THE GOLDEN GANGSTAS

I stepped onto the resting train wearing a set of earphones. There is no sound coming from them because there’s no wifi service underground, but I wear them to appear occupied, so that none of the mentally imbalanced, or those curious about my beard feel inclined to approach me to start a conversation or ask random facial hair questions. Headphones = a tool of social avoidance for the natural introvert in a metropolitan city.

I pick my seat. The single rider chair against the wall facing out towards the isle, which is sure to be clear of dozing riders or odorous transients.

A pair of thug looking guys plant in the row across from me. Common variety LA thugs. Age unobservable due to the amount of facial and cranial real estate covered with tattoos, as well as their arms, legs, and back. Tattoos declaring loyalty to family, dead elders, lost brothers, and country of their familial origin. Their necks adorned with faded red lip prints of girlfriends-past expressing a certain commitment to forever, though not the forever they defined together on the night the red tattoo ink was needled under their skin.

Taking up the most landscape are the tattoos of devotion to the city of angels, Los Angeles, in the form of Dodger’s logos many times over, and the numbers “213” to represent their area code of domain within the city.

Their demeanor is “bulldog lying in wait” to the world, but are chummy with each other, talking lightly, smiling etc., clearly from the same social circle or family. Most likely both.

The “Please stand clear. The doors are closing” message shouts over the metro car speakers, along with instructions that there is no eating, drinking, or smoking on the train or platform. Several patrons in the car have ignored the city’s rules on this hot day, swigging water or whatever liquids they brought as a coolant for today’s thick, muggy weather.

At each stop, the train car ebbs and flows with waves of people hopping on or off before the train barrels to its next destination. An assorted variety of patrons. Some enter alone, then a pair or two, maybe a few small families, and groups of friends.

As I sat there wearing my silent earphones, listening to the wirr of the train as it jets from North Hollywood through Studio City, burrowing to into Hollywood proper, I can hear mumbles of conversation, sniffles, and the rattling of a newspaper or two from other passengers.

The cholos are randomly loud, erupting occasionally with a shared joke or story. I’m starting to pick up a few clear words, and am a little surprised, no, am quite shocked at what they are talking about. Their shared love of the 1980’s sitcom, “The Golden Girls”.

From the bits of conversation I was picking up, apparently they were both exposed to the show by their grandmothers, possibly the same grandmother. It wasn’t clear. But they seemed to have high esteem and respect for Blanche because “she do what she do. She easy but don’t care what nobody thinks”. They also liked her Southern accent, and the way she says the name of her costar “Dorothy”, and proceeded to imitate her to each other. “Dah-ruh-thay” they said in a thick, somewhat exaggerated Southern dialect, while laughing loudly together.

But it seemed that the character Dorothy was their mutual favorite because “she has the best mean mug mad dawg looks homie!”. And they both impersonate Dorothy’s signature slow head turn and deadpan stare at each other. Their faces struggling to hold the stare, but bust out laughing after only a few seconds.

“Now arriving, Vermont/St. Monica station” blared over the PA system and with that, my eavesdropping of the vatos was over. This is my stop and I exited the metro car to begin my descent up the escalators to the surfaces of East Hollywood, as my foot knocked a different set of mystery dentures across the tiled metro station surface.