Boulevard story

That's the thing about this city.

It's a study in contradictions. 

You move here to "make it", and then once you're here you realize that everyone else had the same exact idea. 

You love the constant sunshine and absence of precipitation, but curse the lack of "seasons".

You think, "wow, everyone's so friendly here!", until you realize that everyone has a hustle, everyone is sizing you up and wondering how you can be useful to them, or maybe just holding the social tether gently enough for some future time when they may need to reel it in.

I'm talking about Los Angeles, in case you hadn't already guessed.

A lot of people don't make it. Don't get me wrong: a lot of people do, or at least they find some measure of success. "making it" is hard to define. They get a speaking role in a pilot, they dance in a music video for a pop star, they get lots of downloads of their single off a music streaming service. Most people, however, get caught up in survival: driving rideshare, waiting tables, bartending, teaching fitness or yoga. 

That's what I ended up doing. 

Teaching yoga lets you meet all the fabulous people you may not otherwise even get close to. Writers, producers, directors, and definitely on-screen talent. They all come to sweat. That's the one common denominator. They have to work to look good, feel good, and network: the yoga studio is where that happens. Because of the unwritten code of privacy in this sacred space, no one will hustle these industry pros, and they certainly have no reason to hustle you. It's like we share a secret. A-listers come to my class in tights, and I get to give them hands-on adjustments: in return, I don't breathe a word that they were ever there.

Me? I ride the subway to the studio. I'm not fabulous. I walk down Hollywood Boulevard to the Metro station, dodging tourists who are incapable of looking up; neither from their phones nor from the pink inlaid stars on the Walk of Fame. Like the native New Yorker that I am, I've mastered the art of walking sideways to avoid bumping into them, grunting phrases like "some of us are trying to get to WORK!" and hoping my bag doesn't get caught on a stroller.

You have to walk carefully down the Boulevard: here, you won't see fabulous celebrities. They've already exited the building through the parking garage and are on their way home to the hills in their tinted-window SUVs. On the street, you've got toy vendors tossing light-up spinning tops in the air, three or four guys in Spiderman outfits with varying degrees of pot-bellies, stout men and girls who look like they're still in high school cradling giant yellow snakes on their shoulders, ready for a photo-op. The air is ripe with the smell of hot dogs and bacon frying on tiny carts, and you better keep your eye on the ground to make sure you don't step in poop. You want so badly for it to be dog poop, but you know it's not. 

I scoot down the escalator to the subway platform, taking the steps two at a time: rushing past some overly-casual dope dealers on one side of the entrance, and a homeless man on the other who is starting to get aggressive. I hear the roar of the train, and just make it on as the doors open for what always seems to be about five seconds. I don't sit.

Once I get off at my stop, I climb up the stairs more slowly than before, and start down the boulevard toward my street. Same boulevard; but far away from the tourists, the eateries, the sideshow shysters. I walk a little faster, because there the streets are more empty and it's after dark. I'm also eager to get home.

Then I see Steve.

Steve is a guy I often see on the Boulevard in my neighborhood. He is usually drunk, apparently homeless, and is never without art supplies. He seems young, maybe in his thirties, but I can't really tell. From our conversations, I've learned that he used to be a cook in one of the local Thai restaurants, he lost his job because of his drinking, he was court mandated to attend AA meetings (and hated it), and now he's on the street making art and panhandling. He's been in the country about ten years, and he's funny. He forgets my name, so he just calls me "yoga". 

He spots me a half block away as I'm walking from the train station and calls out, "Yoga!! You got five bucks?"

I turn my head, and see him smiling at me. Then he does a split, just to get me to laugh.

I don't carry cash; and if I did, I know he'd just buy liquor with it. "Nah, Steve, I don't. I have my debit card...lemme buy you a sandwich."

He makes a face. I can tell he's disappointed. "Ahhhhh..." he whines, but he decides he'll take my offer anyway. "Okay. Lemme get a sandwich." We go inside the bodega and he picks out some food. Back out on the street, I ask him if he's found work. He's pretty drunk, so I understand about half of what he says. I think someone he knows has been letting him sleep in the storage room at their store, and in return he does some cleaning and odd jobs. I tell him to take care of himself, and stay away from the booze.

"Yeah, okay yoga...YOU take care yourself!" he says as I head back toward my block.

Hollywood is full of Steves. You don't always see the Steves of the city when you're looking for the stars, and then when you do, you're often surprised. I remember being in an Uber and a girl sharing the ride was visiting from Israel. She was so shocked at all of the homeless people on the street. "In other countries, you hear about Hollywood, and you don't imagine it like this" she said. I was surprised at her observation, and then realized I had grown so used to it that I had forgotten what the world's perception of "tinseltown" really was. 

The potential collateral damage of following your dreams is that you can be just one lucky break away from having nothing. You see the rich and famous, and think, "that could be me" : yet we forget that when we see someone like Steve, or a woman rustling through a trash can, or a person lying against a building wrapped in an old tarp, that also could be me. 

That's the thing about this city.