Maybe you heard about the homeless man who was burned to death in Los Angeles last week. According to witnesses, a Honda Civic stopped; some teens or 20-somethings jumped out with a gas can, poured gasoline on the homeless man and lit him on fire. At this point these claims are alleged — no one knows exactly what liquid came out of the gas can (although the area later smelled of gas), no one knows the exact age of the young men who jumped out of the car, because they have not been found.
Local TV station KTLA reports: “One resident, who did not want to be identified out of fear for his safety, said he spoke to someone who allegedly witnessed the crime.” Why would a resident fear for his safety? Because the man fears retribution from the perpetrators, or their friends — there is, not surprisingly, speculation that the incident was gang-related.
The man was killed on 3rd Street between New Hampshire and Berendo, in front of a closed dentist’s office near a donut shop and the legendarily cheap and veggie-friendly Mariella’s burrito joint. He died three-quarters of a mile from my apartment, seven blocks away.
The LA Times aptly described the neighborhood as “a densely populated, diverse neighborhood west of downtown.” It’s not a bad neighborhood, and where I live is a slightly better pocket than where the homeless man camped out. But this tree — tagged by the notorious 18th Street gang — is halfway in between here and there. Tagging is everywhere in Los Angeles — but spray-painting a tree? How incredibly stupid and lame is that?
Just as stupid and lame as the skater kids that were trying to break off the lower branches of a tree this afternoon around the corner from my house. I was coming home from a coffeeshop and walked down the sidewalk watching 8 of them hanging out on the steps of a mini-mall, urging one on. He jumped, grabbed a lower branch, and when it didn’t snap off, tried wrapping it around the tree in an effort to break it. Two adults stood on the corner, watching mutely.
I’m the one who asked them what they were doing. Instead of running off when being challenged by an authority figure, they didn’t care. Shut up, they said. No really, I said, stop fucking with the tree. When the kid holding the branch didn’t let go, I grabbed his skateboard off the ground. Hey! he said, and his friends all stood up. I thought that would get your attention, I said, and gave the skateboard back. Leave the tree alone, I said. Go away hippie, one said (What I didnt say: hippie? I was punk rock before you were born, asshole.) What are you guys doing here, anyway? I said. Go back to Pittsburgh, one said, reading my shirt. Fine, I said, but first why don’t you take off. Leave the tree alone. They stood there watching me. Do you want me to call the police? I said. I skate, I don’t want to call the police, but I will. One guy — a nasty guy — he came up to me. I can’t remember what he said then. He was very close. He was not nice.
And I was getting scared. Seriously, 8 guys, none of them budging, just waiting for me to walk away so they could go back to fucking with the trees on my corner. The guy who had been fucking with the tree came up, standing as close to his friend, trying to deescalate. It’s cool man, he said. He caught my eye. He wasn’t nasty. I think he was older.
This is my neighborhood, I said.
This is our neighborhood, they said.
My iphone was in my hand. I started dialing and walked around the corner. The two adults were standing there, still watching, and they were afraid. I decided to call the LA info line to report a nuisance disturbance — I didn’t really want to call the cops — but was transferred to the police anyway. As I was on hold I stood on the sidewalk watching the corner; one kid and then another would poke his head around to see if I was still there. Eventually, they all came wooshing up as a group on their skateboards, and I ducked in the doorway of a sandwich place to stay out of range.
“If you see them again,” the police officer told me, “call us right away.” He didn’t understand — I don’t care about kids on skateboards, I care about kids on skateboards fucking up my neighborhood. Or their neighborhood. Which is exactly the problem.
You are bad ass, no doubt. But hindsight being what it is and all, should you chance to encounter these lumberjacks in the future, please accept my humble recommendation to keep your distance and phone the sighting in.
I’ve been in your spot before, Carolyn. Trying to talk sense into young hooligans who not only feel entitled to destroy something of beauty, but who can’t be bothered to fathom the ethical dilemma of what they’re doing. I try to intervene if there’s a good chance I’ll get through to the kids. Will is right to suggest that calling it in is the right thing to do with certain types: the ones who have the vacant stare of entitlement in their eyes, the ones beyond hope, the ones who simply refuse to understand and make the rest of the good human race have to compensate.
whoah, carolyn! that’s an intense story. i’ve had similar altercations with litterbugs who throw chip bags on the ground on stanton. as soon as those scenarios are over, i get really shaky and scared thinking about how dangerous the mood got…over respect and a bag of chips (or in your case, a tree).
i’m really proud of you for standing up to them like you did.