It’s Halloween and a few of us found ourselves on the corner of La Brea and Obama Boulevard, clutching our coffee and take-out bags like shields against the election hype that’s taken over our lives.
By MARY FRANCES DAVIDSON
Sometimes the best political commentary doesn’t come from pundits or Twitter warriors. Sometimes, it’s served straight up, with a side of sarcasm, on a South L.A. city bus. It’s Halloween and a few of us found ourselves on the corner of La Brea and Obama Boulevard, clutching our coffee and take-out bags like shields against the election hype that’s taken over our lives.
But on this bus ride, talk about the upcoming presidential election was as sharp and entertaining as anything on cable TV.
I stepped onto the bus near the intersection, and as we started moving, a woman with hoop earrings big enough to snag satellites looked up from her phone and said, “Trump better sit his orange self on the porch like a pumpkin.”
This comment, delivered with that indignant-yet-casual tone unique to Los Angeles bus riders, got a couple of chuckles from people sitting nearby. One guy with earbuds hanging out of his pocket and a Dodgers cap nodded in agreement. I saw him smirk and whisper to the guy next to him, “And that J.D. Vance looks like the werewolf.”
Now, let’s pause here for a moment and appreciate what a dead-on description that is: Vance, with his wild, slightly unhinged stare that makes you wonder if he really does bay at the moon when the Ohio skies are clear. It’s spooky season after all, and if Trump’s the pumpkin and Vance is the werewolf, who knows what’s coming next?
As we hit the intersection at Washington and La Brea, the bus slowed down just in time for us all to catch a glimpse of the Taco Bell drive-thru logjam. People were honking at each other, leaning out of car windows with the kind of frustration unique to rush-hour food cravings and South L.A. gridlock. A guy behind me shook his head at the scene outside. “I’ve got one word for this area – traffic!” he sighed, like we were stuck in some Dantean circle of hell designed by Caltrans.
By then, it was clear the bus had turned into a kind of impromptu debate panel, with each rider throwing in their two cents about the state of things. The Dodgers cap guy looked out the window, pointed to the Obama Boulevard sign, and said, “You know, I thought they’d put a street like this in a nicer neighborhood.”
Someone up front shouted back, “Man, Obama’s about more than what street it’s on! It’s the idea.” She had a point: Obama Boulevard, stretching through all its traffic and street vendors, past corner stores and food trucks, speaks to South L.A.’s character.
It’s interesting that here on a bus in L.A., the conversation veers back to the people, the day-to-day rhythms that somehow capture both humor and hope. And right now, on the eve of an election, those voices reflect what’s on everyone’s minds. Some people may tune out the endless debates on cable news, but on this bus, we’re a captive audience with just enough humor to turn our frustration into laughter.
For me, this wasn’t just a political conversation but something closer to an L.A. Halloween tale. There’s Trump, a human-sized pumpkin on the porch of Mar-a-Lago, glaring at passersby from under that ghostly comb-over. There’s J.D. Vance, lurking in Ohio like some Midwest werewolf. Then you’ve got the political traffic jam of our own Obama Boulevard, clogged with candidates who barely know where this street is, let alone what the people on it are talking about.
Maybe that’s what makes a bus ride through South L.A. in October such a perfect snapshot of election season. It’s gritty, unfiltered, and has the humor and grit of people who know the stakes but aren’t buying into the fearmongering.
The woman on the bus who’d cracked the pumpkin line shook her head as we stopped at another red light. “You know, they all need to be quiet for a sec and fix the basics – the schools, the potholes, the job training. Politicians talk, talk, talk, but what’s getting done?”
This mix of humor, frustration, and insight is what keeps these everyday exchanges so real. In the echo chamber of campaign ads and “Breaking News” alerts, it’s refreshing to hear raw voices that cut through the noise. These are the people who’ll stand in line on Election Day and make those choices, maybe with a chuckle, maybe with some skepticism, but always with a clear-eyed look at the world around them.
On Halloween night, kids will be dressed as superheroes, monsters, and yes, probably a few orange-faced politicians. We’ll hang out on our porches, chatting about everything from the World Series to the election, caught somewhere between laughs and headshakes. Because in a city like this, we know the scariest things aren’t the costumes but the decisions made by people who forget about streets like Obama Boulevard until it’s time to ask for votes.
So, for now, we’ll take the pumpkins, the werewolves, and the traffic jams in stride, laughing together on the bus – knowing that our jokes and our insights might not make it to the debate stage but mean everything to each other on this Halloween season in South L.A.
MARY FRANCES DAVIDSON is a writer-at-large for LAMonthly.org. She attended the USC Annenberg School of Communication and Journalism. She can be reached at davidson.mary@myyaho.com
