Lonely Nights

I usually like to talk to random people, especially if their eyes remind me of my own--lonely, full of struggle, strengthened and weakened by pain, sustained by a peculiar joy.

Tonight is one of those nights when I dreaded coming home to my apartment--opening the door, being in solace, no one to talk to, no one to laugh with, no one to hold close. So when I saw the familiar sight of an older gentleman sitting on the steps near the main entrance to my building, I just had to sit with him and take in the comfort of another's voice; the comfort of another's presence.

His name is Mario. He's originally from Chihuahua, Mexico. He has a son that lives in Montebello with the 'senora.' I know the area, it's one of my hometowns in the SGV that lies east of East LA. His son is 18. Funny what you can learn from--and also share with--another person if you just give it a chance. Silly how I can say such a thing after coming home from some drinks with friends. The bar is full of people to learn from and share with . . . but bars, clubs, and even random house parties seem more and more like places NOT to do such things.

Mario works at a restaurant near 8th and Figueroa in Downtown LA. He sometimes likes to walk all the way down 8th street to get to work, just to enjoy the bustling movement of people around him. Maybe this is why he sits on the main steps to our building smoking a cigarette or two before going to bed. Mario and I are of the same mold.

He's a dishwasher. We agree it's a tough job, adding that it's an unappreciated and underpaid position--important and often unnoticed. And this is what's in Mario's eyes--this is what I see because we are of a similar spirit.

He offered me some of his steak and potatoes, leftovers he snags when security is willing to give him a break. These breaks come often. He likes to heat it up in his studio because cooking in such tight confines makes a stink that's really fierce. We both laugh. It's nice to laugh on a lonely night.

I turned down the food, understanding that it was a kind gesture, yet knowing that if I had taken it, he would have kindly obliged without regret. He talks of overtime and how this week he worked 58 hours. Of course management doesn't like the idea, and he has to hassle with accurate compensation. He takes the overtime when he can, working hard and giving a good showing. Of course he takes it. He needs it.

He tells me how he works tomorrow at 4pm. Sometimes he gets there as early as 2pm and stays as late 1am. If you've ever been a dishwasher, you know the feeling of arriving early to work on a busy day--piles of unclean dishes and pans, caked with tough-to-remove food, grime, and grease. And then there's the water. It gets everywhere and you leave the place feeling like a car just drove by and showered you with puddle water. Nights like these are cold, and the wetness in your shirt, pants, and shoes remind you just how cold these nights really are.

He's tired, and it's more than just his body that aches. I can see it on his face--like looking in a mirror that has aged me 20 years--it's clear as night and day. I see my face in his. Reminds me of how many times I've heard that I'm an old soul, mature for my age. (Gee . . . thanks?). He finishes his cigarette and says he's turning in. Before the door closes, he tells me how he can sleep in 'till 11am tomorrow. We both laugh. Sleep is also a close friend of ours.

I knew he would open the door for a last comment. I knew he would still be sitting on the porch after I finally found a parking in our congested neighborhood and drove by the entrance three times. How did I know? Because, like him, I just wanted someone to chat with.