Yesterday I found a series of flashcards in the Sepulveda Basin discarded by a person who refers to himself as Gagandeep. They endeavor to explain the fetishistic relation between People of the Favela and trash accumulation.
After this card, the print becomes too small to read.
Gagandeep is a fairly common Hindi name, but in this context perhaps more satisfying as onomatopoeia.
Web search unearths many Gagandeep Singh: a heroic Indian policeman who saved a Muslim from an angry mob, another who was a murder victim in Idaho, and a whole lot of doctors, including one on Van Nuys Blvd. It could be the case this spelunker of diamonds in the trash is one of his patients and has appropriated the name.
Amidst the crusader tents of Bull Creek, medieval disease has returned, ass to mouth, to Los Angeles.
Oh, would a pan piper offer to lead them away. Who would ask questions? For ten million dollars I will blow my flute and you will suffer them no more, sayeth the Piper. You may not know where I’m taking them.
GoFundMe would answer the call in a day. For the price of two lottery tickets per Angeleno, probably in an hour. Then what?
What if an asteroid hit Los Angeles at dawn while the Favela danced around a Maypole in the desert? Our comeuppance.
Or, in the Black Mirror version, we are forced to watch the Soylent Green-like fate to which we have delivered them, and are so guilt-stricken we offer ten times the ransom for their safe return.
Or, we never find out, never see them again, and peaceably adjust to a civic mystery. Untroubled, we begin to look at our ailing, inconvenient grandparents in a whole new light.