“I hate Jordan. He’s a drama king and he always has crash outs.”
That’s what this little girl said while sitting in a booth at Bristol Farms.
(Bristol Farms is a high-end grocery store where there’s seating in the form of fine-dining restaurant booths in the back for shoppers to enjoy meals from the hot bar or deli directly beside it.)
The child was with two other children and their parental figure for the day. From what I could hear them say, one must’ve been a friend or cousin to a pair of sisters calling the lady mom. The daughters and their mother were treating the girl to a day out, possibly in celebration of something.
At first, my focus on food and FaceTime had caused me to not even notice them. Then, when I heard this little, maybe 11-year-old, pale peach-skinned girl using vernacular of an adult hip hop artist, I had to let my eyes settle on her for a second. Oh, it’s the milkshake and bagels group from Kelly’s Coffee and Fudge, I realized. They’d made the same route as me. Shortly after noticing the girls, there was a guy walking by the salad bar that I’d also seen moments ago at that same coffee shop that shares a corner of the Beverly Hills Public Library. It’s interesting how habits and paths overlap in people of close physical proximities.
“Go, shawty, it’s yo’ birthday,” the trio begins rapping, “go, shawty, it’s yo’ birthday!”
This was after getting derailed while writing at the coffee shop earlier, my brain may have been a little pooped, so I checked out from their scene while they continued to take on the persona of middle-aged MCs.
Today, I’m sitting in Maple Plaza, a private office-space compound in an upscale lounge where a key card is required for entry. Do I have said key card or anything of the sort? Not a chance. Did I confidently walk right in? You betcha. Am I sipping on water with added minerals and electrolytes from the Bevi hydration station in this luxe lounge that I found? Mm hm.
I’m not trespassing, intentionally. I searched Black-owned coffee shops in Los Angeles, came across an article from L.A. Times, read through it and decided to check out this one called Cafe Ruisseau when I noticed there’s a Beverly Hills location…
Ou, ou, ou, I gotta go… I can’t hold this anymo’!
[sigh of relief]
Whew! I had to tinkle winkle.
Being that there’s no public restrooms at that office plaza and I was doing my best to coast under the radar, which is near-impossible in a building with strict security, trying to return to a high-top table where I wasn’t supposed to be in the first place would’ve been pushing it.
Here comes a lady that likely long ago lost her way, asking the barista behind the counter, “is there a bar around here,” wearing the same unkempt clothing she had on yesterday. (I’ll wear the same hoodie for a week; I’m all about sustainability. However, it makes me sad to see worn garb and know that her daily repitition of clothes isn’t by choice like me.)
Past walks another, wearing and carrying all he has… I don’t want to see that; I don’t want to be reminded of poverty, which leads me to think about inequality, which easily leads me down a rabbit hole of this wealthy nation’s wicked sovereignty.
(Did I use that word correctly? Surely, I hadn’t used it since Mr. Moore’s sophmore Civics class at Saint James. See what writing daily does? Got dog’on pulling words out of who knows where that I didn’t know I knew, just out it flew, right off my fingers.)
Of course, this lady wasn’t in Beverly Hills’ Maple Plaza where I began my day. I’m in Kelly’s Coffee and Fudge now, back where I was from open ‘til close yesterday.
After I couldn’t stand to hold my bladder any longer, I left that private office compound, bidding a pleasant adieu and thank you to the man obviously in-charge of security that was gracious enough to let me stay well after my cover was blown. Knowing I was all of sixty-leg-spinning seconds from Beverly Hills Public Library, I came over here.
Where is the space between all are welcome and overt discrimination?
That’s what I really came on here yesterday to talk about, how I’m ready to spend money, that I don’t have, on a workspace to get away from the crazies.
[shaking my head]
Now, don’t get me wrong, people with money are as batshit as the poors, if not more. However, the well-off let their crazy out in ways that doesn’t disturb me directly. What you snort at the bar, doesn’t make my nose bleed.
Two Asian ladies — one with a big Chanel bag dangling from her shoulder, grasping the handle of a Stanley cup in her right hand, and the other with a Cartier love pendant at the neck of her cardigan to match the bracelets of the same renowned French jeweler wrapped around her wrists, paired back to quilted Chanel ballet flats on her feet — are at Kelly’s counter now, ordering a “Jamaican vacation,” if I heard correctly. This is a far cry from the previous (non-)patron’s inquiry for bars nearby.
The regulars on this Beverly Hills public property site are a step above those frequenting West Hollywood Park and there’s DEFINITELY a world of difference from any open space DTLA (yuck!).
Outside of Central Library, no exaggeration, I’ll see a scary-looking white man walk up to an Armenian guy to buy meth then head back to his buddy sitting on the curb sticking a needle into his arm. At that point, I’m too paranoid to go in the library out of concern that they may think I’m a tattletail since I’ve stood there watching them for this entire process, mainly out of shock. It’s broad daylight! We’re steps from a stoplight! Where’s the discretion?!
The businessman doing blow is less likely to threaten beating me to a pulp right there with his bare fists if I witness an act of his misfit because I don’t stand in the way of him getting away with it. Once again, this is not to say that a millionaire is safe, rather, it’s to say that how he and I would come into conflict would be a different way. First, we’d have to be in much closer proximity, more frequently. Then, if it comes to a situation where I do have evidence of him doing something scandalous and I look as though I want to cause a ruckus, he’ll find other ways to ruin my life. I hope I don’t, but if I do, I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. Either way, that’s not a right-now problem.
You know what is a right-now problem? Nausea. My stomach turning from the odor of a lady that plops down next to me at the six-top and spreads out her belongings, looking and smelling to have come directly from dumpster diving. Oh my heavens, Lord. It’s enough to be saddened by the sight, thinking of the unfortunate people’s plight, then, my stomach to be upset by the scent?!
There’s this one woman that always walks in to West Hollywood Library, huffing and puffing, with a dog the size of a whale! Obviously, this one is a bit of an exaggeration, however, that dog is HUGE! Her frantic movements, slamming her thumbs into her iPhone 3G, throwing her head back before whipping quickly from left to right, heavy stomps as she stands up and sits back down, then her torso turning in sudden movements to look around — this lady is more disturbing herself than the wilderbeast of a dog she brings in! I think she has even taught the dog to play dead for her to get down on her knees, “oh, baby, baby, baby, are you okay?!” she’ll say pretend-panicking while patting her monstrous pet. The first few sightings, I could’ve assumed that I always coincidentally caught her on an off day. It didn’t take many more observations to realize that she is off. She needs to be somewhere getting some help.
I feel the elementary school girl from yesterday that I quoted to open today’s writing entry — the one I saw getting milkshakes with her mom at Kelly’s Coffee where I am now, then saw again enjoying meals from the hot bar at Bristol Farms where I went after. “I hate Jordan. He’s a drama king and he always has crash outs,” she went on explaining how she wishes this kid from class went somewhere else because he’s always causing a disturbance. She went on and on about how he always has a problem, which I assume are the cause of his constant “crash outs,” as she repeated. “Mom, I really hate, Jordan. I hate him!”
My Granny would’ve never let me carry on with such a story. For one, she doesn’t want to hear it. She’s stressed from working two jobs to take care of kids that her no-good daughter had and left at her house, as my mama’s sister may summarize it. The petty woes of a primary-level child are the least of her worries. What would’ve really made her tell me to watch my mouth, though, would’ve been the use of the word “hate.”
You don’t hate anyone. You’re a child of God.
And maybe that’s why, as annoying as that ongoing-state-of-nervous-breakdown lady with the collosal canine is, I’d never say, “ugh, I hate that lady,” not even lightly as a figure of speech.
We’re all God’s children, as Granny would say, and all humans are deserving of love and respect and don’t deserve isolation, which is why it’s difficult to say that I would rather not be regularly around these f*cking crazies!!!
Goodness, it makes me feel bad to say that there are certain types of individuals with which I have no desire to share a space at any part of my day. And that’s me putting it in a nice way. Really, it’s beginning to go beyond, “hm, this isn’t the crowd I want to be around” towards “I will go out of my way, I will pay, to make sure these are the types of folks I’m never around.”
(Note: I’m being dramatic saying never. I’m annoyed like the little girl by the bad boy in her class. I pay these people no mind on public transit. And trust, L.A. public transit is full of the crazies. I’m really only referring to places where I go to WORK that I want to avoid people with mental illness causing poor hygiene and erratic behavior. We’re in the library and you’re crashing out again this afternoon, my guy? Come onnnnnn. We already know that I get easily derailed when writing, so emotional breakdowns by patrons right beside me definitely don’t help. It’d be different if I were a nurse in a mental ward; I came to the library for peace and a surrounding of other bodies doing worrrrrrk.)
It goes deeper than this aspect, what I’ve briefly explained about being upset by unpleasant sensory (sounds, smells, etc.). My former co-worker from Neiman’s, B. Barry, and I were on the phone for over three hours the other night and I was probably ranting about this current problem that I’m facing for the bulk of it.
Kelly’s Coffee and Fudge is about to close in less than half an hour, and the guy behind the counter wasn’t shy about letting a brunette in a black business dress, trying to take a meeting know, so I can’t continue getting into it now, but good Lord… I’m letting out a deep sigh and shaking my head as I feel this frustration.
And oh, even though Beverly Hills Public Library runs a stricter program than any Los Angeles county or city institution, in addition to it having a better proportion of civilized patrons, it still doesn’t fix everything. The juxtaposition of two-thousand-dollar Celine cross-bodies beside bodies that don’t have two red cents to rub together doesn’t make me happy. That part is mainly my problem though… being overly analytical.
“I think too much, I don’t write enough and I’m trying to find God everywhere.”
[sigh]
Okay, I don’t want these folks to have to push me out, especially seeing as though I didn’t make a purchase today at this cafe, after coming from that other one in the private plaza a couple blocks over where I’d already spent twelve bucks.
Guess I’ll go back to Bristol Farms for dinner this evening too, stick to what I know.
(I ate from the hot bar at Pavillions in WeHo a couple of times recently and my goodness, to say the prices are so high, the prepared foods quality is so low).
Later, y’all, maybe I’ll work through the pros and cons of paying for a co-working space the next time that I open up this computer.
What do y’all think? Am I crazy for letting the crazies ‘bout drive me crazy enough to want to gtf?! Is it wild, or wasteful, that I’m considering paying for a membership to a private workspace when public libraries are free?! Help me. I’m feeling guilty. Let me know if I should be.
aroundwithTK is where I’m figuring it out along the way. Writers typically have readers, but once you’re here, I consider you a rider. Thank you for coming along and I hope you’ll stick AROUND.