WTG Devin

Sometimes dropping a letter off at the local post office is a hassle. Sometimes it’s life threatening. Guess which one this story is.

I was visiting my good friend Angel the set-designer one week I didn’t have work. Angel lives at the top of a hill in the wonderful neighborhood of Pacoima in the San Fernando Valley (that’s Los Angeles for all you non-Californians). Pacoima, in addition to being the birthplace of Leonardo DiCaprio, has gangs that many consider to be more terrifying than ANY other area in Los Angeles, as they have a well-documented tendency to shoot pedestrians on sidewalks at random. The residents of Pacoima like the place so much that a sign reading “Hansen Hills” had its letters chipped away to read “Hell”. Cute.

Anyways, everyone was at work so I was home alone, finishing a letter to my friend Mike, who is in the Peace Corps in Malawi. I decide I need to mail it right away, as I was leaving for the desert the next day, I had no stamps, and Angel was getting back from work after the post office closed. Fortunately Angel said I could use his dad’s bike.

Now let’s get something straight. I am not a good biker. I grew up in a city where the pavement looked like a jigsaw puzzle and the leading cause of death was bus accidents, so I didn’t learn how to ride a bike until I was in college and my friend Mike (same one that’s in the Peace Corps) forced me to bike around Santa Cruz during beach traffic in an effort to kill me. Anyways, so I walk into Angel’s garage, and set my eyes on Angel’s dad’s brand new racing bike. It has wheels that are about as wide as a toothpick, it weighs five pounds, and it was definitely worth more than my life. Thanks for the head’s up Angel. I sigh and get on.I roll down Angel’s 45 degree angled hill at like 80 mph (and yes, I did go “wheeee!”) and turn onto Pacoima’s main street. The post office is a good 3 miles away, it’s 100 degrees, and as soon as I get on the street I start coughing because LA has the air quality of a coal mine. The streets of Pacoima are not designed for bikes, let alone tiny racing bikes that feel like a strong wind could pop the tire. So there I am, trying to avoid glass from broken 40’s, crumbling cement, cars, and yes, syringes, when I roll past some bushes and A PACK OF RABID CHIHUAHAS break cover and start coming after me, yipping like crazy. I nearly fall off the bike in shock. In retrospect this sounds kind of funny – IT WASN’T. Those things could have inflicted some severe ankle damage. I take off, and after about a block they stop following me.A few minutes later I come up behind this one guy dressed in office clothes and carrying a briefcase. I’m about to let him know I want to pass when he hears my bike. He immediately drops his briefcase, plants his feet, and starts to PUNCH ME IN THE FACE. I duck. He apologizes a second later, but I can’t really talk as I’m pedaling away pretty fast.

I get to the post office after crossing like 5 train tracks and 3 freeway overpasses, and on the front door a sign says “Robbing a post office is a federal offense.” No shit. I walk in and am completely unsurprised to see lots of bullet proof glass. I am dripping sweat, coughing, holding a racing bike in one hand, and asking a teller for postage to Malawi. I can understand why the teller looked at me a little strange. I pay, then enjoy another fun 20 minute bike ride back through DTP.

I hope you like your letter Mike.