Proof That I Live In The Ghetto

For years, I have been telling people that I live in the ghetto, and have always been treated like some naive lil racist white girl. I have been laughed at, and told that I don't have half a clue.

Nevermind that the neighborhood I live in is severely run down.

Nevermind that there are iron bars on most windows.

Nevermind that cars are broken into regularly, or that the park behind my house has more activity at midnight than it ever did during the day.

Nevermind that people ride rusty, duct taped together bikes around because they have to, or that the payphone two blocks down is a distribution center for a variety of drugs.

Oh no, none of that matters because a) I have never been mugged, and b) I've never been shot at.

Well, let me tell you, neither of those things are likely to happen any time soon, because all the mexicans on my block (and the rest of the neighborhood for that matter) have decided that I am Latina, and that they want to fuck me more than they want to rob or kill me. And you know what? That's fine with me.

All that aside, I now have undeniable proof that I live in the ghetto.

Last night, I was at the japanese place across the street from my apt, finishing up dinner, when this chick barges into the place and hollers out, "anyone want to make five bucks??"

I look up to see the most dirty, strung out crankster I have ever seen, pointing at her ass, and saying, "I have the biggest zit on my ASS and I need someone to pop it! Will someone gimme a hand?"

Being this is a japanese restaurant, the waitress is standing at the counter with a deer in the headlights look on her face, not knowing how to react to what she obviously thinks is a lunatic gaijin [That is what japanese people call us white folks right? Correct me if I'm wrong please.] (not that she's far off on that one), and I'm sitting there trying not to crack up as the crankster continues her ranting.

"Look, I'd take care of it myself," she raves, "but I can't see back there."

Theres a mumble from a sushi chef.

"No," she starts up again, "I'm clean. Ain't no one gonna catch nothin. Man, if you won't help, call 911 for me. It hurts so bad I can't sit down. Shit. You think this ain't embarassing for me? I ain't never had a problem like this in my life. Someone help me out here."

Another mumble from a sushi chef.

"Man, I can't go to the hospital," she shrieks, "I ain't got no Medi-Cal. Look, won't someone just take a look?" The rant continues, getting less and less intelligible as she starts walking towards my table, pleading, "won't you help me out?"

I choke on my laughter as the waitress finally snaps out of her daze, and opens the door, motioning for the crankster to leave, squeaking out a tiny "please?"

Finally, after one of the sushi chefs points to the phone and says "police?" the crazy chick leaves, cursing everyone out for not popping the zit on her ass... and we all (except the poor shocked waitress, who remained shocked and rather wide-eyed) disolved into fits of laughter.

Man, if that doesn't prove that I live in a ghetto, I dunno what will. I have never, NEVER, had anything like that happen to me in suburbia, and I doubt it ever would. It was surrealistic, like watching a car crash -- you know you should look away, but you can't...

Dude, I need to move. Like now. Like yesterday! Damn...