Art of the Odd

There’s some kind of psychic whirlpool at the corner of Pico and 20th. Or possibly a black hole. It’s the only explanation for the strange collection of characters who stagger, meander and occasionally lurch through the crosswalk on the north side of the intersection, making their way from Burger King to Eddie’s Junior Market and back. There’s a bus stop there, but that can’t be the only thing drawing them. I’ve driven past a lot of bus stops in LA, but none quite so colorful as this one. Nowhere else have I heard a Cheech lookalike in a bright Hawaiian shirt exclaim, “I’m a Martian!” in a thick East LA accent. Nowhere else have I experienced the sheer density of the eccentric, the desperate, and the just plain odd. And I’ve done theatre in the Tenderloin! It’s notable, too, for the variety of its denizens — as often as I drive or walk past that corner, I rarely see the same person twice. It’s an endlessly (if sometimes morbidly) fascinating parade, and while it sometimes makes me sad, it doesn’t frighten me. I don’t understand what draws them, but I’m glad they’re there. I often try to make eye contact and smile, because if I sometimes wonder whether these people really exist, it seems like they must wonder the same.