Lost in America: A Dead-End Journey (10 page)

Chapter Nine

Never Look Back

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.”

MARK TWAIN

O
nce again reunited with my mistress, I thought she looked more stunning than ever. We embraced, and amazingly, she fired up, first try. I let the engine run for a bit; it felt good to be back behind the wheel, like sitting back down on an old comfy sofa in your living room after a long day of work. When I shifted the car into reverse to exit long-term parking and pick up where I had left off, I noticed that my fuzzy dice were missing . . . as well as the rearview mirror from which they had been dangling. I looked around and saw that the mirror must have fallen off somehow, probably from being parked in the Denver sun too long.

Despite my love for the romantic symbolism of not being able to ever look back, I found out rather quickly that driving without a rearview is a lot more difficult than you might think. What you don’t realize is how often you look behind you while driving, to see where you’ve been, or maybe to see whether any police are tailing you. Since this was now impossible for me to do, I became a bit paranoid and unable to concentrate on driving, so I pulled off the road and took side streets until I came across a small town with, of course, a twenty-four-hour Walmart, and small string of chain hotels nearby.

The next morning, since I don’t like paying full price for shit, I made sure to help myself to a generous array of items from my motel’s free continental breakfast—bagels, oranges, bananas, hard-boiled eggs—and stuffed them into my mini-cooler full of ice for snacking on the road. At a nearby AutoZone, I purchased a new rearview mirror, attaching it in their parking lot. Now able to see the road behind me, I felt a bit of comfort as I again headed east.

After being stranded in some small butt-fuck town thanks to a blown car generator, then a couple hundred miles later stranded again in another small butt-fuck town once that generator caught on fire, I ended up in Omaha, Nebraska.

T
he senior citizen working behind the desk at the hotel worked behind glass. He had on an old faded Cornhusker football T-shirt. I asked about vacancies. He told me that they had a room, and asked whether I was interested in a night or a week. I asked for prices on both. $25 a night, $90 for the week. $10 key deposit. I told him I’d take the week.

The door key was for Room 18, up on the second floor, and he explained to me that after three weeks, I’d be considered a resident, and the rent would go down to only $80 a week. There was a cigarette machine behind the front desk; I was all out, so I asked for a pack. They sold GPCs only, five bucks, so I bought a pack and made my way upstairs to my room. Four white walls, a bed, a sink with an old mirror above it, and an old wooden dresser drawer from the 1970s. That’s it. No television or fridge. There were several bathrooms on each floor, which appeared to be clean. I only saw a couple cockroaches, and they weren’t big, about the size of raisins. After storing my belongings in my room, I locked up and decided to take a walk.

Across the street from the aged hotel was some kind of hipster/punk rock frat Animal House that clearly belonged to a landlord who was like,
Fuck it
,
they can do whatever the hell they want
,
I don’t care
. Shoes hanging from the telephone wires in front, dozens of cheap beer cans littered all over the place, a couple shattered windows, graffiti on the sidewalk, and a lawn decorated with a half-dozen thrashed skateboards sticking up out of the ground like tombstones.

I ended up at the bar next door. As I took a seat at the bar, “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” by the band Bauhaus played from the jukebox. Two bucks and some change for a beer. Nice. The wall in the back had painted portraits on canvas of Johnny Rotten, Joey Ramone, Nick Cave, and Iggy Pop. The tables in the back were all filled with hipsters. I asked myself, Am I back in San Francisco, or am I in Omaha, Nebraska? The two seemed blurred, and the person next to me was wearing a Dead Kennedys T-shirt, with a mullet. I ordered a couple more beers, noticing that everybody here seemed to be either in a band or were just standing around waiting for Coachella. Many times I’d pass by a conversation on my way to the restroom, past the painted portrait of Hunter S. Thompson, of course, and some guy would be trying to impress some young thing with some crazy tour story. I stepped outside for a smoke, where I came across a white guy who looked like a continuation high school graduate. He sized me up and started off by telling me that he had just been released from prison. Lovely. I told him congratulations, not sure if I was supposed to be intimidated or impressed; I was neither. I was ambivalent, which I think confused him, and he asked me what I was up to tonight. I told him I was just traveling, seeing where the road takes me, and that I’d just moved into the hotel next door.

He lit up and told me that he also lived in the same building, which gave us a common bond instantly. He asked what I was doing at
that
bar. I shrugged, not knowing why or why not—told him I just was. Disgusted, he told me that the place was for “dorks,” and, in a louder tone for all to hear, “faggots,” suggesting that the two of us should go to a different bar instead. Not having any other plans, or ideas, I agreed to go with him, as I was curious what his angle was. I discovered exactly what it was when he asked me to buy him a beer, since he was broke.

A block or two away, we got situated in a different bar that, like the one I’d just left, lacked diversity; in this case, because we were the only two non-blacks there. A couple pool tables were set up in the middle of the place as soul music played from the sound system. At one of the tables was a guy wearing a purple suit, fedora, and multiple chains around his neck, playing pool with a younger guy dressed in baggy jeans and an equally baggy white T-shirt.

After I’d purchased my new friend a beer, he confessed that he hadn’t actually just got out of prison; he just told people that as part of his hustle to get a couple bucks or a beer or two. How he really ended up here in Omaha, and at the hotel, was that he was working this job as a carny, going from one county fair to another, when he got into an argument with his manager’s wife or something “over something dumb,” so finally they fired him. Hello, Omaha.

I
asked about day labor work, and he turned sour, advising me not to do that, that they put all the people that have been there for a while on all the jobs first, and it might take weeks before they put me on a job.
If
they put me on a job.

He then had an idea. Was I interested in going in with him on some weed? He had this connection, and the two of us could make some pretty good money going around selling weed to people. I told him sales had never been my strong suit. After a couple beers, he then suggested I do what he did, which was to go down to this building not too far from where we were and apply for food stamps. “They give you a card, and that card is like a credit card, you can buy food with it, as long as it’s not hot food—$200 worth!”

Holy shit. $200 is a lot of groceries. I don’t know if I could eat that much. I could live like a king off that, and probably get fat, though when I briefly did the math in my head, fifty bucks a week is hardly anything and I probably could lose a lot of weight on that particular diet but I told him I wasn’t interested in food stamps right now.

When I exited the hotel bright and early the next morning, my friend was outside wearing a Dan Marino football jersey, which clashed with his Milwaukee Brewers cap. He was standing outside the hotel eating a steaming bowl of instant ramen for breakfast, with a plastic fork. He asked if I wanted to go to the bar to watch the football game, but I told him I had stuff to do, such as, find a job.

I
took my sweet time looking for a job, as none of the jobs I came across looked even remotely interesting. Like everywhere else in the country, fast food restaurants were all hiring, but I was more interested in just bumming around Omaha, hung over, instead. The only job I applied for was one I came across on Craigslist:

Drilling company is looking for hard working general laborers. Must be willing to travel. Will be out of town for 2 weeks then home for one week and so on.

Shift: 1st

Pay: $10-$12 (DOE)

Hotel and food allowance provided when out of town.

NO PHONE CALLS PLEASE. Due to the overwhelming amount of phone calls, we are asking that anyone who is interested, please come in and apply in person. Monday–Friday 8am–4pm

I shaved beforehand, thinking that it’d be competitive. The place was completely empty when I arrived. All the chairs in the waiting room sat empty, an overwhelming amount of nothing. After filling out all the paperwork, I asked how long it would take to hear back. The lady told me that there were a couple others who had turned in applications for a job, as well, and that I should hear back in a day or two for an interview. She handed me a card with her corporate head shot on it and told me that if I wanted to, I could call her to find out the status of my application. I thanked her and drove back to the room, took a nap, woke up, stared at the white paint on the walls, watched a tiny raisin walk across my carpet. Then I decided to go out and be productive.

B
eing productive while at the same time being unemployed actually takes a lot of work and is not as exciting, or as easy, as people might think.

For example, it took well over an hour for me to decide what I wanted to do today. Go on a walk? Where to? Go to a restaurant? Order fast food? I wasn’t hungry. Drink? I could do that later, once the sun was down. I always prefer drinking when the sun’s down; it makes me feel like less of an alcoholic. Watch a movie? Nothing interests me. Shop? I didn’t need anything. Library? Maybe.

I then decided that I’d go to a bookstore instead. They always have the latest titles, and I had seen one earlier by the mall when I left the job placement place. I thought I’d just hang out there for a bit with a bunch of books other people have written.

Instead of driving, I decided to utilize Omaha public transportation. I always like to make an effort to take the bus whenever I’m in a new town because the bus, I feel, is truly a great way to experience the locals. In L.A., since everybody drives, crazy people take the bus. I’m talking absolutely schizo, pull foot powder out of the bag, open it up, and cloud up the entire bus with it kind of crazy. Bus lines can actually be like entering a war zone, especially right around the time school gets out and the bus is packed with kids cussing up a storm, grabbing each other, not caring in any way, shape, or form how many churchgoing grandmothers are seated around them. Immigrants on their way to their third or fourth job, the homeless guy drinking a tall can out of a brown paper bag bragging about how he knows Paris Hilton, or the guy hanging out the window smoking weed. Don’t even bother trying to read on a bus in L.A. In other words, taking the bus can at times be like taking a walk on the wild side.

A tall, skinny black man in his fifties was standing there on the corner bus stop just outside the hotel, looking into the oncoming traffic.

“Where you headed?”

“To the mall.”

“Which one?”

“The one on I think Seventy-second and Dodge.”

“You need the number-two bus, that’ll take you right there.”

“Thanks.”

“People don’t really go to that mall anymore,” he tells me as cars pass us by. “It’s one of them dying malls, everybody’s pulled out—Old Navy, Chili’s—it’s all empty inside. People don’t like going there because the only people that go there now are what you call them? Wannabe gangsters? So families don’t go there no more. Everybody else goes to them mega malls or superstores. Target’s still there, though, and they do okay, but that mall’s on its way out. They don’t even got no food court. All that’s gone now, too. It’s dead, man.”

A bus came along, but it wasn’t one either of us wanted. He asked me what I was looking to get at the mall, since most of the stores were no longer there, and I told him I was just going to go to the bookstore. He told me that for now, they were still there.

“We got a public library downtown you could go to, but nobody goes there, either. That’s dead, too. Everybody with a family goes to all them other libraries way out there ’cause way too many homeless people hang out there. Place is like a goddamn homeless shelter. One lady told me she take her baby into the bathroom, and some homeless lady was giving herself a bath in the sink! No families want to see that shit, man, people shaving and shit in the men’s room, all smelling like ass sleeping up in the library all day. Families don’t want to see that shit, man, so they don’t go there no more. You know they got a van that even shows up and gives them homeless people free food and you know what happened? The hot dog guy went out of business! Yeah! He ain’t working no more. He all out of business. Shit. I ain’t got nothing against homeless people, if that’s your thing then that’s your thing, but do it on your own time, in your own place, don’t do it at no motherfucking public library, you know what I’m saying? Families go there. Either get yourself a hustle, or get yourself a motherfucking job like the rest of us, you know what I’m saying?”

When I asked him how he ended up here in Omaha, he told me, “That’s a long story. I was stationed for a bit in Germany, after that they sent me over by Tacoma, Washington—”

“Fort Lewis?”

“Yeah!”

“I was stationed there, too. Third Brigade.”

“No shit?! Field artillery Twenty-fifth Division. Tropic Thunder.”

Just then his bus arrived, so I never found out the story of how he ended up in Omaha. Before stepping onto the bus, he softly tapped his chest twice and raised his fist.

The number 2 arrived shortly thereafter. Like he said, the mall was completely dead, as was the parking lot, which sat empty. Inside was pretty vacant, but the bookstore was still open. After hanging out there for a bit, I got depressed, walked to a liquor store, purchased a bottle of whiskey, keeping it concealed in my jacket while periodically sipping from it as I walked back to the hotel.