On A Knife Edge

The heat from the pavement seeps into the soles of my feet as I stand under the sun's unrelenting glare. I glance around at the unfamiliar street, looking for some indication of the direction in which I should be walking. Well, I know which direction I need to head in- the high-rise buildings of Downtown Los Angeles dominate the skyline, imposing their corporate presence on the surrounding neighbourhoods- it is how to get there I am not sure of. I continue to look around. Where am I?

Small, one story shops line either side of the street, the walls burnt orange and stained with dirt. The constant hum of traffic is covered by an upbeat Spanish pop song blasting from one of the store-fronts. People hustle along, trying to get their Saturday errands run in piece, some ignore me while others openly stare in curiosity and occasionally hostility. My face must hold a befuddled expression. It is clear to all I am lost.

I turn and walk with confidence vaguely in the direction of Downtown. As I walk a man slows his pace to match mine walking beside me. He is lanky, his black t-shirt and jeans hang off his body. He has a days worth of scruff on his jaw and his hair is long, greasy and unkempt. He smiles at me revealing yellowing teeth.

“Justin Beiber?” He asks in heavily accented English. I frown. Seeing my confusion he asks again, “Justin Beiber?” this time gesturing to my T-shirt. Finally understanding an absurd laugh escapes me.

“David Bowie,” I correct, also gesturing at the print.

“David Bowie like Justin Beiber?” He says in broken English, his eyes wide with genuine curiosity.

“Uh, sort of,” I reply. We approach a crossroad and I hesitate trying to subtly work out which way to go.

“Downtown that way,” the man says, pointing to my left, before pointing straight down the road on which we are currently walking. “I go this way.” He smiles and crosses the road to continue on his way leaving me dumbfounded.

Sighing I look to my left and see the skyscrapers gazing down at me beyond a wide bridge. I begin down the street as I pull my hair into a ponytail, lifting it off my neck sticky with sweat in the stifling heat. As I enter the bridge I look back and survey this mystery place. A small blue sign attached to a lamppost on the central reservation catches my eye. “You are now entering the neighbourhood of Boyle Heights” it says. I allow myself a small smile and turn to continue into the shadow of Downtown L.A.