Dear Homeless Hoarder

Dear Homeless Hoarder:

Homelessness is no laughing matter. Butt cracks, however, very much are.

Every neighborhood in Los Angeles has its respective kooky homeless person, each with his her own quirks and/or mental illness, and particular brand of chiaroscuro in the patterns of dirt on their exposed appendages. In my old neighborhood in Los Feliz there was Margaret (as I'd named her... pronounced "Mahhhh-gret" with a Boston accent), who generally stayed in the square mile radius around Vermont in Los Feliz village; favoring either the bus stop at the intersection of Vermont and Franklin or the doorway of the Christian Science Reading Room at New Hampshire and Hollywood Blvd. Margaret either traveled light or had one particular cardboard box she operated out of, as I never saw her with any possessions in tow, but she seemed to switch up her ensembles with some frequency. Margaret never really opened her eyes beyond a squint, nor did she ever panhandle, but I occasionally saw her with a lit cigarette in hand, so she wasn't entirely devoid of means.

There's the man in the wheelchair who scoots his way up and down Beverly and Rodeo Drives in Beverly Hills, passing the hat. Someone once told me they saw him get off a bus holding his wheelchair, set it up, then rolling himself into his prime panhandling position. Charlatan or intrepid businessman? You decide.

Then there's the legion of homeless patrolling the island at the intersection of San Vicente and Wilshire. Designed as if it were made for panhandling, I envision a neighborhood homeowners association-type meeting being held over a rotation schedule for the long island running the ten car lengths-worth of wealthy West LA drivers held captive waiting to turn left: "Alright Abner, you've got it Tuesday through Thursday, but Wanda has the evening commute. And for cryin' out loud, get a bigger piece of cardboard. No one can read your sign!"

And Santa Monica is a Canaan for the homeless of Los Angeles. I'm sure most of us have had the "Oooh, look at that hot dude!" experience, only to get a little closer and realize the individual in question is a little too tan, his hair a little too long, his backpack a little too overstuffed. Whoops. The homeless of Santa Monica are usually a more Buddhist, zen, refined breed, however; not looking for anything other than peace and relaxation near the ocean. They generally leave you alone and work on their tans rather than stand on a corner and scream about the government. If I was a homeless person, I'd live in Santa Monica. It's the deranged ones that would choose to be anywhere else in the city.

SUCH is the homeless person who frequents the general radius of Beverly Blvd. and Melrose from Orange Grove to Curson, a vicinity which handily includes my apartment. This individual stretches the definition of homeless, as he dwells exclusively in the bus station at Genesee and Beverly, so regularly that I suspect people actually wanting to wait for the bus need to ring a doorbell.

When not ensconced in the Plexiglassed, perforated metallic bosom of the bus stop bench, you, Homeless Hoarder, patrol the streets of my neighborhood pushing what must be the most overloaded shopping cart in Christendom. This cart, which I've had occasion to inspect parked outside the bus stop enclosure, is FILLED with crap. Brooms, rakes, trash bags, suitcases, a metal folding chair (suspended over the broom handle so that it hangs outside the cart). And I'm not saying the gym bag that was stolen off my front porch last year is in there, but it's not out of the realm of feasibility.

For some reason, I'm unsure if it's ventilation oriented or naturally occurring, you, Homeless Hoarder, have developed a stance where, as you push your cart through the neighborhood (loudly and rattlingly, often very early in the morning), unless it is covered by the long, down coat you wear from time to time, easily the top third of your ass is exposed. As you lean forward onto the handle of your shopping cart, your shirt bunching into the small of your back, you treat the neighborhood to an experience even more unpleasant than driving through its giant potholes. Yickkkk.

Now don't get me wrong - I have no problem with this homeless person regularly patrolling the streets of my neighborhood. Well, maybe a small problem. What I DO mind is seeing his giant exposed butt as he passes by my living room window... conservatively... three or four times a day as I'm lying on the couch trying to take a nap. Homeless Hoarder, I beg of you, pull up your pants. If you look hard enough, you'll probably find a belt in your cart. If not, I'll come down to the corner and leave one for you at the bus stop.

Sincerely,
Dear Crabby