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Waking Up in the 1930s
Posted on Sep 2, 2010
By Howie Stier
“We have an increasing demand, and a variable supply … and we’re not meeting demand right now,” says Darren Hoffman, communication director of the L.A. Regional Food Bank, a warehouse complex in South-Central so cavernous a squadron of Blackhawk helicopters could maneuver in it. The food bank is the wellspring for more than 575 food pantries, like that of the Sylmar church, throughout L.A. County. The past 24 months has seen a huge jump in demand.
“The Food Bank distributed 54 million pounds of food in 2009. From July 2009 to July 2010 we’ve seen an increase amounting to 34 percent over that,” says Hoffman. Two years ago the same number of pantries needed 34 million pounds to feed clients. So who is driving the demand? “People who earned 50 to 70 thousand dollars a year. Now they’ve depleted savings, gone through the 401(k).”
Meanwhile, Beverly Hills gears up for a four-day festival of wine and gourmet food, hawking tickets that run at $149 for a day of sampling.
In July of 1932, then-Army Chief of Staff Gen. Douglas MacArthur led armor, cavalry and infantry against hungry Americans—veterans of the Great War—ending the Bonus Army march on Washington, D.C., at bayonet point. Today his doll-like, pigeon-shit-patinaed sculpture stands in his eponymous L.A. park, a showpiece of the city long fallen into a hangout for the down-and-out, where at dawn each day the general again faces ranks of hungry Americans.
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The new food-stamp recipient is counseled by an older man who has been on welfare the past two years. “Tell them you’re homeless, you sleep on a friend’s couch. Then you can get relief. That’s $200 a month. Tell your [aid] worker you deserve a check.”
The men fan out, flanking the general’s statue, and as the sun rises higher they find shade. After a couple of hours, a parks worker drives by in a golf cart and explains, “When the park is clean, you can go shopping, go to McDonald’s—just come back in the afternoon to sign out, and bring back the vest.”
Jennifer Williams is 32 and smiles broadly, radiating energy as she bounces among the shoppers in the Hollywood women’s boutique where she works selling the type of gear Jessica Simpson wears on magazine covers, where women who just seem to have money are taking advantage of the store’s deep retail discounts. Williams appears to be in her element, offering help or a glass of wine (this is Hollywood) to shoppers. But after ringing up a sale, she turns stone-cold serious, the smile vanishes. “I wake up and feel like I’ve failed,” she says.
Williams spent the past 10 years working her way up in the core industry of this creative capital: film production. She’s been making 5 a.m. call times, putting in the grunt work that propels a career in production, meeting people and building a reputation for getting things done. She found her niche in production coordinating, producing TV commercials—the first thing to go when the credit dried up.
Williams says she feels “like when someone in a relationship cheats on you and you look inward and blame yourself—what did I do, what can I do?” Her dream was a modest, accessible one: to be a production manager in the producer’s union, where one can earn a scale of $500 to $750 in a day of shooting. She’s “day-playing” for TV, filling spots when someone with a job can’t make it. Two days a week if she’s lucky—but not in her slot as a coordinator, instead starting at the bottom as a production assistant.
“People who produce commercials for television have a nice life, they can take in $20,000 in a few weeks of shooting and go on to other projects, or vacation,” she says wistfully. Taking the part-time sales position was the first step to realizing the production work might not come back. “I hope things change; I don’t want to give up on my dream yet.”
“The ’30s was a time when people had very little and there was nothing to hide behind … it was a glorious non-bullshit time,” wrote Charles Bukowski, the poet and author who grew up in Los Angeles during the Depression, and who was moved by the image of the unemployed men, the fathers of classmates, killing the day sitting on the porches of east Hollywood.
Today, in his old neighborhood, he’d find the unemployed, mostly young creative types who came to L.A. to work in TV and film, filling the cafes, the ubiquitous shops emblematic of L.A. culture. Noon and you can’t find an open table in any of them. But the coffee shop-goers don’t come here to socialize, to discuss politics or movies, or even to have coffee. These are offices for those without a reason to be in an office, where they sit silently, staring at laptop screens, poring over Craigslist job offerings, firing off résumés into cyberspace, pecking away at pipe-dream projects. And they are filled with hope and unable to share the poet’s sensibility and embrace of a non-bullshit time.
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