"This is supposed to be Paradise," Curtis Battle thinks to himself as he stares out the windshield of his car. Palm trees sway next to luxury high rises just a hundred yards from where he has parked his car here in Venice Beach. Clothes and various non-descript wrappers and other things you would usually put out to trash are piled high behind the driver's seat, confining the passengers to the front seats; they are not presents or wrapping paper, for there were no presents this year. He has been out of work for four months and nothing on the horizon seems promising. Next to him, dressed in a matching grey-and-maroon flannel shirt, is Cynthia holding one-year old Brandon, her son. Like the edges of Curtis's fingernails, Brandon's split-pea green onesie is soiled and pilled. His mother balances a styrofoam plate of fried chicken on her knee--Christmas dinner--as some small candy canes dangle from the rear view mirror. The inside of the car, like their skin, is dark while the California sun shines outside as it does every day here in L.A. He's doing his best to keep this family together but he isn't sure where the next meal will come from, though he's grateful for the one they received at the Mission downtown today--a temporary respite from uncertainty. "Battle," he thinks to himself about his namesake, "Every day is a battle." Maybe he'll find work next week after the holidays, maybe an apartment. Maybe next year, the New Year, things will be different.
No comments:
Post a Comment