Went to a different
Salvadorean
Pupuseria
by the Los Angeles Convention Center
on Sunday;
a dirty looking one
that blended with the ghetto it was spawned in,
blue spray painted
security screen door
and blue bars
on all the windows
against dirty white walls.
Inside were four people:
a female waitress,
an older lady cook,
a swarmy older man wearing a tight fitting green shirt with a crucifix around his neck,
and a drunk mexican gang member
resembling a retarded scumbag version of Fernando Valenzuela.
I ordered, “dos pupusas con frijoles y queso,” and sat down at a little table.
As i waited,
the drunk mexican gang member stopped talking to the man
in the green shirt and looked at me,
and then my hat,
and back at me and asked,
“Ohhh, you like the Braves?” He said in a high pitched voice.
“Yeah.”
“Well I’m a dodger fan!”
Bear in mind everything he said to me was enthusiatically slurred.
“Yeah i could tell by your hat.” Him wearing a beige Dodger hat over a bandana.
“You like the Dodgers?”
“No, I’m actually an Angels fan.”
“Angels?? Well our teams are off the field!”
“Fuck it.” I say.
“You know, I say ‘Off the field!’ ’cause they aint playing no more.”
Guess he thought i didn’t understand his analogy.
“Fuck it, we’ll do it next year.”
He gives me a fist bump, “fuck it!”
“Are you a fighter?” He asks.
“I know how to fucking fight.” Confident in my ability to whoop the shit out of this
fuck motherfucker gang member piece of shit if i have to.
“I know you can fight, but are you a fighter??”
He throws a drunken right hook at no one.
“I don’t go looking for trouble.”
I felt my body coil– ready for trouble.
“But I’ll come into your hood and eat some bomb ass pupusas anytime.” I add.
“AHhhhh! Mi barrio! You see this??” He points to two scars on his face. “They tried to kill me!”
I realized his scars were from bullets that grazed his face.
“Make ‘em pay for missing.” I said.
Liking that answer, he wanted to punch my fist again,
so i gave him a solid crack to his knuckles to let him know
i wasn’t to be fucked with.
“You a Raider’s fan?” I asked changing the subject.
“Ehhhhh! Raiders and Chargers today!”
“Yeah I know, i’m about to get these pupusas and go watch the game.”
“You’re good people.” He says.
I make a fist and gesture to him like “thanks.”
“You used to play baseball?” I asked, changing the subject again, thinking he’s not the best of people.
“I used to play! How old are you?” he asked.
“30.”
“I’m 29!”
“Right on. You used to be a pitcher?”
Coming to realization of his likeness as scumbag version of Fernando Valenzuela.
“Yeah. I used to pitch!”
He winded up and simulated throwing a slider five times in a row, i counted;
all the while a stupid drunk grin on his face.
The waitress looked at him then at me and smiled
and handed me a bag with my pupusas in it
and asked him to translate the price into English.
“Four dollars, capiche?” He said.
I gave her five.
“Capiche, that’s Italian.”
“I know that’s Italian!”
“I’m Sicilian.”
“Well i’m Mexican.”
“Well then i guess we’ve got an understanding. Take it easy bro.”
And he insisted on giving me the handshake bro hug before i left with my pupusas.
Buddhist stuff, mental martial arts like an old Aikido master.
Gang members
are animals
that smell fear
and it
triggers
their endorphins,
so i’d never give them the satisfaction
of intimidating me.
Gang members are extremely paranoid
(inherently and from drugs)
and it may be dangerous for my life
that they take big white boys
in ghetto situations
as undercover police.
That
could
get me
killed
on a bad day.
After this encounter, i had a realization about that.
I walked to the safer side of the 110 freeway
and ate the pupusas next to a statue of Chick Hearn in front of the Staples Center.
From having only fifteen minutes before been immersed in a third world environment
and situation
i was now sitting inside ESPN Zone across the street from the Staples Center,
drinking a Schooner of Bud light,
watching the Raiders play the Chargers
in a first world illusion.
