EVERY FRIDAY MORNING I AM SUPPOSED TO WAKE UP AT 4 A.M., shower, get dressed, grab a granola bar and head out the door to go do my court-appointed community labor at a golf course in Century City, the petit-bourgeoisies’ sandbox. But, most Fridays I don’t. The idea of going to work without getting paid is maddening, annoying, vomit-inducing.
When I wake up on time, I catch the 217 off Fairfax Avenue and Venice Boulevard and take it down to Pico Boulevard. There, I jump on the Santa Monica Blue 7. I get off at the Motor Avenue exit, right in the fat, plastic vegan-meat heart of Los Angeles County’s movie studio capital, with upper-to-middle-class crust residents in perfect physical shape, their stomachs filled with organic produce, their manicured, bright green lawns sprawled before giant suburban homes, with a minimum of two new-year sedans and/or monster SUVs parked in the garage or driveway.
I work with Maria. She picks me up a little after 5:30 a.m. from the main office in an electric-powered golf cart. She hands me plastic bags and a metal claw-grabber. She drops me off and I pick up cigarette butts and trash but mostly cigarette butts. I am left unsupervised. I suppose she trusts me, the whole Latino bond thing, or maybe it’s simply an issue of just not caring, just another court-appointed fuckup here to make my job harder in trying to make it easier, the less he’s in my way, the better off I am, pinche malcreado.
I start at the main building where the golfers come to sign up for playing the course or for using the putting green. Afterward, I walk around the exterior of the park and pick up trash. There usually isn’t any, since it’s an affluent area and most rich areas don’t really have an issue with public trash or graffiti or crime or police brutality, only existential cultural suicide.
We have a break at 8:45 a.m. It’s supposed to be for 15 minutes. Every now and then, after peeling off my plastic gloves, green with grass stains and wet with morning mud, I walk on over to McDonald's.
The McDonald's off of Pico Boulevard in Century City is unlike any other McDonalds anywhere in Los Angeles. The floor is beige-crème marble, immaculate and spotless. They have dining booths and tables with lush, black-leather seats that surround a living-room-styled lounge area, fully equipped with a large flat-screen TV hanged on the wall. But, keeping true to typical mega-corporate retail and fast-food chains, all the workers are Latino or black.
After getting back to work, I am usually unnoticed and walk around pretending to pick up trash, occasionally using the metal claw-grabber to grab air and stuff the grabbed-air into my plastic bag, all while humming The Internationale, hoping someone hears it and becomes enraged.
On Fridays when I don’t go to community labor, I lay in bed until 11 a.m. or 12 p.m. I listen to my roommates walk around the house or the near-blind dog running at the door and barking at any discernable object outside. I check my phone. No calls, no messages. I get up, walk over to my dresser and pull out a black bag of beer and tequila.
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Poem For A Friend In Prison:
by A.D. Winans
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