Music’s Masked Avenger

"Used syringe," she said with pursed lips, pointing.

"Drowned rat," she said, stooping to observe a very large rodent lying dead in the gutter.

"Gang graffiti — EAT THE RICH," she continued, reading aloud.

"Good thing I’m not rich," I joked.

My idea was backfiring. Instead of changing my sister’s idea about my neighborhood, she was changing mine. I hadn’t wanted to leave my last apartment, an amazing little pad oozing with charm, but I’d had no choice. Ironically, I was producing a radio piece on affordable housing in Los Angeles at the time. Guess what I discovered? There isn’t any. So when I scored what seemed to be the last affordable place in L.A., I jumped.

A few days after my sister’s visit I went for another walk, determined to recapture the appreciation I had for my hood. At the base of the sprawling staircase, I took a few preparatory breaths, then huffed my way up two at a time. Heart pounding, cheeks flushed, I stopped at the top to take in the view. Like a perfectly balanced painting, the scene was divided into thirds — bright blue sky, billowy white clouds and green, crushed-velvet hills.

I strolled down Park Street, lined on one side with houses where dogs were sunning themselves in front yards, and massive eucalyptus trees on the other. Ducking under a low branch, I made my way toward the wide dirt path that runs above the park. Surrounded by nature, I hoped to leave the city and my worries behind. Then I saw some clothing strewn under a tree and my mind began to spin an elaborate tale of murder and worse, with imagined attackers leaping out from behind bushes.

I followed the path for about half a mile, trying to shake my head free of these thoughts, the sound of rustling leaves soothing and quieting my mind. After a few minutes, I reached a lovely, manicured grove — an unexpected bit of human intervention blooming with fragrant lavender, white and yellow daisies, flowering succulents, and red bottle brush buzzing with bees, all framed by curved tree branches resembling driftwood. I sat on the solitary green bench facing the downtown skyline and closed my eyes.

"Hello," I heard.

I had to strain to see him, sitting on the ground with a plastic bag, gathering leaves with his bare hands. He was short and squat, like a garden gnome. He had a bald, dome-shaped head and a face like a beaten-up pumpkin.

"Oh, hello," I said tentatively.

"Catching some rays?" he asked in a coarse voice.

"Just enjoying the day," I replied sincerely.

"It’s a great spot, isn’t it? The best in L.A., I think," he added.

"Definitely one of them," I answered.

His scraggy dog came over demanding attention. I gave him a scratch and noticed that his tag said "Lucky."

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Just cleaning up leaves. I help out here."

He told me that the garden had been planted 25 years earlier by a group of retirees.

"Gradually the women started dying off, and now there’s just one of ’em left. I saw her one day and asked if I could help. I’ve been volunteering for about 14 years now."

With that I knew my sister had been wrong. Echo Park was a warm and welcoming community of diverse people who create beauty for beauty’s sake. I was grateful I had found such a place to live. Any reservations I’d had about the garden gnome and my new neighborhood dissipated.

"Wow, that’s wonderful. I’m Karen, by the way."

"Eddie."

"Hi, Eddie. It’s nice to meet you."

I was feeling open and peaceful.

Then he said, "Hey, turn around."

"Why?" I asked, slightly confused.

"So I can get a look at your ass."

—Karen X Fritsche