Great violence flows like a current of hot lava underneath the pavements of this city. When it errupts, it can paint a time and place with inexplicable horror.
Last night, around 10pm, frustrated with the day's traffic and with the fact that it was already time to sleep and I hadn't even eaten dinner, I swallowed the last of my beer and turned off the television.
Outside my window, on Sunset Boulevard, west of my room, past Vine, past Highland, past Fairfax, just past N. Crescent Heights Boulevard, two cars smashed into each other. The headlights of one shattered and sprinkled over the pavement and part of the sidewalk.
The men climbed out of their cars angry. While traffic passed awkwardly on both sides, the two men shouted at each other and kicked the ground. The police were called.
Half a block away, in the parking lot of the House of Blues, three people were stabbed.
When Sgt. Tressa Gunnels of the Los Angeles County Sheriff's department arrived on the scene, the traffic incident didn't appear to have any connection to the stabbings- only that the air felt stuffy amid clouds of car exhaust.
The three victims were taken to nearby hospitals. The House of Blues was closed.
Sgt. Gunnels left Sunset Boulevard unphased.
I fell asleep as soon as I turned off the light by my bed.
