Under the shade of the bulbous ficus trees that root this quiet neighborhood block, Pastor Blue glides from the white cargo van to the gas burner with rhythmic ease, crooning to the Luke Combs’ tunes that stand in place of hymns this evening.
“It’s a match made up in heaven, like good ‘ol boys and beer,” Blue sings as he prepares Saturday supper.
“And me, as long as you’re right here.”
On this stretch of Crocker Street in downtown Los Angeles — where a pop-up draped with international flags and filled with seating forms the “Sanctuary” — just about every evening feels like a backyard barbecue.
Blue cooks — hot dogs, sausages, oxtail with rice. Neighbors drop by and linger over beers and a passed blunt. Stories fill the warm, California air as the sun falls low over the city scape, its shards of golden light bouncing off the asphalt, the brick buildings, the lush, stately branches of Indian laurels that frame the sidewalks.
“Like God himself did the afro,” Blue pronounced one evening, sweeping his arm over the view. “Those trees …the skyline …the weather.
“You’ll see the beauty of California, if you can open your eyes past the tents and the cardboard and the trash.”