz a wave's a'comin'!

The next sign technically wasn't at the beach. It was afterwards, when we drove to Honeybaked Ham, the one by Big Lots and Winchell's in Culver City.

Okay, so the big sign isn't what made me take the picture. It's the sign that borders the top of the building.

It says Secret Pole Dance Studio.

...

What the heck does that mean?

I'd never noticed it until now, with my heart beating so fast.

So, I went to the Googles and lo! The Secret Pole Dance Studio is a Thing!

OH. EM. Awesome. Sounds like a field trip for me and my girls!

But then, will I get pole burn? Guess that will re-direct the pain from bike-butt-blues.

My take-away from The Secret Pole Dance Studio? They need a better sign. And maybe not next to the doughnut shop. I had to pretend not to hear my second-grader ask what is a pole and what do you do on it? That's a fourth grade question answered during that special assembly and you giggle and blush throughout the entire thirty minutes.

Right?

What I Saw...

on December 20, 2011, at almost four in the afternoon, at the intersection of Bixel and that street whose name I can never remember but it runs east-west and you can hop onto the 110 South there. I sat at the red light in my car.

That's when my former co-worker Hal walked past me.

I sat up in my seat and said, "That's Hal."

But I didn't blow my horn and call out his name. Just wondered why he was walking in this part of town since I had heard he was working over on Sunset now.

Did he hear the crazy homeless man who panhandled at this light shouting at him?

He looked the same as he had when I saw him last, back in 2007. Thin. Too thin. Same style khakis. Same haircut. Hal.

If I blew my horn, would he remember me?

I look the same as I had back then, too. There is that single strand of gray hair in my bangs that wasn't there then...

Was I memorable enough?

Maybe. Maybe not.

And if he didn't recognize me, then that would be awkward.

And so I didn't blow my horn. Just watched him walk east until the light turned green and I drove past that street whose name I can never remember and into the crowd of car.

I think about Hal at least twice at week. The iris bulbs he gave me to plant almost ten years ago are always blooming.

What I Saw...

on December 31, 2011, a little past two in the afternoon, on the corner of Bixel Avenue and Wilshire Boulevard as I waited in my car for the light to change from red to green, a man lay dead, his arms out like that and his legs twisted like an out-of-work mannequin. I couldn't see his face, just the back of his head and black hair. A small crowd had formed around him, not too close. The dead man wore a red plaid shirt, black pants and black, raggedy sneakers -- not the dress of someone working in a highrise, at a desk, or working at all.

I heard sirens coming from the west as I waited in my car at the light that knew not to change.

The sirens got closer and a black woman in braids and a postal worker's uniform stepped away from the huddle surrounding the dead man. She held out her arm, hailing the ambulance.

The red rig turned left and stopped at the curb.

Like Lazarus, the dead man came back to life. He was a white man -- I had not known that until he lifted and then, slightly turned his head. That side of his face, that side that had lain on the asphalt, resembled hamburger meat and the blood was almost too bloody to be believable in a city of Make Believe.

The EMT climbed out of the rig, in no hurry, la-la-la-la-la. His partner had already pulled out a slick red back-board from the cabin. Red rig, red board, red light, blood. So much red. Both paramedics looked too young to rescue anyone and that back-board resembled a sled named Rosebud.

The light turned green.

With great reluctance, I crossed Wilshire Boulevard.

I found my phone and called David.

He didn't answer.

I broke the cell-phone law and phone to ear, left him a rambling message about the dead-not-dead man just laying there, in the middle of the afternoon, can you believe it, call me back.

I ended the call and drove into the sun, onto the 110 Freeway, wondering...