Getting profiled by the Mexican chick at Target.

I need (needed) a lawn chair or some sort of outdoor seating apparatus for my patio. When I moved into this place, I had one, and I sat outside most nights and read or drank and stared at the sky.

This is before I went all-out wireless, so I didn’t even surf “the web” at the time. It’s been 5 years since that post and a lot has changed. I am more open to wireless surfing, though I detest the concept. In fact, the true reason I don’t have a smart phone is because I see no compelling reason to be in touch with this big cluster-fuck called “humanity” for 24 hours. There are moments I truly enjoy leaving the house and all that comes with it, and being apart from all you fuckers.

This is what I don’t understand about smart phone users. Why do they even want to be in touch all the time? Who needs that. I don’t want to be accessible (or access) when I’m not home. Wireless sucks, but whatever, I caved when it came to surfing wirelessly at home.

Five years later, it’s occurred to me that I can surf outside now, but I have nothing to sit on. The old patio chairs I had when I moved here are now tattered remnants of the distant past. I didn’t have the presence of mind to bring them in each day, so they sat basking in the sun and the fibers slowly disassembled with exposure. Those old lawn chairs are now naked aluminum frames offering no support to your ass if you should choose to sit in one.

So I decided it was time, now that summer is approaching, to invest in a nice lawn chair so I can sit outside and enjoy the fruits of wireless surfing.

I know nothing about Goddamned lawn chairs. I went to Target since I presumed they would carry such ridiculous items.

Lawn chairs are trivial and a waste of mental time. I refuse to spend more then 2 minutes on selecting the “right” one. I drove over to the beautiful Target in East Los Angeles and paved my way through the hordes of Mexicans (the crowd was easily about 99.9993% such) and found the “gardening” section where they carry such shit.

I found a plastic-smelling fold-up contraption that looked relatively comfortable and walked it over to the register. The store was packed with all sorts of my people. Shouting children, overzealous mothers in whore outfits, loudmouthed ghetto broads with make-up, a real sordid microcosm of Tijuana. My element!

And there I went with my little new electric blue lawn chair. The price ticket said $21. Acceptable. I’m the cheapest fucker you saw this side of NYC. Still, I saw no serious problem with paying this to sit on my forlorn patio.

I hoisted it onto the conveyor belt and awaited my turn at the register. Now the poor cashiers at Target in East LA are faced with a conundrum. They must greet each customer in that kind customer service manner, and in this environment, they probably all know Spanish and they all know to resort to it on a customer-by-customer basis. I get spoken to in Spanish a lot because everyone is East LA is Mexican. Customer service in this town is simply playing the odds. If I’m in Seal Beach, I will get spoken to in English; in East LA, it’s mostly Spanish, wey!.

The minute the cashier saw me and my chair, she launched into some serious Spanish which I didn’t understand. Her voice and its lilt was quite beautiful, and it turned me on a little. But I understood little. I can get by with rudimentary Spanish, but this chick was talking some serious Espanol jargon and I was stumped. But the gist of her question was “how will you be paying?” I replied, “credit card” in English, and she commenced speaking to me in my native language. But she acted as if I was a Spanish speaker based on, 1) my appearance, 2) my purchase. And she was wrong on all counts.

The guy behind me looked just as Mexican as me, but the difference is, he was about 5 inches taller than me (what guy isn’t?) and she opened him up in English. I heard it clearly as I walked away with my lawn chair.

I got profiled because of my height by a Target cashier. It’s all I can think.

On the Red Line train that goes through downtown, there are 2 consecutive stops:


Now 7th Street/Metro caters to the downtown high-rise-sphere and the LA Live complex/Staples Center crowd. These are pretty White people and other high-achieving professionals. They dress nicely and stand erect in the train. They stare clear-eyed at the horizon.

And then, you have the Westlake/MacArthur Park crowd…It is uh…shady, swarthy…criminal? They live in the Pico Union district where the population is largely Central American. Truly a shithole.

I get off a bit later, so I can watch them all disembark and the most notable thing is that the crowd that exits at MacArthur Park is noticeably short and dark compared to crowd that exits at 7th Street. The people that head to LA Live and downtown are tall; those getting off in the Union District are very, very short, shorter than me even.

Bottom line is, I can’t blame the Target chick for thinking I only speak Spanish.

But now I have a nice lawn chair.