Gangsters and the Blue Line

It was one of those Blue Line moments on the way home tonight. I took a later train than usual after getting off work late, and was riding through the hood around 8:00. The train was packed, standing room only and people at the stations were purposefully not getting on, opting instead to wait for the next train, presumably with some more room.

The lack of space didn't seem to keep people from making more of it... lots more of it, when the time came. Listening to classical music (currently enjoying Bach's violin concertos) on the train can lend a surreal quality to an already slightly off kilter situation. The thing about gangsters is that they aren't hard to recognize, with the way they tend to favor a primary color... hot or cold, blue or red... and the way that they tend to have tattoo's scrawled on their arms, necks and bodies... sort of like humanistic versions of cinder block ghetto walls, space claimed for whatever set they happen to be down for.

When I found myself sitting across from two of them, it wasn't that big of a deal. That's just life on the blue line, humanity in all of its walks, crammed into a big, electrical powered box on wheels rolling down the tracks. When another huge guy, decked out in blue hopped onto the train, all tatted up like seemingly half of the other males on the train, he didn't seem all that out of place. To the guys next to me though, he was.

In the space of a few hand gestures, and a few hard glares, the reality of the situation took a decided turn. The guys who were seated stood up, fixing the new comer with the kind of glares that conveyed, "You don't belong here." For his part, the new comer didn't seem to care, he seemed to find it interesting, wearing a smirk, his eyes saying, "What are you going to do about it?"

People started clearing out, making room... as if such things are normal in these kind of situations. Nobody wanted to get caught in the middle of whatever was about to go down. There was so much testosterone, and fear and anger hanging in the air, held together by a palatable tension. Clenched fists, the two guys next to me trying to figure out what they're going to do about the newest arrival standing so tall that he nearly bumped his head on the roof of the car, and built like an NFL reject.

It didn't make any sense to me. Why is it that three brothers can't exist in the same space as each other? What was it about that trio of cats that necessitated such posturing, such inclinations toward violence. Of course nothing happened... gangsters don't fight like that. Gangsters don't fight until there are a lot of them, or one of them is armed. Then it's on... luckily tonight it wasn't.

As the ghetto turns

"I'm on the way down to the court, then I gotta break up with my boyfriend." Say the girl to the guy on the other end of the line.

"You know what that nigga been doin? He been talkin to this bitch, asking her, can I get up in your place... sleep in your bed... can I nigga get a backrub! What the fuck is with that?! Lying, cheating, scandalous fuckin nigga. I ain't gonna take that shit anymore." She rambles on, all decked out in her in Blood red shoe laces, holding her Blood red sweatshirt.

"Yeah... whatchu doin? Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah (I wanna hook up with you when I'm done), (Me and the guy are done) What do you mean you don't know who this is? You got your hands all up over me a couple weeks ago, and you don't know its me calling your phone? How many bitches you talkin to? I know it ain't just be. Shit, I don't care... I'm cool. All those other bitches, they on the bullshit. blah blah blah blah blah blah blah (I'm a ho, I'm down for a quick rebound hookup)."

"We all got arrested last week, he still in there.. I got out and got the property. You know what I find in that nigga's phone? He's got this recording of him, talking to this other bitch. Fuck that bitch. I called her place, she ain't there... not gonna be there for three days. Fuck that, I told that bitch to tell the bitch I'm gonna kick a bitch's ass if she fucks with my man."

"Oh yeah, I was all ready to be takin the gun charge... right up until I found out he been fuckin around on me. Now that shit is on him, and the bitch he's fuckin wit."

The blue line offers up way more entertainment than Jerry Springer, any day of the week.

Welfare, the man, and the Blue Line

Until I started riding the train, all that I knew about welfare fraud came from the ramblings of newspaper journalists and other pundits who decried how abused the system is. Having spent some time on the train, I realize that how to "get yours" from the man is a more common topic than the weather, or what you did last night.

I've learned more about GR (General Relief), SSI (Social Security Insurance), Section 7 (disability), Section 8 (free housing)... than I would have ever learned otherwise. Listening to people talk about the welfare system is like listening to a bunch of computer geeks ramble on about their favorite technology. Acronyms are flying all over the place, and unless you know what they are talking about, it sounds like gibberish.

"I got me my SSI, but I'm not even trying to get that job. They'd be takin the Section 7 away if I'm working, and fuck that... I got mine."

"You know, she's on the list for that section 8, but that's some fucked up shit over there in those projects. They need to be cleaning those places up, just about anyone can be living there."

The rants go on and on, usually revolving around how much the welfare sucks, and how the benefits aren't good enough.

I heard a good one today. This guy was on the phone, and all he was doing was bitching about how he has a check, and he has to pay taxes on it. "I got this check, but they're trying to take taxes out of it. What the fuck? I get my SSI check, now I get this other check... and they want taxes."

The reality of the situation, the fact that the only reason this guy is getting an SSI check is because OTHER PEOPLE are GOING TO WORK and PAYING TAXES on their earnings never even entired into that guy's head. Yeah bro, I don't want to pay taxes either. In fact, I don't want to the government to be taking my money, so that you can be riding the train to court, and getting a free check every month. Yet it happens anyway, suck it up man.

What this is about

I ride the Metro Blue line to work, from Long Beach to Los Angeles, five days a week. I do it by choice. Having spent close to a decade consulting, driving all over southern California from Irvine, to Ventura, Sun Valley to Santa Monica, I'm done with the car, I'm done with traffic. I like the train.

I ride the blue line to work, right through the heart of South Central Los Angeles. I'm the minority on the train, the one who gets the, "What's that guy doing here." looks. On the train, I get side of reality that a lot of people never see. I hear these stories, these tales... loud, boisterous conversations half shouted into cellphones, or shared across the aisle. They are the kind of stories and life situations that make me pause, and wonder if I just heard what I thought I heard.

That is what this blog is about. Those tales, those stories, those... I can't make this shit up moments.