My Past Resurfaces at the Vets Dorm Benches: A Nonfiction Ghetto Tale

Tags: Department of Veterans Affairs, veterans shelter, homeless veterans, common area, the quad, tales of low crimes and misdemenors, South Central, crazy white guy, liquor store robbery, holding cell, serendipity, stolen getaway car, ghetto tales, trail of the urban nomad, factotum, Hollywood, Hollywoodland, jarvis

It's the way of the world. Circles within circles. Chance favors the prepared mind, but it also plays tricks on the lost.

I'm sitting on the quad benches, listening to a brother regale the boys with his tales of low crimes and misdemeanors, tales from his days of crackin'. Let's call him Lester.

One time Lester went in to a store in South Central to do some stealin'. He comes out after grabbing some stuff he needs and his car is gone. There he is, both hands full of this stuff he's stolen and he's looking for his car to make his getaway and it ain't there.

Some crazy white guy is across the street at a liquor store having a shootout with another brother, so it wasn't long before the cops rolled up and arrested our storyteller, Lester, the one holding the stolen stuff, walking in frantic circles looking for his car. I mean, shooting and all kinds of hellraising across the street, and the cops decide to roll up on Lester, who is just standing there, looking puzzled. Where's the priorities, man?

So Lester goes to jail and he's sitting there in the holding cell and one of the other guys in the cell is telling about how he stole a car, but the thing died on him and that's how he got caught.

"Was it a red Ford Escort?" Lester asks.

"Yeah, dude, how'd you . . ."

"That was MY car, MUTHAFUKAH!"

"Man, you shudda taken better care of that piece of shit," the cellmate starts to complain.

"MUTHAFUKAH, I was STEALING the spark plugs to fix it when you stole my car, man! I was TRYING to fix it!"

Lester finished his little jailhouse tale with a look of amusement and exhasperation when he looks over at me and sees my eyes wide with shock and surprise.

"What's wrong witchu, man?"

"That crazy white man," I say, "The one across the street at the liquor store . . ."

"Yeah?"

Was it a yellow Buick he was shootin' at?"

"How would I ---wait--- yeah, I think it WAS now you mention it."

"That crazy white man," I repeated.

"Yeah?"

"That was ME!"

It's the way of the world. Circles within circles. Life in the ghetto. Eventually we all get around to robbing or shooting or fucking up each other.

Everybody gets a turn.