There’s a little red pot with a basil plant in it, next to a medium-sized yellow pot with a tomato plant in it. Together they occupy the windowsill of a third-floor apartment on Main Street, just under the roseate stained glass windows. They share the narrow square of visibility with an antique Frigidaire, an electric fan, and a sofa covered in threadbare blue plaid.
The thrift store seems to have new stock every single day I come down here…today it’s a wire basket chair and two antique bicycles, one red, one blue.
It’s a sunny day, the sky that ashy blue color that makes it seem warmer than it is. People are out, in combinations I could never predict–a young man with a gold-plated grill and the dog-eared tag still attached to his 501s shares the street with a Hindenberg-sized woman with fastidiously hennaed hair, a neon pink tunic, and sunglasses the size of dinner plates.
There’s a friendly pair working the counter at Coffee Hound today–a girl with freckles and a cloud of carrot-hued hair, a guy with pretty eyes and glasses that make him look like a baby owl. Their friendliness convinces me that my last visit to the Hound could have been a fluke, brought on by bad weather on a Saturday morning. I worked in coffee long enough that I still remember those mornings.
The TeleCourier tower, looming behind the 1884 building, gooses the street’s stodgy decorum with something between the needful nuisance of technology and the vainglory of LA’s Watts Towers.
I’m thinking of what Jared said yesterday–if some collaborative artistic revolution is going to start, why not here? There are worse places.