RIPOSTE
by RIP RENSE
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Tilting at West L.A.
Oct. 29,
2003
Don Quixote has
put on weight, and switched nationalities. He's Italian, sports a hefty midsection, gray
hair, and pencil-thin moustache. But it's him, all right. The windmills are a dead
giveaway.
"God damn, man," said
Quixote, standing on a sun-battered, deafening streetcorner in West Los Angeles a few
weeks ago, "I am afraid everything is uh-hopeless; it cannot-uh be fixed."
Doesn't sound like the Don, exactly, but judge
a man by his actions, not words. The wars have been tough on him lately. Quixote goes to thrift shops and buys up all the teddy
bears to hand out to the poor Latino kids in the neighborhood. He is repeatedly thrown out
of chain stores for telling customers to shop at Big Lots and local second-hand emporiums.
He settles territorial disputes between homeless aluminum can collectors. He engages
grime-encrusted jabbering wanderers in dignified conversation.
"You know, a lot of them---they
just uh-need their medicine! This guy on the corner 'ere, he shout and shout all
time---but when he get uh-money, he take a bus downtown and get 'is uh-medicine, and he's
fine! You can uh-talk to 'im like he is uh-normal!"
Quixote trailed off with a denunciation of
heartless bureaucracy, and humanity in general, as SUVs full of sunglasses,
glinting teeth, and cell phones screamed down Santa Monica Boulevard.
"Look at 'em," he said. "What do
they think about? Nothing! Where are they going? Nowhere!"
Quixote goes by the name of
Franco, and he is an old friend I have not spoken to in years---until I ran into him the
other day on the streetcorner. Not so long ago, he ran a magical, glittering restaurant in
West L.A. called Gianfranco's, where they had opera on weekends. He's retired and pushing
70, now.
"I'm uh-just surviving," he says
resignedly. "That's about it."
Quixote believes deeply in a world predicated on
charity and compassion, if not justice. . .He is surrounded by windmills, and he knows it.
If he has to, he'll go down tilting. |
The wreckage of a man wandered within listening
range. His clothes might as well have been stitched-together oil rags, and his great
tumbleweed beard ate up most of his filthy face. The eyes were wide and darting.
"'Ey, Paul," said Quixote, "You
behaving yourself today, ah?"
Teeth tried to break out of
Paul's beard as he nodded vigorously.
"Oh yeah! I'm behavin'! I'm behavin'!
'Cause I know the alternative to not behavin'! Fifteen years in Folsom!"
Quixote took a drag on an ever-present cheap
Italian cigar, turned back to me, and talked about how he recently almost got into a
fistfight.
"This manager at Rite-Aid, he tell me to
get out of his store. I'm uh-not kidding! I was uh-telling the clerk---'look at the people
who shop uh-here! They are making minimum wage, like-uh you! They're people. You
should-uh give the kids a little candy! And if you see somet'ing that you know is more
cheap at another store, you should uh-send them there! An' 'ow can you ask old people if
they want to pay $30 more for a three-year 'lifetime guarantee' on a coffee maker? It's a
goddamn ripoff!' Then the manager, he tell me to get out. I tell him, 'I 'ave a right to
come into this store!' I was a ready to fight him, man, right there!"
And he would have. You see,
Quixote believes deeply in a world predicated on charity and compassion, if not justice.
He believes that profit is secondary to decency and kindness. He is surrounded by
windmills, and he knows it. If he has to, he'll go down tilting.
"Sometime I'm uh-glad that I'm on my way
out," he said, echoing a sentiment I've heard from several people his age. "I
don't have to see the world get uh-worse and worse."
"If I am uh-starving," he
said, "and the last place on Earth is that goddamn---'Don't Bother Me, I'm Eating'
place (Carl's Jr.)---I will uh-STARVE!" |
We stood there, on that corner, for almost an
hour, jawing about the general state of affairs. Nearby, cops rousted drunks, Mexican indio
busboys pedaled past on bikes, nurses waited for sluggish buses, and kids wandered home
from high school, looking more menacing than Snoop Doggy Dogg.
"My wife got mad the other
day," he said. "She buy uh-somet'ing at Ralphs, then she see an ad that has it
more cheap at Albertson. So she tell me she going to shop only at Albertson from now on! I
have to laugh, man---it's the same company! Everyt'hing is uh-one big company now."
I reminded him of the great Monty Python movie,
"The Meaning of Life," in which the world is ruled by "The Very Big
Corporation."
"Yeah, that's it. You know, when
I talk to people, and tell them how I uh-feel about everything, they call me a, what is
word, pessimist! Cynical! Sometime I feel like I am uh-Don Quixote!"
I laughed, and said I guess that would make me
Sancho Panza.
"You know, the last mom-and-pop
hardware store where they know about what-uh they sell---gone," said Quixote.
"You go to 'Best Buy' or 'Sears', and they don' know nothing! All they know is
'finding everyt'ing all right?' and 'ave a nice day.' . . .I ask a clerk a question about
a TV, and he give me wrong information! I look in the instruction book, and I show him
he's wrong, and he said, 'I'll be damned.'"
If he could, Quixote would climb atop Rocinante
and thrust his lance right into the heart of ignorance, thoughtlessness---and globalism:
"You know, I try to buy a pair of Italian
shoes. They make them so good---your foot can uh-breathe, but the leather is strong. I know.
So I was uh-going to pay $150 for a pair, when I turn them over and I see, 'Made in
China!' That's it. I put back right away. Even Italian shoes, you can't buy no more. They
pay $15 or $20 an hour to make in uh-Italy, but in China, maybe thirty cents. It's all
uh-crazy---but you know, it's good for China. I t'ink they will be the strongest country
on Earth soon."
Stronger than the USA? Economically---yes,
he says. The American public has grown fat, lazy, unquestioning, obedient. Everyone has
turned into self-centered, unthinking, kneejerk consuming machines---conditioned to yearn
for new SUVs, cigarettes, Big Gulps, sex, and pop stars. . .
"If I am uh-starving," he
said, "and the last place on Earth is that goddamn---'Don't Bother Me, I'm Eating'
place (Carl's Jr.)---I will uh-STARVE! I'm not uh-kidding! I will not eat there! I will
steal food, or I will uh-starve! You see the commercial, with the person getting the food
all over 'imself---and so many people 'ave nothing, man! I hate it!"
So who or what is left to respect in this
mercenary, demographically exploited world? Mention Schwarzenegger, or Bush, and Quixote's
face flushes. He can't even get the words out.
"You know the black uh-guy around
here who is cripple?" he said. "He collect aluminum cans? His legs are all
uh-twisted, and his feet are crooked, but he push two carts, man! He work maybe twelve or
fourteen hours a day. I see him all over, even late at night! He work 'arder than anybody
I know!"
I mention that I have seen the guy, and that I
always tell him that he's working too hard.
"The other day, I see him argue with
another guy who collect uh-cans. They fight over this one street. So I stop and talk to
them both for a long time, then I tell them that one can go there one day, the other on
the next day."
Amazingly enough, they agreed to the plan.
But then, they were dealing with Don Quixote.
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