Laurenyach’s Weblog

At one end of a dirty Hollywood sidewalk, far away from most people I know in this world, crumpled pieces of burnt newspaper used to warm a homeless mans dinner remain in a pile. At the opposite end of this dirty sidewalk is me, quickly approaching and assuming things about burnt piles of newspaper.  I hear the sound of a guitar, a bum sits in my path plucking on his guitar strings, probably to silence any leftover hunger pains still remaining in his stomach.

I float rather quickly past this one out of many homeless men I routinely see.  I’ve come along way since first moving here, literally but I’m talking figuratively.  At first, I shyly passed people lying in the middle of the sidewalk constantly apologizing because I was walking through their bedroom. The feeling of guilt never goes away though, the guilt of having to say “Sorry, I don’t have any money”.  

I’ve learned to keep my guilty eyes glued to the gray sidewalk and thoughts on other things.  This time I walk by and in my head I replay a conversation I had with a friend of mine from Texas

“How do you like Hollywood?” he asked

“Hollywood is Dirty!” I said

“A city of that magnitude and home to that many broken dreams couldn’t possibly be clean.” he replied.

There are different types of homeless people here; the actual ones without a home and the crazy ones.  Maybe I came up with this scenario to numb me from the mess but the crazy ones aren’t completely different from me.  I’m an introvert, I sing in the shower and while driving in my car, things in private, (don’t act like you haven’t).  Crazies are extroverts; they do things in public, like sing on the sidewalk and loudly in line of McDonalds. (Now’s the time to act like you haven’t)  Think of rock stars without the safety net of a willing audience, a stage and dreams of fame. 

I make it three feet past him, deep in thought when he strums a guitar chord loud enough to stand out from the others so I slow to listen.  He’s actually good.  Before I knew it my eyes closed listening and at a complete stop.  Than I was hit by a bus.  No, not really….my eyes were open…this is a big city.  The chords progress into a melody, a sad song that made me sad.   I was already missing my friends and so I interpreted his song as him missing someone too.

I make up a scenario about a girl he loved but hasn’t forgotten.  I picture what kind of relationship they had. In my mind, the bum was much younger, in his early 20’s and he moved to Hollywood to become a musician.  He had a crush on a girl he met through a musician friend.  She was shy with long brown hair.  He probably invited her over and played his guitar to impress her, isn’t that what you men do?  Except back then he would of played a happy song, not this sad one, he hadn’t wrote this yet because she hadn’t broken his heart.  It was getting late, she needed to leave, he looked into her eyes and said  “stay for just a little while longer.”   Actually, those are the lyrics from the song “Stay”, which is one of my mother’s favorite songs.  Don’t worry this isn’t the intro to the story of “how my dad met my mother and than how I discovered my bum dad while walking down the streets of Hollywood”.  Everyone knows Scary Larry can’t play a musical instrument.  

Than the music stops and he stares at me in silence for a couple seconds, slurred out “hey lady, give me some money!” “Oh, I don’t have any money” I reply, sweetly.  As I walk away he threw a penny at the back of my head.  I pick it up “Well, NOW I do!” and threw it back. 

Just another day.