Dear Antonio Villaraigosa: The Streets of L.A. Are in Utter Disrepair

The streets in Los Angeles are in utter disrepair. Somebody could get killed. Or, worse yet, destroy an axle or lose a tire on their car when their automobile hits one of the many gaping potholes found studding L.A.'s most heavily trafficked streets.

I wouldn't take up such a boisterous complaint, but as I was driving north on Wilton, the car in front of me hit a pothole the width of two tires and at least as deep as half of a tire. The car was a Lexus, black, shiny, and overall too nice to be hitting giant holes in the street. The car's front right tire, almost magically, became detached and rolled ahead of the Lexus. The tire, rolling at a frightful speed and bouncing into the air, headed straight for a middle-aged man walking on the sidewalk.

Two things happened at once, and you could only look at one of them at a time. Sparks flew from the Lexus' bare metal, where its tire once was, now grinding along the cement. The other spectacle was the tire plowing into the man walking on the sidewalk. He was leveled by the force. The man flew into the green grass next to the sidewalk, and the tire came to rest at the end of the block.

I stopped my car. The owner of the Lexus was cursing anybody who stopped to help. "My car," he shouted, "isn't that fabulous? Take a look at my car. Not two weeks old. Christ have mercy."

A church fellow are you? someone asked from their open car window, and then sped off. I checked on the man hit by the tire. I feared he was dead. He took quite a blow. I helped him sit up. A grotesque tire mark striped him from his crotch to his forehead. How in hell had that happened? You look like a cartoon, I told him. Let's get you some proper help.

The man stood, said he was OK, just a little shook up, had some pain in his back, in his groin, and his right shoulder was giving him some trouble. He wore an old powder blue leisure suit, probably from 1974, but now tainted by a streak of rubber from 2011.

"I'm a poet," he said, "and I'm sure this will lend me lucid inspiration and unwarranted description about life and death. One moment I'm walking, happy as any man, and the next I'm facing the sky, catching my breath. No thoughts of past affairs with women entered my mind. I thought of my ex-wife, who's hardly a woman, more of a fiend, and wished this bad luck on her. Hardly a wish from an elucidated poet, but I've always cherished the improper."

Let's get you to a hospital. The man who owned the Lexus stood at its rear bumper and furiously directed traffic around his car. "Slow down," he shouted, "we've got an emergency here!" He was on his phone. His other arm wildly waved, directing the other drivers. "I need a tow truck," he said into the phone."And charge it to Mayor Villaraigosa!"

He won't mind, I shouted to the Lexus driver. Villaraigosa accepts free tickets for Lakers games, American Idol tapings, and more than two dozen other sports and entertainment events. He'll probably give you free tickets to something. Like Crazy Girls. You know, on La Brea. The man threw his free hand in the air and talked on his phone.

I led the poet to my vehicle, which I had parked in an open space a few car lengths behind the maimed Lexus. I helped the poet into the passenger's seat. His nose was bleeding. We pulled around the Lexus, and the poet tried to lower the window. It's broken, I said, the motor inside the door must have stopped. Sorry, you can't yell at the bastard. I handed the poet napkins from my glove box.

He tucked the bloody tissue into his breast pocket. "If it was just, let's say, La Brea, it wouldn't be so bad," he said, "even if for one hundred miles there were nasty potholes, the road could still be mostly be avoided. But it's not one road. It's Wilton, Western, Wilshire," he said, "and Highland, La Brea, and Vine. Olympic, Beverly, and Franklin. How could the mayor of Los Angeles let our streets erode into such decline?"

You mean Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa? Why don't you email him your concern about the streets of L.A.? I asked. He's got a special webpage for that called Ask the Mayor. You could tell him how you almost died because of his negligence in fixing L.A.'s busiest streets. In fact, we still don't know for sure that you're going to make it. I'm taking you to the hospital. I don't want you to be bleeding inside and not know about it.

"I'm not going to the hospital," he yelled. "Take me to the mayor's office. I'm going to settle with Villaraigosa, man to man. We're going to square up."

That's probably not a great idea, I said, the mayor of Los Angeles probably packs a gun. He's got gang ties. I'm certain he does.

"I ain't scared of him. Los Angeles can fund those damned police helicopters to buzz around all night. They circle that bird around at 3am by my house, and I look out my window and see that great spotlight shining on a dirty man digging through a trashcan." The poet touched his nose and looked at his fingers. The tread of the tire mark looked like a strange cannibalistic face tattoo.

"I expected a murderer, or a pimp beating a guy, or a gang shootout, but it's a skinny old homeless bum, searching for some moldy food, and probably drunk on rum. He looks up at the helicopter's spotlight, probably thinking he's died and gone to Heaven. He lifted both hands into the air, beckoning that great light up there. After fifteen minutes of the helicopter roaring overhead, making tight circles around the man, ten police cars came and screeched to a halt.

'It's not his fault,' I yelled out my window, 'let him go, he's hungry, he's looking for something to eat.' But alas, they couldn't hear me over the din. When you're a homeless man, looking for moldy food in a dumpster is a sin."

That's all very good, but you can't tell the mayor that. You were almost killed by the utter disrepair of this city's streets. The real issue, in this instance, is fixing those craters in the major streets of L.A.

"I'm going to say, let's start spending money in a more proactive way," the poet said, raising a finger. "Let's spend millions on making a better city, not harassing those unfortunate souls who have been given by God not a livelihood, but coals."

Do you rhyme your poetry this way? It could use some work. Here's the mayor's office. Let him see your new tire tattoo. That should convince him, and keep on the subject of the shameful state of the streets in this city. Don't get too poetic on Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa .

The poet carefully stepped out of my car. I watched him tepidly step up the walkway, holding one hand to his back, and the other to his forehead. He opened the door, and I sped off.