LOS ANGELES _ Last year in May, life got even nastier for the homeless of Broadway Place.
First came the car crash.
A silver Accord ran the stop at 39th Street, slammed into a red Infiniti and careened into an encampment, taking out Horace and Wendy's tent and hitting the big man known as X.
Big Mama, a senior resident, heard the screeching tires and thump.
The Accord sat on the sidewalk. It had rammed a black love seat through one side of the tent. Milk crates, water bottles and clothing bags lay scattered amid bicycles, chairs, a shopping cart. Transmission fluid pooled in the gutter, where urine bottles had landed. Shards of glass sparkled on the asphalt.
Neither Horace nor Wendy was home, and X suffered only a minor injury.
Two days later came the stabbing.
A young man pulled up in a Nissan and started yelling at the neighbor who lived in a tent mid-block with his three dogs, including a pit bull named Caesar.
Big Mama watched as insults escalated into shoving, slapping and punching.
Then the troublemaker ran to the car and came back with what looked like a pair of scissors. He took a swing, a penitentiary stab just below the ear.
The neighbor screamed, hand to his bleeding neck. He reached for a broom handle, chased the assailant, then returned to his tent, feeling faint. He went to the hospital. Weeks would pass before he returned.
Big Mama was shaken. Broadway Place in South Los Angeles was her home. Her tent wasn't much but it was all she had, and the residents of this ragged little community were her friends.
On the best days, she was grateful for what she had found on the street, the protection and mutual understandings. They looked out for one another. But at moments like these, she knew this was no place to live.
But if not here, where?
