Amy Dresner writes: My first night in Inglewood, I hugged a crackhead. Let me explain. I headed to 7-11 for a late-night snack snoop because I have no curfew now and can do whatever the fuck I want whenever I want! A very skinny black guy with glossy eyes sporting an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, asked me for money.
“Hey, excuse me, miss. Can I get 65 cents for a hot dog?
I hand him a dollar and say, ”I used to be a drug addict. I get it.”
A huge smile comes over his face.
“Thank you for your compassion. Can I get a hug?”
So I hugged him.
One day, I go to get some spare keys made at a nearby kiosk. This guy is stocked with everything you’d need if you were up to no good: druggie bags in every size, stun guns, pepper spray, batons, handcuffs, fake police badges, ropes, pipes.
“Quite a selection, brother,” I say impressed.
He laughs. “Variety is the spice of life.”
“Wish I’d known about this place before I got on the straight and narrow,“ I said.
I join the local 24 Hour Fitness. It’s not my swanky West Hollywood gym with free towels and wifi and pretty actors. The weights are left everywhere. It’s 99% black. And you check in with your fingerprint. Uhhh, ok. Every time I go to workout, the black guy at the desk fistbumps me. I’ve never felt so stupid or white in my life. There is also a security guard in the cardio room. I guess there are a lot of brawls and stabbings on the treadmills? I’m confused and a little terrified. Nobody fucks with me though. I’m invisible here.
