backforthmenu Meat. Mike needed a ride to pick up his car from an autobody shop. It had been worked on after receiving a crushed hood from a random bouncing wheel on the freeway. So during our lunch hour, I drive him to the place up in Lawndale, we park, walk around the building to go in, and find all the employees standing out front looking across the street. The garage itself sits on a corner and across an expansive intersection is a boring, rectangular building with a huge, carved wooden sign out front that reads; KING HENRY’s A steakhouse. But the men are not looking at the sign. The place also happens to be a strip joint, and hanging from the side door is a woman in a tight, red, low-cut leotard doing deep knee bends. We enter the autobody shop. Mike’s car is better, he pays and an employee starts to drive it out of the building through a tight maze of other cars. The boss, a wide black man, sees this and explodes vocally, arms waving as he rushes the car. “YO, GET THE FUCK OUT THAT CAR! GET OUT!” He opens the door, escorting the small, Hispanic driver away from the vehicle. “Man, if you had a BRAIN, you’d be dangerous. Let someone who KNOWS how to drive get this man’s car out.” He turns to us, “Mother fucker ain’t gonna smash your car up after we fixed it. I’ve warned him before...” Mike makes the cash exchange with the large man and we get out, drive around the corner to the intersection and past King Henry’s place. The door is closed, the leotard gone... 6/12/99