Charlie Huston - Sleepless

Things didn’t fold entirely until a NAJi blew himself up inside Wrigley Field. It wasn’t home run balls falling on Waveland Avenue that afternoon.

It didn’t take more than a week for the leagues to suspend operations. The assumption being that once things were in hand the seasons that had been halted in progress would resume. Some months at most. Well into the second full lost season, there were no indications that the arenas and stadiums would be reopening any time soon.

Oddly, or ironically, perhaps, in South America and throughout Asia the football stadiums were still packed. Soccer was at last becoming the breakout U.S. spectator sport that television executives had long despaired it would never become. One heard that even Great Britain, almost immediately quarantined when SLP was thought to be mad cow disease, still packed the pitches for matches, and increasingly violent riots. Both of which found their way to the Web as pirate video, drawing fans to the teams and the hooligans of the more vicious clubs.

Without its regular tenants, and considering that the convention trade had also run a bit dry, the Staples Center was falling into disuse just as the Midnight Carnival evolved. It began as an open-air market, part of an infrastructure that had accreted around the new borders of Skid Row as it burst from its traditional limits above Seventh and east of Main, consuming office blocks as they were emptied by bankruptcy, absorbing Little Tokyo along with the Wholesale and Fashion Districts. The ranks of the homeless swelled as every week brought a new firestorm, landslide, or pogrom to rid a particular neighborhood of whoever happened to be deemed undesirable in that locale. Clearly a population as dense as the one sprawling now from Alameda to the Harbor Freeway, from the Santa Monica to East Third, just blocks from L.A. Water and Power and the municipal and U.S. district courts, was a commercial opportunity. All of it loomed over by the squalettes on the roof and upper floors of the unfinished L.A. Live tower.

Taco truck drivers, dumpster-diving salvage experts, industrious home vegetable gardeners with ample yards, buskers, medicos whose licenses had been rendered useless for years after they crossed the border to El Norte, breeders of cats and dogs who knew from hard experience that qualms about where the meat comes from are the only thing soothed by true hunger, dealers in the looted contents of abandoned Inland Empire McMansions, oil drum barbeque chefs, experts in shiatsu massage, mechanics with a knack for cars that predated a preponderance of silicon chips, biodiesel siphon bandits with unfiltered bootleg fryer oil, pickpockets and whores, those with a gift for distilling caustic spirits from corn husks and potato peels, and the assorted enforcers and homegrown security who watched over them all, keeping the peace, or shattering it, depending on who was or was not paying.

Naturally, the city let it fester. And equally naturally, once it was settled with a degree of permanence that could not be defeated with anything short of bulldozers (an option championed by a city council member who was soon after dumped, partially eviscerated, from the open door of a speeding car at the emergency entrance of King Harbor Hospital), the city set out to regulate and tax the new outbreak of free trade. In terms of logistics this had resulted in a fence, a price for admission to the market, and a large deployment of former parking enforcement officers who, in the face of obsolescence, had been pressed into duty as ticket takers. They were supported in dire extremes by a small contingent of SWATs who emerged from their command trailer from time to time to fire shots into the air, quelling the more than occasional riots that threatened to break out each time the city upped the cost of a ticket. Industrious visitors circled the fence until they found one of the many rents that were opened daily in the chain link, always more holes than the harried crew of repairmen were capable of or, for their own well-being, cared to be seen sealing.

The Anschultz Entertainment Group saw their own opportunity and seized it, creating a kind of indoor annex to the market within the Staples. The goods and services were slightly more high-end; there was ample seating, plumbing; the ventilation system functioned, if not the AC; security was more present and less likely to shake one down; and it had the reassuring familiarity of a mall. There also tended to be a number of spontaneous parties breaking out of luxury suites that had been rented by slummers, or erupting in the aisles when the DJ who commanded the PA system played an especially groove-worthy track.

Initially only pockets of both markets served beyond midnight, but as more and more sleepless were drawn to the candle flames, wood-burning grills, and improvised bars built on cinder block and scrapped Formica countertops, more and more shopkeepers began to extend their hours. It was a matter of only a few months before the market’s late-night trade was catering specifically to the sleepless demographic, a segment of the population that as often as not had little or no foreseeable need to keep its savings intact or to cling to personal possessions of value.

The Midnight Carnival was a name of unknown origin. And for any cheer it might suggest one could more realistically draw to memory the fetid smell of summer midways, the gap-toothed carneys, and the inevitable greasy stickiness unpleasantly covering one’s hands at the end of the day.

Honestly, I have no idea why I loved the place.

Vinnie the Fish worked from the back of a permanently immobilized late-model El Camino. The tailgate, dismounted and resting on waist-high stacks of milk crates ballasted with chunks of broken concrete, served as his work surface and service area. Standing behind this improvised counter, he’d reach into one of the dozen or so coolers that filled the open bed of the El Camino and pull out calico bass, California sheeps -head, bonito, the occasional horn shark, yellowtail, or moray, and gut, scale, debone, or fillet the fish to order.

A wobbly Webber grill was home to three cast iron frying pans that he’d occasionally squirt with olive oil, tossing in fistfuls of mussels, smelt, and rock shrimp. A damp rag wrapped around his hand, he’d toss the mollusks, crustaceans, and fish, sprinkling them with salt and pepper, waiting for the mussels to open, the skin of the smelt to crisp, and the shrimps to pinken before dumping them onto thick folds of newspaper, datelines from two years gone by, garnished with half a lemon, a dollop of his wife’s homemade tartar sauce, and a white plastic spork.

I sat on an upside-down bucket at the counter, watching as he passed one of these packages to the potbellied Cambodian he paid in fresh fish to sit on the roof of the El Camino with a sawed-off Louisville Slugger across his knees and the butt of a Smith & Wesson AirLite.41 Magnum sticking from his belt. The guard was only a few years younger than myself, bald, with a scar that should have been mortal running from ear to ear. He squeezed lemon over his meal and sporked it to his mouth, bite by bite, his eyes never ceasing to roam over the customers and the jostling crowd in the immediate area.

Vinnie dipped a meat hook into one of the coolers, brought out a two-foot kelp bass, and held it before a stout Salvadoran abuela attended by a whippetlike teenager with MS-13 tattoos on his neck and face who eyed the Cambodian much as his grandmother eyed the dead fish. She ran her fingers down its flank then held them to her nose and gave a sniff, instantly shaking her head and complaining in loud Spanish about the price Vinnie had chalked on a piece of broken slate in front of the counter.

Vinnie’s only reaction was to drop the fish back in its cooler, lift one of the pans from the grill, give the contents a toss, and nod at the next customer, a young Chinese housewife who immediately requested the immaculate bass, setting off a wail of protest from the granny claiming prior ownership. The gangster grandson made a move toward the housewife, and the Cambodian slipped off the roof of the El Camino, half-finished dinner in one hand, stubbed baseball bat in the other. The boy struck a pose, chin out, arms akimbo, but his grandmother hooked him by the elbow, hissing in his ear, dragging him from the path of the bowlegged Cambodian, both of them disappearing into the crowd, trailed by the hood’s string of threats and promises of retribution for the disrespect shown his grandmother.