He Has His Walking Points

It's a question of respect.

"It has occurred to me that except for the hygiene aspect, I wouldn't mind being homeless -- as much as I love the streets of Los Angeles," he said.

*

On Lorena Street, heading toward Vernon, Hopper passed worn Craftsman homes, banana leaves and bougainvillea stretching out of small gardens toward the sun. He strolled by sidewalk fruit stands selling mango dusted with chili powder, past the Oscar De La Hoya Youth Center, the Divino Salvador Pupuseria.

On Estrada, just off Lorena, a man lay passed out on the ground. Hopper barely saw him. His eyes were glued to the irregular splotches on the sidewalk. Some were black, some pink, some a grit-flecked pale gray.

"I like these dirty sidewalks with all the gum on them," he said. "The gum makes such interesting patterns."

*

Occasionally Hopper repeats walks. It's a form of civic guardianship. A while ago, one Boyle Heights bar caught his eye. He loved its rainbow mural. The second time he passed by, the mural was gone. The bar was gray. Hopper keeps track.

He would never go inside, not even just to use the bathroom. He doesn't think that would be right. Hopper rarely makes a pit stop except if he's eating lunch, which is usually at his favorite chain, King Taco. He'll also use the bathroom at Target, because he regularly shops at one. He spends. The store provides. He sees that as a fair exchange.

Still, he usually doesn't plan pit stops. He prefers not to know where he's going.

One day, setting off on foot from his apartment, Hopper came to a decision: He couldn't start every walk by walking. If he did, he figured, the beginning would too often be the same.

So now he walks from home straight to the Red Line, gets off at Pershing Square or Union Station and takes a bus.

He doesn't care which bus. He wants to go everywhere. He rides to the end of the line and walks from there -- wherever there turns out to be.

*

On Vernon Avenue, the sun scorched. Flat factory facades offered no shade. Hopper kept his shirt sleeves buttoned at the wrists. He hasn't bought a short-sleeved shirt since 1968, when his wife told him his arms were wimpy. His legs aren't, though, and even in the heat he kept them moving.