Driving through South Central: Sketches of Los Angeles

Driving through South Central L.A.

by Armando Ortiz

He witnessed the palpable urgency in the people passing by. Each street seemed to possess a small shrine on the corner, devoted to the Virgin Mary. The image of her adorned the walls of mom and pop shops, and every exchange of money was accompanied by expressions of gratitude towards the heavens, thanking them for the chance to live one more day. These celestial powers favored those who would rest with a full belly and allowed them to offer gratitude as they strolled in and out of random 99 cent stores, liquor stores, discount fashion stores and auto part stores. This part of the city’s fabric was woven with the working class, pimps, mechanics, kids sporting USC shirts and sweaters, street vendor, city employees, undocumented workers, DVD bootleggers, street women, tamaleros, sellers of pleather belts, punk rockers, rural cowboys, fruit salad peddlers, and street corner evangelists. It blended together into an exotic tapestry reminiscent of a travel journal chronicling a journey through an unknown third-world country. These streets offered anything and everything one could be purchased while driving through them.

If one found themselves running late for an appointment without having eaten, they could purchase a tamal from a sidewalk vendor. The tamalera usually sold cheese tamales with jalapenos, green chili tamales with chicken and spicy red sauce tamales with shredded beef. On cold days, selections of champurado and atole were also available. If one was on their way to pick up a date, they could drive down to the next block, buy a freshly cut bouquet of red roses, and have someone across the street expertly gift wrap a present. In these streets, no one had rest, and everyone worked on New Year’s day.

It all felt surreal, yet it was here that the true Southern California car culture thrived at its peak. This was where motorized movement converged with human movement, creating an unforgettable and distinct experience he had never witnessed before. It was a cosmopolitan scene that heightened all six senses.  Every individual, whether actively engaging or merely driving through, played a role in this grand drama unfolding. Exhaust fumes mingles with phone conversations, music blaring banda or hip hop from every speaker, and the hum of passing vehicles. The scene was punctuated by the motorcycle cop’s siren, halting an Asian man driving his BMW right in front of a beauty salon and a fish frying market. Everything seemed to dissolve into an intangible force that the wind uses to transport objects, its destination unknown.

Driving through the streets of South Central transported him to another world, replete with forgotten realities. Every other corner boasted a taco truck, with a patient line of seven customers eagerly awaiting their food. Old car lots were repurposed as outdoor diners where the aroma of freshly grilled chicken or fish permeated the air, detectable from blocks away. People gathered at bus stops, embarked or disembarked from public transportation, and walked away from MTA stations. Everyone surrendered themselves to the prevailing forces, immersing themselves in the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles as they merged with the natural ebb and flow of life, each with their own chosen destinations. So much movement transpired that he struggled to grasp its significance. It reminded him of his childhood trips to the river, where he would plunge beneath the rushing river.

Submerged in the river’s depths, he observed gray granite boulders, bubbles ascending lazily, and settled sediment that remained motionless. The river’s current forcefully pushed his body, guiding his face and eyes towards a singular direction. As a child, he wondered of the consequence of surrendering to the river’s force, but the silent boulders hinted at a painful end. He, too, was driven by the urgency to make this month’s rent. Yet amidst the bustling scene, he realized his insignificance in the grand machine of reality. He was a mere cog caught between many gears that propelled the wheel of time forward. However, dwelling on such thoughts was futile. The wheel was turning, and as long as things moved, wether forward or backward, everything would be fine. Rent could be paid, showers could be taken, and later in the night, he could join his friends for a beer.

The urgency with which people moved and acted was difficult for him to comprehend, but he yearned to capture it all. His life was a constantly changing tableau, where greens transformed into browns and grays metamorphosed into ocean blue. The views from his window had changed so frequently that he became attuned to the different cloud patterns in the sky. He noticed that the sun was less intense in the flatlands compared to the mountains, though that also depended on his current location. The air became drier a thousand miles to the east of Los Angeles, while it remained mild near the coast. Today, though, he found himself driving through South Los Angeles, navigating Central Avenue from north to south and driving east to west on Adams Boulevard, Gage Ave and Florence Avenue, zigzagging his way towards an elusive pot of gold.

Unlike his experiences in Asia, where he had traveled extensively, Los Angeles granted him the freedom to point his vehicle in any direction and drive without being confined to long queues or waiting for the next train. In his city, he had the liberty to go wherever he pleased, as long as his vehicle kept running. He was a part of the greater scene, and integral spoke in the wheel, as nature followed its course like a river overflowing its banks and streaming towards unknown destinations in search of lower ground. These invisible spokes of time devoured everything, yet birthed an infinite number of possibilities. A sense of overwhelming desperation engulfed him, causing a shiver to ripple through his body..