A bad rap for the Green Line Train.

No longer would I like to take a hike to El Camino Jr. College. I had an appointment with the Athletic Director and needed lots of help to find his headquarters in an art building. I thought that just maybe the college would be interested in my football story about Ambrose Schindler, as he  confessed to me that almost all of his 50 years of accredited teaching had been at the school.
    A driver dropped me off at the college, that looked more like a strip mall of small buildings, shacks, and outhouses. Nestled at the footstep of Crenshaw Boulevard between Redondo and Manhattan Blvd. It could have easy been mistaken for a Federal Housing Project.
    My taxi dropped me off and after asking many for help, one knew where Art 101 was located. I bought a regrettable sandwich at a hash house and eventually found the place. I asked where the director was and that I had an appointment. Blond hair connected with a large funny-fake smile did her best to speak to me. After all, I am nearing eighty and nobody today treats old people with respect anymore.
    "What is your name?"
    "Name George, hear to see Mr. Preston."
    "Emergency...can you call and make an appointment another day?
     "No Miss Nightingale...Took too long to find this place and will not try again."
     "I need to connect with the Alumni Association?"
    A PE teacher told me that they don't give a dam about the Alumni Association and had no numbers to pacify me. I handed a flyer and took a hike to McDonalds. The Crenshaw bus had a stop there. Exhausted but happy to have crossed off this so-called college, I got on. I knew up ahead the Green Line had a station there.
    Under the 105 freeway I found the Green Line Train. The off-rush hour fare was .35 cents, within my budget. The machine validated my Tap card and I climbed up stairs, but upset that my train had left the station. The train began in Redondo Beach.
     A shopping area sat below me and an old L.A. Airport looked quite forsaken. My Dad had driven us to the Hawthorne Airport in the forties. It had been the first time I had ever seen a plane. I was the only white waiting for the train, but soon about twenty more joined me. A few brought bikes, but most only showed off their Haines underwear and fowl language. In these situations, I mind my own business and try to look like an innocent dumb white man. No peace officer in his right mind would ever get on board, that if there had not been a murder.
     The Rosa Parks Blue Line Station was ahead of me. I somehow made it and transferred to the Blue Line , of course after I tapped my card. The car that I entered going south towards Long Beach played loud music. The music must have been delightful since these cars danced up and down the line.
     "Cokes, Water only a collar. Chargers five dollars only...Give me a break...Thanks sir" The sellers reminded me of the candy ushers who sold sweets out of their cartoon of goodies at the old Stadium Theater on Pico.. A bit noisy for me, I walked to a different car....What a mistake? Across from me a man held an invisible phone. Loud and clear, he kept screaming with the same topic.
    "You SOB, I talk to you only because you the Mommy of my kid. Don't care shit about you. Shut up...And you too Mommy, you bore me but you too can go to hell."
     The topic didn't change and a couple in front of me looked happy to have made it to their stop, Willow Street Station, but not me. I prayed that he would take his Shakespeare and stay on the train when my stop, Fifth Street approached...But no such luck. He followed me to my bus stop but did stop when the #91 bus driver gave him that, that look that only a bus driver can.
      Oh yes, Ambrose Parks Schindler will be 101 years old on April 21st. No doubt he is waiting for my book to be published.