Ode to LA: The Sister City of Your Best Nightmares

By Oscar Barajas

I live in Los Angeles, which I find to be a weird city. It is a slow moving competitive city where no one is proud of being number two. This is embodied most of all in downtown. Downtown has gone through a recent facelift, but even with its social rhinoplasty, I do not trust it. I am too soft for downtown and therefore you will rarely catch me there after the sun comes down.

You have to be a special kind of cat to thrive in downtown. My commute always takes me through some of the saddest parts of downtown where the people argue with the bus drivers. Their hot spit backs an argument in which they reserve the right to evade the fare since they are only going a short distance. After all, this is public transportation meaning that it belongs to the public which they are a part of. More times than not it is too early in the morning or too late at night for the driver to argue with them so he waves them on through.

The streets are filled with female vendors who reach out into the sidewalks attracting customers with calls of “You buy… YOU buy… you BUY!!!” which can be heard from one block to the next. The beautiful girls stand outside the store fronts and pull in men, to the chagrin of their girlfriends. I have been ensnared time and time again. I do not know if it is the way they flutter their eyes or the way they squeeze my arm with purpose as they show me the merchandise on the wall. The power of attraction is undeniable as they press against me to see if a shirt fits. The more I say no, the harder they push, as they try shades on me and tell me that I look more handsome with each pair they put on my face. I have a friend I ridiculed because she bought magazine subscriptions from a telemarker whom she felt had a handsome voice. If she could only see me with my belt with the gaudy buckle, or my feet after I take off these socks that dye my feet blue – which is a considerable thing considering the socks are white. In fact, the only thing that I have bought that people (outside the store) have complimented me on is a pair of glasses that in all honesty make me look like Drew Carey’s gothic accountant.

I walked through the fashion district, and the jewelry district knowing full well that although this is my home, this is not my city. I belong over the bridge in East Los Angeles. However, I am not disappointed or distressed, because downtown does not belong to anyone, because it cannot be tamed. No matter how many coats of paint you put on the city, someone will always be around to deface those efforts with their own paint. No matter how many people you have living in high rise lofts; you will always have someone living on the pavement using the sun as a blanket. The power washes and the agents of authority penalizing those who allow their dogs to use the sidewalk as a toilet are merely putting a band-aid on a malignant tumor. This stretch of geography does not belong to anyone. This city is Blade Runner and the Omega Man mixed with Terminator 2 after the bomb dropped and yet like slow learning gluttons we keep coming back for more. Downtown will always coax all of us inside of her with promises of a Hello-Kitty backpack at a competitive price – only to reveal her fangs the second we drop our defenses. Personally, I cannot think of a better way to go.