The Gambling Monk

In Venice, the second most traveled tourist stop in Southern California, business was off. It was just after 9/11, a section of the Boardwalk, (actually concrete) starting at Horizon, continuing South about a block, had been claimed by Sooth Sayers, you know, the Palm Readers, Tarot Card Readers, the ones in tune with future events. Out in front, virtually a stage, scenes played out, some entertainment for the patrons of the Sidewalk Cafe. The fights over real estate were tremendous, all the players felt they should occupy the prime space. It didn’t matter there were no tourist, all the tension was over something that was not there. The locals of Venice, the talent, painters, musicians, crafts people, had no use for fortune tellers, hell, if they were really able to see the future, they wouldn’t be there at all, they would have woken up, looked into there crystal ball, and saw it would be another off day for beach business. South Hollywood, some would call it Korea town, sports quite a mix of people, we’ve got our gangs, our homeless, early mornings, around three or four, the tyrannies are out, on Sunday Nights- Monday Mornings, from time to time, the pimps and prostitutes of South LA attempt laying claim to these blocks. The cops do a good job moving them along, it has become more difficult, as the times are harder. The place I call my home is an oasis, a bit isolated from all of this, behind green gates, an enclave of creatives. This is no venice beach, I don’t have the money to live there anymore, never the less, I enjoy my neighborhood, I feel blessed that I found this place. Now we’ve got our crazy people, I just ran into four of them while buying smokes, I sometimes wonder what happened to them. One of these gentlemen looks familiar, Hollywood is sometimes rough on the spirit, I feel I knew this guy back when, he doesn’t talk, he truly is in his own world, when we pass, we acknowledge each other, it seems I am familiar to him as well. Charles, a black man, with bright blue eyes, recycles. I guess he calls Smart and Final, home. He rolls his cart into the lot around dark, unrolls his blankets,curling up for the night, moving out at the crack of dawn. He is a nice guy, I’ve seen him as long as I’ve lived here, we chit chat from time to time. He never asks for anything, the kind of man you fell good about helping. You know I don’t know which is harder on him, the one hundred degree dog days of summer, or cold and damp winter nights on the streets of LA. I run into this Buddhist Monk in my neighborhood, mostly where I buy my Pall Mall’s. The Car Wash/Gas station, inside and out, has Buddha painted on walls and ceilings. This man puts out a really good vibe, as I’m waiting in line, buying some cigs, one day last week I notice he is checking his numbers, running his stack of lottery tickets through the reader. There are a few people waiting behind me when I bellow, ah, the Gambling Monk, all along, up until now, I believed he came into the store to visit Buddha. The people in line behind me laughed, it got the attention of the Monk as well. He said, me no gamble, me no gamble, and then I said, oh, a sure thing. The people in line roared, by this time the Monk had turned, realized that we knew each other a little, that I was screwing with him. This man is always smiling, this caused him to smile more. He pulled out his card and handed it to me. He explained to me that it was not gambling, because whatever winnings, went to feeding the homeless