La Mesa on the Orange Line Trolley

Yesterday I made an appointment to meet an editor in a town called La Mesa. I dreaded taking the Orange Line to the city on the way to El Cajon.  and this morning I found out why.
   At the Imperial Transit Station, I boarded packed train.  Latinos, Blacks, and a few relics of anther time,  took up seats on the train bound for the El Cajon.  Another white man, like me, used a fork for his left-less arm. A tall grizzly black toted two trash bags loaded with cans and bottles. The rest were either asleep or looking at their smart phones ,
   Hell, I knew the smart one was a man over 75 - me. Was I on the train out of Linz to Auschwitz? Would a Nazi put a gun to my head?   Of course my smart phone lay on my hands. My right eye fed my mind with wisdom while the other looked at the homes along Imperial and then Commerce Streets.
   Of course this is San Diego's other city, - the one the city counsel forgot. Tents, Ralph's shopping carts, bags, toiletries lined the street. A few were trading drinks for cigarettes or drugs. These citizens would be inside their tents later in the afternoon-it was only three o'clock. I continued reading about how the French Administrators smiled as they packed young Jews on their way to death and Auschwitz.
   A view from the train overlooked a large cemetery. The park must have been two or three miles long. All I saw were markers. Trees and bushes were everywhere.  "Next stop is Mississippi." I looked for a river below the train but so nothing but a long long spillway..."Next stop is Lemon Grove."  I did not see any homes. Instead, small cottages,or stucco-one beds lined the trains path.
   "Next stop is La Mesa." I got off and asked two people the location of Spring Street. My editor wished for me to meet here at Cosmos, a tea and coffee shop on that street. Since I arrived thirty minutes early, I wished to familiarize myself with the city.
    Long deep ditches lined the main downtown Artery of La Mesa. An old Latino restaurant got my attention. It looked like a hotel. To cool off, I strode into a Starbucks. But unlike the San Diego Starbucks, the temperature hovered around eighty inside. My appointment time of four thirty had arrived and I returned to the Cosmos Cafe. There now was a good looking young lady sitting on a couch. A few overhead fans tried in vain to wash away the dust and heat of the day.
   "Might you be the editor waiting for George?" I inquired. She gave me the once-over.
   "No I am not, sorry." She responded in a business like manner.
   In the back of my mind I thought that she might be the editor but did not appreciate my wind blown look. Ya see, my shirt tails that hang out signal people that George has arrived. I forgot what my sponsor told me. "You never get a second chance to make a first impression."
   I turned left and wished to visit the old colorfully decorated hotel on the corner. Over head the name said "Pour Favor". A young lady greeted me inside. Again all I saw were fans and baseball season had not yet begun. Upstairs were a gentleman and ladies bathrooms. To the side was what looked like a telephone booth.
   "My name if Marcia. Can I help you." She introduced herself. 
    "Was this a hotel once and how old is it?" I inquired.
    "It was a saloon once beginning in 1906, but now serves as a restaurant...By the way, we have our happy hour now." I asked for a five dollar salad and wished to know what the telephone booth was. 
    In the earlier days, a priest would sit inside and a hardy drinker would reveal his sins. A few minutes later, the sinner would continue with his drink and lady friends. 
   I gave Marcia a two dollar tip and raced back to the Orange Line station. A tattooed man across from me used his bastardized English to call his case worker. "I got out late, so I will will take me twenty minutes to transfer to the number 3 bus..." Only a few Mexicans speak any good English. 
   The dark haired one seemed in distress. He called his wife and kept repeating, "F...k" you so often I thought that it might be the only English word he ever used. " Did you send me my shirts. I am sitting in dirty underwear...Don't you listen.."F...k you" 
   The dirty one got off on 38 Street and returned my forefingers to my book. The train now proceeded to the Imperial Station. A line-up of about fifty tents with their owners now inside greeted the train. I wondered how many would walk tomorrow and be carried off by the ambulances. Several appeared so dark they resembled chimney sweeps. 
   The train proceeded to the City College stop and then to Banker's Corner next to the Santa Fe Station. Back on the 6:25 Coaster, I was tickled to look outside at the picturesque view of the the Ocean and green grass and found a few Jews hid in Catholic churches and survived until the end of the war.