Immigrant Song

War Journal Entry: 000003
Jean, NV to Los Angeles, CA
Distance: 270 miles

This morning I woke up with a start. After shoving the covers off, I saw that not one, but both of my kidneys had been taken. Since both are vital to living, I started to panic. I had dead-bolted the door the night before and put out the “Do Not Disturb/No Moleste” sign on the handle so as to not be disturbed/ not moleste’d. How could this of happened? My kidneys didn’t just get up and walk off, because that’s just silly, plus my kidneys aren’t known for their needlepoint work, and my stitch up looked like the work of a professional. It was at that point I realized it wasn’t my kidneys that were missing—it was the dead stripper in my bed’s kidneys that were missing. Whew, what a relief. By the looks of it, this stripper had been dead quite some time. Then again, she was a Las Vegas stripper. She might’ve only died an hour or two previous and still looked that decayed. How did I not notice that last night? I must’ve been too tired from the drive to realize she was stuck between my sheet and comforter. But now is no time to ponder. I have open road ahead of me. Tally-ho!

At the checkout counter, I looked over at the same row of slot machines where I saw the old woman last night. Lo and behold, she was still there. Same spot. Same routine. A man that worked at the casino stopped by and addressed her by name. She rudely responded back to him and she went back to her business. In turn, he went about his business as a Casino Walker Arounder.

On my way through the sliding doors, I heard other people complaining about strippers left in their bed. Apparently, the Golden Strike Casino and Hotel leaves dead strippers on your bed the same way other hotels leave complimentary mints.

Walking outside, I realized how hot Nevada gets. As someone who has tried to avoid sunlight for the past twelve years, this hit me hard. I considered going back into the hotel and waiting for night to fall before continuing on, but then I’d be late for my date with California. Tally-ho!

Back on the road, I saw more of the Nevada Desert. Given the heat and lack of shade anywhere, it wouldn’t take long for this flower to a wilt if he were ever to be dragged out there like Clint Eastwood was in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. It’s hard to imagine how anything survives out there. Small shrubberies dot the landscape, but no cacti, which was somewhat disappointing. My lifelong dream has been to draw water from a cactus, and unfortunately, it will have to remain a dream.

Before entering California, the Cougar and I had to battle up hills again. But on the other side—lay the California Border Patrol. They weren’t looking for illegal workers (they have plenty already) or drugs (again, plenty). Instead, they confiscated any fruits or plants that were not indigenous to California. Having seen the episode of the Simpsons where Bart introduces an American bullfrog to Australia’s ecosystem, I can see why they would want to keep people from bringing in foreign objects. Fortunately, I left my snake plant back in Iowa with Grandma for safekeeping, and since my body has adapted to eating only unhealthy foods, therefore never do I have fruits on my person, I was allowed through. Finally, I’d made it to California—the Godless Sodomite State.

Continuing on, the further into California I got, the more congested traffic became. Eventually, the freeway resembled gridlock at 70 miles per hour. It was car-to-car front to back, side to side. And there was the occasional motor scooter that would drive between cars down the dividing line. I don’t want to delve too much into California traffic at this time, because I’ve decided to dedicate a future blog to just that topic. It is deserving of in-depth analysis. All the horror stories you’ve heard about driving in California are true.

After missing an exit and finding my way off the freeway, back on, and then off again, I arrived at the hostel I would be staying at for the foreseeable future. My key was waiting in an envelope outside. The people that run the place left early for the day and I was to see myself in. Doing just that, I carried my bags inside to my dorm style-living space, consisting of a bunk bed, two desks, and two footlockers. I had arrived—back in college, apparently.

And that’s when I started feeling depressed. I was a stranger in a strange land, who had left my rote, mundane, boring job (albeit stable) and awesome apartment, not to mention friends and family, to drive across the country where in our current economic woes, no job was certain, the place I was staying could very well house any kind of Los Angeles reprobate imaginable, and no one would be able to bail me out. I was on my own, really truly on my own, for the first time.

I lay down on the top bunk (I may have felt miserable at the moment, but was still thinking clear enough to snatch that up before my mystery roommate showed up), trying to comprehend this chaos I’d thrown myself into. No answers came to me, so I started wondering how long it would take for my new living situation to turn into a prison movie. After running some figures, I determined it would be within 24 minutes of meeting my roommate, so I decided it would be wise to get off my duff and explore my new stomping grounds. Besides, a little exercise might get me out of my funk.

Wrong. Walking around the streets of L.A. lowered my spirits even more. First, it was still way too hot out. Second, other than knowing I wasn’t in Compton or Inglewood, I didn’t know what part of town I was in, and lastly, everywhere I went, people were speaking a fast language I associate with meat packing plants. I was ham sandwiched very much in a largely Hispanic community. In and of itself, this did not bother me. But drawing from my earlier fears of alienation, I became more aware of how alone I was. I stuck out like a sore thumb. Or maybe a powdered sugar donut mixed in with the cinnamon ones. I don’t know. Create your own damn simile to describe how white I am. The people were foreign, the language was foreign, and business signs and advertisements were foreign. Even buildings are built different. They don’t have that old fail-safe Morton Building look. Gone were cedar and oak trees. In their stead were palms. No, they were native. I was foreign. Stranger. Strange land.

I sympathize with anyone that is not of WASP descent in the Midwest. Walking into a classroom or workplace with nothing but Whitey staring back at you can be intimidating. Now here I am, Whitey, getting stared back at. It’s scary! Now I’m wanting not just my friends and family, but also for people like me. If there had been an English speaking person there at the time, I’d have immediately run up to them and become their best friend.

Returning back to my hostel, I crawled back into my room—still no roommate. Good. I don’t need prison loved right now. But I do have to meet with someone about a more permanent living situation. So I have to hop in my hooptie and dredge through L.A. traffic again. Fuck.

Traffic was busy and took about 30 minutes to drive five miles. The place I looked at was a shanty, at best. If I got the place, my “room” would be the living room. There would be little to no privacy, and if I needed to use the bathroom, I’d have to walk through one of the other roommates’ rooms. Whatever. This is what I was expecting. This was what I was getting. To it’s credit, the house was close to Dodger’s Stadium, though.

After another half hour in traffic, I returned to my hostel. Still no roommate. He must be waiting to show up late at night and get me when most vulnerable—while I sleep. Well, I’ve got news for you, future roommate: like Jean Claude Van Damme after doing too much cocaine, I sleep with my eyes open. You won’t get the jump on me. Unless my new roommate is a coked out Jean Claude Van Damme. Then I’m screwed.

Having not eaten all day, and not aware of where the nearest grocery store or Wendy’s was, I settled on a Carl’s Jr. eating establishment for sustenance. For the Midwesterner not in the know, Carl’s Jr. is what they call Hardees in the rest of the United States. Breaking through the language barrier by talking louder and slower, I eventually got my cheeseburger, ate, and proceeded to get lost walking around for the next two hours after dark in who knows what kind of neighborhood. Finally, I found my hostel again. If my roommate tried anything when I got in the room, I was prepared to throat punch him. Lucky for him he’d yet to show. I was ready to call it quits already. I went to bed wondering if I could brave the freeway again to make my way back to Iowa. Los Angeles sucks.