Wednesday afternoon, I’m waiting for the bathroom at the Starbucks on Pico and Robertson.
A homeless guy walks in. He looks like Charles Manson. His gym bag, however, looks relatively neat and organized and I feel like starting up a conversation with him beyond, “There’s no toilet paper. They’re getting some.”
I stop myself. Homeless people are crazy, I think.
I watch the guy go through packages of food a truck just brought in and stacked up outside the counter. Then he takes one package, puts it in his bag, and walks out without paying.
I’m outraged. I hate theft. I tell a Starbucks employee who does nothing. The man is outside.
Five minutes later, the guy comes back in and uses the bathroom.
So Thursday afternoon I’m walking up Pico Blvd near Robertson Blvd and I see ahead beside the Walgreens an attractive but mentally ill homeless woman who looks to be about 30. Her clothing is almost normal, just a little torn and dirty. But she’s kinda hot. The predator inside of me growls.
I see her sizing me up and I can tell she’s about to talk to me. I stare straight ahead and ignore her as she finally gets out the phrase, “Excuse me.”
There was something haunting about her beauty, her insanity, her attractive but torn clothing, and her extravagant effort to get out that polite middle-class phrase, “Excuse me.”
And I ignored her.
Five minutes later, walking behind Eilat market, I saw the Charles Manson character in conversation with some upstanding Jew.
I don’t give to the homeless. Most of the time, I don’t talk to them. I leave it to the pros.
