FRANCISCO

Today I talked to Francisco.

The day is so hot that no one ventures outside. If feels like the heat comes from everywhere - the sky, the walls, the roads, and the cars. It is 4.30pm. The temperature starts slightly to dip down. I decide to get out and look for someone to talk to.

On Santa Monica Boulevard, I come across cast sculptures of Christs, Virgins, Buddhas, Indian gods, and miniatures of David. Dozens of them are aligned on the sidewalk. Right behind, there is a mini mall with a laundry, a Donuts shop, and a 7-Eleven. I walk to the wooden cabin that stands in the middle of the parking lot. It is the sculptures' workspace. Pots of paints, brushes, and various tools are scattered on a workbench outside the hut. A man stands next to it. He greets me. His name is Francisco. He works here as a painter. I ask him if I can watch him work. He accepts. I move in the shade, under pieces of fabric and tarps stacked up and tied to electric poles. Francisco is originally from Guadalajara, Mexico. He has been working here for eight years.

He stands in a yoga pose: one leg rooted to the floor and the other bent, resting on his knee. He grabs a paunchy Buddha from the ground and delicately puts it on the bench. With the tip of a knife, he removes the dirt from the folds in the cast. Then, he pours fresh water in a plastic cup full of used brushes, takes one, and dips it in an olive green paint. "Me. Only one color," he says. He shows me the plain statues. Then he points to a man sitting inside the cabin. "This guy is good." A dark man with earplugs sits at a tiny desk full of knick-knack. "This is Rodrigo," says Francisco. Rodrigo waves at me and turns back to his work. He meticulously draws the details in Nefertiti's necklace. One more color to add and the queen will be finished. But Rodrigo stands up and says something in Spanish. He gets out of the cabin and leaves. "He has to go see his dog. He lives three blocks from here," Francisco says. He points at a picture of a white smiling poodle that hangs at Rodrigo's desk.

Francisco loves his job and nothing seems to bother him. Not even the heat or the continuous traffic. He knows the rhythms of the city by heart. Each moment of the day tells a story. When the kids go to school, when lunch is over, when people come from work, or when an event comes up in Hollywood... Francisco is a traffic expert, with a specialization in Santa Monica Boulevard. While we speak, he paints one statue after the other and puts it back on the floor to dry. A wave of loud traffic passes by. I notice a short white and beige column. "I could use it as a candle holder. How much is it?" I ask. Francisco seizes it, wipes it with a rag, and hands it to me. "For you, nothing." I hesitate. "Take it, take it," he says. I accept his gift and thank him. It was good to stop by. Time to leave this little oasis of humanity and get back to the streets with my new Greek column in hand.