Back in the days when I used to live in Hermosa, I used to walk out on the pier in the middle of the night without a thought. I used to think it was so cool. I would stand in the middle of the pier and I could hear the sounds of two distinctly different patterns of waves in each of my ears. Mostly, I was alone. Sometimes, there would be someone fishing. But, that was fine. Every now and then, there would be another lost soul, strapped to the realms of the night, and we would pass by one another. No words, just an understanding that we were damned to a similar midnight path.
 
Times changed, as times always seem to do. I remember this one-time, broad daylight, I was doing a bike ride down the Strand. …Something that was my main focus for cardiovascular exercise, once upon a time in the long ago and the far-far away, and somehow, somebody in van, started driving down the Strand. (The walkway along the beach). Some Local gave the driver some grief about the fact that there were no cars (or vans) allowed on the Strand. One thing led to another, and the guy, of Hispanic descent, got out of the van and stabbed the Local with a screwdriver.
 
The van jammed off, but some cop apparently nabbed them deeper down the Strand. The cops came on the scene. But, the guy told him them not to worry. But then, the adrenalin must have worn off as the guy dropped to the ground. I looked to a girl that stood by me, a very Beachy girl, and I said, “This reminds me of when I lived in the inner city.” I could tell she didn’t get it. She had grown up safe and pure and protected. She rolled her eyes like I was somehow below her. That made me smile.
 
It was kind of like my first girlfriend, back in that inner city. You know, like when you’re twelve or thirteen and you, “Like,” someone. Me, with a single mother, father dead, I lived in a one-bedroom apartment. My “Girl Friend,” she lived in a mansion, with a tennis court, a basketball count, and a swimming pool. The thing that is very L.A. about this entire situation is that she, literally, lived on the same street as I. Just a half or mile or so down the road. But, in a very different landscape. She too was originally from the South Bay. She grew up in Manhattan Beach. Her father, a major player attorney, moved her family to my neck of the woods, I guess to be closer to where the big player’s play.
 
It was just destined to not work out; her and I. I would go into her house and see all that could be, when I basically had nothing. It was kind of embarrassing, really.
 
Later in life, in my Grad School days, I moved to a baby-sized apartment in Manhattan Beach. Then, I moved to live in Hermosa. After that, Redondo. Many a night I would walk on the Strand, walk on the piers, run on the beach next to the water. But, that was then. Times changed. Then, there came a time when you needed to carry a gun if you wanted to be safe, or at least know how to fight. Not good. Not right. But, that’s the way it has become.
 
Like I always say, how do you know if you should live somewhere? Answer: If you can walk the streets at night and be safe.
 
But, where can you do that anymore? I guess someplace. But, not here.
 
But, when here is all you have, what can you do?
 
The thing is, your life is defined by the options you are provided with. Sure, you can stress and struggle and cause yourself to rise above your predetermined status. But, who you were will always be who you are. Where you came up and came from will forever remain the essential definition of who you are and what you can become. Sure, maybe you can somehow make a bunch of money and raise the grade of your living situation. A few people have. But, at the core of your being, though that may change the outside, your insides will forever be the same.