The center of the UCLA nightlife is an all walk intersection in Westwood where a pair of hookah bars, a pair of movie theaters, a Starbucks, and the best boba and cookie places in town are all within a hundred feet of each other.
There are students driving expensive cars unnecessarily fast, the roars of 8 cylinder engines periodically drowning out conversation. There are students clustered around glowing hookahs spending too much money, laughing as plumes of sweet scented smoke issue from their mouths. At least a hundred students line up for cookies and ice cream from Diddy Riese.
A homeless man claims a bench in front of the Mann Bruin theater and the Starbucks. He seems like every bum I’ve ever seen; he’s wearing almost everything he owns, and everything he owns is stained and torn. But he never asks for money and I’ve never smelled alcohol on him. His hands aren’t curled around a cup, rattling the change inside. Instead, they clutch a bible which he waves like a two-handed sword as he shouts maledictions and condemnations of passers by. His eyes bulge madly, offwhite against black skin. His violent gestures stop just short of physical blows. He is angrier than anyone I’ve ever seen.
An acoustic guitar accompanies him on the bench. Occasionally, he seizes it by the neck and strangles a melody from it, singing songs that remind me of the rhythmic chorus of chain gang at work. His voice is deep, and surprisingly rich. It vibrates with a passion that I don’t understand.
Everyone tries to ignore this guy. Just noticing him seems to ruin your night. I made eye contact with him once; it was like an immediate injection of anger and resentment. I haven’t seen him in a while. I wonder what happened to him.
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