[For HIV/AIDS Outreach: Part Two, please see my entry at Los Angeles River.]

Our second stop was one and a half Thomas Guide inches to the left of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. During our thirty minutes there, we saw two slow-moving police cars three times each.

Watson was not one of the six people who approached the van from the nearby settlement, so Ralph set off into the dense, hillside wall of oleander to find him. The two of them had an HIV test to coordinate. Meanwhile at the van, toothless and clean Pam accepted punch, but brushed aside condoms. “I’m in the change of life and have no interest. Maybe later.” She would like clothes, though. She may be homeless, but she likes to change everyday. In what sizes, I asked. She took one coy step back and flung out her arms that I might see her form more clearly and make the determination myself. (Indeed, at this writing, the image of her cruciform pose has proven to be more memorable than corresponding numerical measurements would have!) Ralph returned. Watson found and accounted for, we left.

The difficulties of working with the Watsons of this particular universe are multiple. As is the case with this specific one—Watson of the Oleanders—weeks might pass from the time someone will express in passing a desire to get tested and Ralph’s being able to actually find them again in order to accompany them to a clinic. Ralph has arranged for a phlebotomist to participate on outreaches every other week. She draws blood on the spot for those who wish the test. But the results do not come then for two weeks and Ralph has no assurance of finding the recipients once he has their results in hand. Moreover, he has learned not to expect them to keep in their possession the slip with their code number. Accordingly, he has had to start holding the slips himself, scribbling on the back descriptions that are both oblique enough to ensure confidentiality and precise enough to ensure future identification. He has recently learned that several people whose results—some positive—he has carried for weeks were deported. He is considering a trip to Tijuanawhere he thinks he might be able to locate them if he searches the red light district. He mused that he needs a companion for safety’s sake.

Safety. An issue I had not given much thought to, frankly. We were four in the van, armed only with good will and a full tank of gas. We saw not one more police car as we crossed the river and turned, turned, turned into a railroad yard, then alongside a warehouse, and finally opposite a forbidding row of immense, stone arches.

[For HIV/AIDS Outreach: Part Four, please see my entry at Glassell Park.]