The Perch was inundated tonight with every genre of LA stereotype and then some, self consciously postured throughout the perfectly cliché French dining hall. They checked each other out anxiously, fanning themselves with the oversized menus filled with misspelled dishes, dripping in jewelry and affectations. This was not the LA of my childhood.
After dinner we braved the streets to get back to the car. It was unusually frigid for Southern California, even in December. As usual that horrible sucker punch to the gut got me as I weaved through the dense web of homeless people. Obnoxious Christmas music filtered in from all directions from the nearby hotel lobbies, filled with people actually celebrating. This quite possibly had to be the shittiest day out of the year for the homeless. I raised my camera to take a photo of an overhead marquee and nearly stumbled into a guy passing by in a wheelchair.
“Merry Christmas miss,” he said, nodding as he continued on.
My chest ached and a stifled sigh rose up in my throat as I watched him wheeling down the avenue.