The DMZ

Cops love to eat, especially when the price is right. L.A. is full of fine eateries. Many of them, even expensive ones, like to show their love when the cops walk in. Though this city is full of pop spots, the cops sometimes like to eat at some of the simplest and cheapest ones, burger joints, ribs, chicken, tacos, and now falafel and what not.

Recently, three old sergeants piled into the Watch Commander response vehicle and headed out into the late night for a snack. Their destination was a little taco stand on a street corner in North Hollywood.

The area around the taco stand is mostly industrial, surrounded by poor neighborhoods, known for their violent street gangs. The taco stand as with many such eateries is a natural crossroads. Everyone gets hungry now and then.

The sergeants rolled into the tiny corner lot and strolled over to the order window. At the same time from the opposite entrance, three area gangsters rolled into the parking lot. They also made their way to the order widow. One of the gangsters gestured to the sergeants to go ahead and order first. One of the sergeants in turn gestured, no, please, you first.

What just happened here? It's simple. The taco stand was in effect, a De-militarized zone. A DMZ. All differences ceased to matter. The cops and the gangsters were all hungry and they were going to forget everything else so that they could fill their bellies.

Not all meetings between different folks of different strokes turn out so good.

One time in south L.A. two rival gang members crossed paths at the same pastrami stand. The meeting wasn't good. Before it was over, shots were fired and a smattering of brain matter glistened on the pastrami. The stand reopened shortly after detectives completed their crime scene investigation.

Back to the sergeants and gangsters in North Hollywood. The sergeants, with their combined years of job experience totaling some ninety years, and the gangsters with their combined gangster experience totaling some thirty years (They don't live too long), all enjoyed their tacos, eating on the hoods of their cars not more than twenty feet apart.

The gangsters finished first and piled into their car, perhaps to get a head start in case the sergeants had any ideas. The sergeants, intent on taking their time to enjoy their tacos, couldn't have cared less. One of them briefly wondered if the car was stolen, but why run the plate? Probably nothing good would come of it. As such, it might ruin an otherwise perfectly fine snack break.