10/20/03 9:16 PM: There's a grocery strike in Los Angeles. I have no real love for huge corporate interests, so I've decided not to cross the picket lines. Sometimes this means driving as far as Notrica's 32 Market over by USC, but tonight I just stopped at the liquor store on Santa Rosalia, looking for some orange juice.

As I walked back to my car, two older Black people were walking towards me. The woman, who was in her mid forties probably, asked me if I'd do her a favor. With a grin, I told her it depended on what it was. She said that she's just been carjacked, and wondered if I could drive her to 48th and Crenshaw. I mentally sized her up -- average build, looking as worn and tired as any average older Black woman at night. The location she wanted to reach wasn't even four minutes from my house, and all I had to do was get home and work on my daily news column for CBR. I said, "sure" and she made her way to the passenger side.

The guy who was walking with her -- maybe the same age -- didn't look like he planned on coming along, which was good. I carry an axe next to my seat ('cause you never know) and consider myself pretty much ready for anything, but if he wasn't coming, I figured she'd be no problem if she felt froggy. Instead he offered an unsolicited testimonial -- that she was a good sister, fresh from getting her prescription filled, just having a hard time. I nodded solemnly, and off we went.

As we drove down Crenshaw, she was fighting back tears. "I'm a girl," she said emotionally, "don't they know not to take nothing from a girl? I just paid that car off ... my house keys are in there, my phone, my credit cards ..."

I've often debated how I would handle a carjacking. I have a variety of surprises for potential attackers within arm's reach of my driver's seat ("never too rich nor too paranoid," my dad used to say), but still I felt bad for her. I offered what comforting words I could, and dutifully delivered her to her sister's house with no further preamble.

A few days before, I got a call from Leon, my old neighbor on 52nd Street. Leon was a Texas native who'd moved here decades ago, yet never lost the southern twang in his voice. He managed a liquor store on Jefferson and worked hard to provide for himself and two kids he rarely got to see, one in college this year. Leon loved to barbecue -- I often called him "the grillin'-est Black man in LA." Every Friday he grills up a lot of chicken, ribs and links, less for the idea of making money, more for the idea that people will come by and talk with him, hanging out, maybe playing some cards. Leon is an endlessly social brother, and he and I became pretty good friends when I lived across the street from him.

Getting divorced left that block dripping in memories I'd rather not have bouncing around my head. Very little seemed to bring me as far east as Western, and we haven't talked in months. He left a message, saying he missed me, a rare emotional opening for Black men in the city.

I still haven't found time to call him back yet.

On my way to get my check today, I stopped to talk to Mike, my next door neighbor. He's an older brother in his ... heck, I dunno, he could be in his sixties, based on his thirty-esque daughter (who also lives in the building, she's screaming at the top of her lungs as I write this), but he looks young and has few wrinkles. He smokes weed now and then, and always has his door open, with neighbors and relatives and kids coming and going. I often hear "hey neighbor!" whenever I am coming or going, and we chat idly about football or boxing or whatever comes to mind.

The transit strike has him in a bind -- he works in North Hollywood, off Lankershim. That's about fifteen or so miles north of here, and without bus or car it may as well be on the moon. When I asked him how he was dealing with it, he said, "Mostly prayer." I know he supports his wife Nora and at least one of the scores of rowdy kids cavorting around the courtyard, plus often feeding neighbors. On Labor Day he brought me a big plate of food, just so I'd have a good meal on the holiday weekend.

I didn't know what to say to him, surely couldn't be up early enough nor find enough altruism in myself to shlep him up to the north side and back. So I wished him luck and went about my day.

When I got home from singing karaoke on the north side, I found my tandem spots filled with cars owned by people who don't live in my building. Sometimes this makes me angry, sometimes this makes me sad. The sheer rudeness of not only parking in a private (albeit unlocked, which is a long story of owner indifference) spot and blocking the legal residents from parking there ... it amazes and irritates me. One of the other residents, a sister from Belize, also was frustrated ... and parked her car, across the driveway, blocking both in. I mentally applauded her heroism -- I've blocked in cars that have taken up our spot, but never so effectively. I was strangely proud.

Amazingly, there was one spot on the whole block open. My block is notorious for not having a square inch of parking space available ninety-seven percent of the time, and to see a spot at 4:30 AM was quite a blessing, tight as it was. So I spent five minutes manuevering my Monte Carlo into position, and went upstairs.

I was still antsy, so I got the idea to go back downstairs and write down the license plate numbers of the intruders, in case they returned. As I got to my car, to grab the notepad that hangs on the sun visor, I saw two men trying to break into my neighbor's car with a slim jim, her alarm chirping irritatedly at them. I jotted down some notes -- what they were wearing, the license plate numbers on the cars that they seemed to own, and so on. I called out, "I don't think she'll be very happy with you messing with her car." They protest, saying they need to get to work. "She probably had the same idea," I replied, "when she came home and found her spot blocked. She works late, and finding nowhere to park is about the most irritating thing that can happen." They asked if it was my car. I said, "No, my car's down the street. I'm supposed to park where this brown sedan is. That's my spot. I just noticed this." They complained, as if their need to get to work gave them a sense of entitlement. I shrugged. "Maybe you shouldn't take somebody else's spot next time." I went back into my apartment.

My homeboy Mikey told me about a movie called Quigley Down Under where Tom Selleck made a big deal out of never using handguns, only rifles, all through the movie. His enemies then, attempting irony, beat him nearly to death and shove a handgun in his waist. He then gets up and shoots them all with unerring accuracy, using the handgun. As they die, choking on their own blood, he tells them that he doesn't like using handguns, but he's surely capable of it.

So I walk back upstairs and, in effect, use a handgun. I call Southwest Division of LAPD and tell them a blue Toyota Corolla is being broken into by two people illegally parked in a private space. I then grab a book and a sweatshirt, go sit just out of sight, and wait. Sure enough, a police cruiser rolls up about six minutes later.

Truthfully, this is the most effective police interdiction I've ever seen in my life. Outside of this night, I've never had a positive interaction with law enforcement professionals. Not wanting to be involved, I go back into my house. Calling the cops was a scare tactic -- I'd virtually never testify against two Black men, regardless of how irritated I was. The justice system of this country is too corrupt to be trusted even that far. However, having a slim jim in your hand and your car in an illegal spot when a police car rolls up, looking for someone dressed just like you ... that should make you think twice. I sit in bed, laughing my damned fool ass off, as this was going really well and my car nor my person needs to be subjected to any threat.

The police called back and asked if I would go down and talk. This seemed insanely non-profitable for me, so I said I was ready for bed. The woman on the line said that was fine, and hung up. I waited another half hour, went out to find the intruder cars and the police all gone, with my neighbor's car left unmolested, still across the open driveway.

Sadly, it was the best of all possible worlds.

This is the Los Angeles I see, the place I live. Striking for dignity, surviving crisis, struggling for every inch of every day.