A Strange Morning to be High
3-6-98 7:50 AM F
Fog enshrouded half of the Hollywood sign, the "-wood" side, as I was walking on the sidewalk down the hill to school this morning. Storm gone, but still dripping everywhere, I gulped the chill air to try to ease the sad in me. I was beginning not to care when my apple fell out of my bag and rolled down the sidewalk into the gutter and down the hill before coming to rest under the tire of an old Oldsmobile. I thought of washing it off when I got to school, but by the time I got to it, an apple in the gutter didn't seem worth the effort of stooping. There the apple would decompose, I supposed.
Then I spotted Big Ass Holtz marching down the street in even more of an officious rush than usual. A crowd was gathering on the corner of Sycamore and Olympic. Looked like someone was down. A boy had been hit by a car. It looked like Holtz had everything under control. She was telling onlookers she knew CPR. The boy was trying to sit up, and she was telling him to stay down. I felt like telling her to let him stand up. Betty the secretary was there. "I already called 9-1-1," she said. I thought of walking by, started to keep on going, but then I thought I better see if any help was needed. I stood by trying to think of how to be useful, but I just felt like another looky-loo. I started sidling away. Then Betty said to me, "Maybe you better direct traffic."
The traffic on Olympic was slowing down before the light on La Brea to have a look at the commotion. On Sycamore cars were waiting for the Olympic traffic to clear so that they could turn right. It wasn't entirely clear to me what I could do, but I took off my backpack and leaned it against the signal pole and waded out into the traffic on Olympic and held up my hand to stop cars from coming forward and waved the traffic off of Sycamore to make room for the fire truck which was now approaching. I waved one car past. The next one stopped. Through the open window, a concerned motorist informed me she had witnessed the whole incident, gave me her card, and tried to tell me what had happened. She was holding up traffic, though, so I took her card and said I would give it to the principal. I waved her on, and the rest of the traffic, too. The paramedics had arrived now, though, and I took the opportunity to get my stoned ass out of there.
In my class, the kids were all talking video games.
Fog enshrouded half of the Hollywood sign, the "-wood" side, as I was walking on the sidewalk down the hill to school this morning. Storm gone, but still dripping everywhere, I gulped the chill air to try to ease the sad in me. I was beginning not to care when my apple fell out of my bag and rolled down the sidewalk into the gutter and down the hill before coming to rest under the tire of an old Oldsmobile. I thought of washing it off when I got to school, but by the time I got to it, an apple in the gutter didn't seem worth the effort of stooping. There the apple would decompose, I supposed.
Then I spotted Big Ass Holtz marching down the street in even more of an officious rush than usual. A crowd was gathering on the corner of Sycamore and Olympic. Looked like someone was down. A boy had been hit by a car. It looked like Holtz had everything under control. She was telling onlookers she knew CPR. The boy was trying to sit up, and she was telling him to stay down. I felt like telling her to let him stand up. Betty the secretary was there. "I already called 9-1-1," she said. I thought of walking by, started to keep on going, but then I thought I better see if any help was needed. I stood by trying to think of how to be useful, but I just felt like another looky-loo. I started sidling away. Then Betty said to me, "Maybe you better direct traffic."
The traffic on Olympic was slowing down before the light on La Brea to have a look at the commotion. On Sycamore cars were waiting for the Olympic traffic to clear so that they could turn right. It wasn't entirely clear to me what I could do, but I took off my backpack and leaned it against the signal pole and waded out into the traffic on Olympic and held up my hand to stop cars from coming forward and waved the traffic off of Sycamore to make room for the fire truck which was now approaching. I waved one car past. The next one stopped. Through the open window, a concerned motorist informed me she had witnessed the whole incident, gave me her card, and tried to tell me what had happened. She was holding up traffic, though, so I took her card and said I would give it to the principal. I waved her on, and the rest of the traffic, too. The paramedics had arrived now, though, and I took the opportunity to get my stoned ass out of there.
In my class, the kids were all talking video games.
Labels: Lowlife LA Literature
posted by johnz at 9:34 PM
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