One morning this past December, I felt particularly grateful that the coldest it usually gets in Los Angeles is the lower 40s. No bone chilling rain, no icy roads to navigate, and no snow to shovel.
In celebration of our relatively balmy weather, instead of driving, I figured I’d take a quick walk over to one of the overpriced cafes located a few blocks away on Sunset Boulevard. I was ready to score some hot tea, and cozy up in a chair with my writing notebook.
I wrapped a scarf around my neck and pulled on a pair of gloves to keep my hands warm. And then I set off, weaving my way through the streets, anticipating the aroma of a hot cup of Silver Needle tea.
A couple minutes into my journey, something happened that I did not expect.
I heard the faint sounds of music, something that sounded like Benny Goodman. And the further I walked, the louder the music became.
Right when I got to the point when I should have been able to determine which house or car it was coming from, I only saw a tent, a mattress, and a table.
Someone had set up a home along the street. In the tent.
I’ve seen enough homelessness in this city to know that the mattress blocks the wind and provides a bit of privacy. The table is useful for storing items. And some nice neighbor helpfully provided a garbage pail for any refuse that may need discarding.
I sat down on the curb across from this makeshift home wondering who was inside, but also secretly hoping whoever it was didn’t come out. I imagined being confronted by some angry person yelling, “What are you taking pictures of my house for?”
There was none of that though. Only the melodic strains of jazz. Indeed, the music was Benny Goodman.
I heard a bit of laughter, the kind of laughter that someone lets out when enjoying music that brings back memories of a happier time.
And then I heard the sound of a hammer clanging.
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