TRAIN PEOPLE - Long Beach-Hollywood, June 2010

The Mexican and Ecuadorian maids, so recognizable, in their long black hair, worn looks, their grocery bags, returning to their small green houses in a grim neighborhood somewhere.

The Guatemalan grandma carrying a cake and flowers for her grandchild’s birthday party. Her proper looks and beautiful dark eyes with a hint of makeup to disguise the scars of a hard life away from home in a strange land.

The gay latino door to door salesman with his perfectly ironed neckline and his cheap briefcase full of samples of something that nobody wants.

The muscular real estate salesman on a mission, earset ready to take that important call, muscles tensed as he waits for the doors to slide open at Hollywood West.

The electronic music buff, shaved head, bike by his side, rocking to his last generation ipod’s fast-paced tune

The handsome teenage Asian, the short latino basketball player, dressed in full gear and with no future in the game.

All of them, tired and sad this Friday afternoon, with the hard looks of subway people everywhere. That bleak race of the commuters of the world. The eyebags, the fierce looks, the fear in their eyes, holding on to their purses and briefcases like dear life, thinking of home where everything that awaits is someone just as worn out and tired and broken as they are and one of those sad microwave dinners, bad television, and the darkness of the night. It will start all over again tomorrow, and nobody can stop that