“I had a fall,” he said. “Like everyone here — a fall.”
Harris spots a white man in an SUV and runs over to him. The man seems startled, then recognizes Harris and shakes his hand. It turns out the man has been away from this area for a few years. He gives Harris $5 to look after his car.
Comparing Silver Spoon with Skid Row may seem like a cheap shot, but there was a time when the image of a homeless American next to that of a $4,500 dog house was cause for outrage. Today we don’t care and dismiss such Calcuttan contrasts as vulgar dialectics, demagoguery, class hatred. Silver Spoon is the kind of event that the rest of America, from its trailer parks to The New York Times, eagerly points to as proof of Hollywood insanity, but the deeper madness lies in a country that ridicules the rich without acknowledging its poor, a society that denies the very possibility of contrast and outrage.
For a few minutes Harris’ street is parked out. The meter feeders gather until a space opens up.
“Where’s my money? Where’s that 20 you owe?” one of Harris’ colleagues asks another. “I need to get in that house.”
“That whorehouse?” the other says, indicating some rooms above a lingerie shop. “They won’t let people of color in! Only whites and some Mexicans!”
“I’ve been in!” avers the first man. “Had $80 on me one night, but I just had to have me this one bitch!” He didn’t say if the place served Chivas.
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