Malibu Motel

by Chaunceton Bird

  The dealer flicked the ball around the top of the wheel. My stomach knotted. The ball rolled round and round, when it finally fell below the top rail, I thought I saw the hand of the Lord guiding it. It hit the first notch and began its bounce around the wheel. With each click of its bounce my stomach’s knot notched tighter. Then, as if magnetically, it came to rest.

  “Six black,” the dealer said.

  I almost threw up right on the table. The dealer used a wooden stick to scoop up my chips without leaving his chair. How could this have happened? The Lord had inspired me. Was this a trial? Of course! Of course it was a trial. The Lord was testing my faith! Looks like it would be the martingale strategy tonight. Double or nothing. I jogged back to the cashier’s booth and bought $5,212 in chips and returned to the table.

  “Big money on red,” the dealer said. This was it. How could I have doubted the Lord?

  The ball did its dance and came to rest in black slot 35. “Thirty-five black,” the dealer said. Then he pulled out the wooden stick and took my chips. The other people at the table were trying to contain their excitement. Nothing like watching somebody lose ten grand to make you feel better about yourself.

  The Lord works in mysterious ways, and clearly He wanted to see if I had faith enough to follow Him into the darkness before he would answer my prayers. I walked back to the cashier booth and maxed out all my remaining credit cards to get eleven thousand dollars in chips.

  This time when I returned to the table there was a small crowd forming. For them it was a win-win situation. They either were about to get free drinks on me, or had front row seats to a self-immolation.

  I had five light-blue chips, each worth $2,000 each. Two purple, worth $500 each. Three gray, worth $20 each. And a white, a $1 chip. I placed my small stack onto red. Since it had landed on black the few times before, it was more likely to land on red this time. It’s statistics. I didn’t get to where I am today playing it safe. You must take risks to make money. College doesn’t make you money, perseverance and risk-taking makes you money. The dealer made his announcements then spun the ball. “Bets closed,” he said. It began its quiet spin. Proverbs chapter three, verses five through six: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.” I gave one last silent prayer, thanking God for guiding my ways.

  The ball bounced, bounced again, then clattered its way down to number slots. The crowd, myself included, stopped breathing as the ball rattled into its final resting place.

  “Double zero, green,” the dealer announced. The crowd let out its breath, then looked at me as if I had just soiled myself. They took sips of their drinks and filed back to their tables and slot machines. Calling me names as they walked. Tough break, one said. With a face that said better luck next time, the dealer took my chips like a greedy raccoon.

  I had no moves left. My credit cards were maxed. My bank account was empty. My cash was gone. My net worth was something like negative sixteen thousand dollars.

  I wandered back to my room. Dazed and unsteady. I stripped out of my evening wear and took the hottest, longest shower I could. Room service brought me two lobster tails, crab legs, and a jumbo shrimp cocktail. The card on file with Treasure Island was maxed out, so everything from here on out was free. They would try to charge me at checkout, but how could they charge a card that’s maxed out? After dinner I injected the last of my Fentanyl and let the drama dissolve. Money marooned me, the Lord stood me up, but Fentanyl was there for me.

  The TV woke me up at around 4:00 a.m. A commercial for a show in the Bellagio. I needed to think. The Lord had abandoned me on the road to Jericho. He used my trust in him to reduce me to nothing. I had fallen among robbers and the Lord looked on with indifference. From here on out there would be no prayer. No more revelation. Only me. My success had to be mine and mine alone. Just like last time. If God doesn’t want to help, He can go to Hell. I don’t need his help.

  My backpack had enough prescriptions to earn enough to get by once I made it to California. But it was getting there that I didn’t know how to do. The Neon’s gas tank was half empty—yes, half empty. Not half full, not full of both air and fuel, half empty. I’d probably need to fill up in Baker. My debit card might still work. I could overdraw my account. The gas station attendant would probably be a young tweaker, so maybe I’d be able to trade Vicodin for gas.

  Room service brought me twenty bottles of water, two bottles of Cuvee Dom Perignon champagne, four club sandwiches in to-go boxes, a glass of orange juice, a glass of milk, and an All-American Breakfast with extra bacon and a side of buttermilk pancakes. After finishing my breakfast, I loaded the beverages and food into my backpack and duffle bag. The mini alcohol bottles from the mini fridge fit nicely into the outer pockets of my backpack. My bags were packed to maximum capacity. The bathroom toiletries bulged in my pockets.

  This early there weren’t many people in the hallways. It wasn’t even 6:00 a.m. The lobby was empty, but the concierge was busy helping a family of early-bird tourists. I made it through the lobby and into the parking garage without incident. Bags loaded, I made my escape.

  Sure enough, the gas station attendant in Baker was a tweaker and was happy to buy my Vicodin. She bought my entire supply, which gave me enough for a full tank and at least two more fill-ups down the road. Back on the highway I had plenty of time to think. With only the heat of the desert to distract me (the Neon’s air conditioning was broken), my mind worked without hindrance.

  For the next little while I would need to live out of my car. The repo man wouldn’t take it because he wouldn’t be able to find me. Even if he did, I’d be sitting in it and just drive away. My income would be opioid based. I had enough supply on me to get by until I could get into hospitals in LA and get new prescriptions. That would replenish my reserves and get me enough cash flow to find a place to stay. I couldn’t call any friends because they couldn’t see me like this. That, and I didn’t have any friends left. I couldn’t call my ex either, that would only end in rejection and more humiliation. I had enough alcohol, cigarettes, pills, and food to last me a few days. Hygiene wouldn’t be a problem in such a short period of time, but if I absolutely needed to shower, I could use the public showers on the beach. The Baker tweaker gave me enough cash to keep this Neon on the road for several days, so transportation wasn’t an issue. Worst case scenario, Caleb could probably wire me some money. I’d call him as soon as I got situated. He mentioned that he saved most of the money I gave them, and I don’t think it would be asking too much to get a little of that back. It was mine in the first place, after all. The biggest problem in my immediate future was getting more Fentanyl. Crack-Hand Jack was the only way I could get it. Unless I could get cancer, I’d have to find another connection.

  In Barstow I stopped and ate one of my club sandwiches. Say what you will about Treasure Island, they know how to make a club sandwich.

  Soon I was passing through Rancho Cucamonga, then Pasadena, then, at last, Los Angeles. The mighty mecca of all that is worth being. The center of the center of the universe. The city that doesn’t give a shit about you, but still gives you 75 degrees and sunny, daily. Royal palms, blue skies, and sandy beaches. A melting pot of smiling faces and diverse (and sometimes battling) races. A common enemy behind which the city can unite: traffic. The true land of opportunity, the real heart of America. A city with everything you want (for the right price). Try as the elements might, this city can’t be burned down, smoked out, or quaked to ruins. A city with the perseverance of a cockroach.

  I parked in a Rite Aid parking lot and sucked down another cigarette. Susie’s networking classes came to mind. The trick to finding buyers is to find circles of smokers. The best place to find these circles is at AA and NA meetings, but those can be tough to find at first. The second best place is behind call centers. In either instance, the same principles apply. Call centers just had a lower success rate. But,
the bigger the call center, the better the chances. With huge call centers, the workers are used to meeting new people every time they step out back to have a smoke. The big call centers also have a better variety of workers. Many of them are temp workers—people who have little incentive to stick around, and who are likely to have an addiction. Approach the circle and ask for a light. Smokers are always friendly. Smokers in the back of call centers are desperate to off-load stories of how shitty their work is. Listen attentively, nod along, then ask them what they do to manage all that stress. They’ll laugh and say, “I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got my own hookups.” You tell them you’re not a weed dealer and laugh along with them. You say, “Nah, I’m just curious if you’ve got something better than me.” Then you tell them a story about how you get headaches and went to see a doctor about it. You tell them that stress is a form of pain, and that painkillers like Lortab actually help a lot.

  This is an important part of the pitch. If they have seen some bullshit CNN special about the danger of opioids and have a mom who is addicted, you’ll probably lose them here. If not, they’ll say something about one time they were prescribed with Lortab after surgery and it didn’t do much for them. What they’re really saying is they need more convincing.

  “Well,” you say, “you might be surprised. I’m not a pharmacist, so it’s not like I benefit from any of this, but really, just swing into a hospital and tell them you have splitting headaches. They’ll give you a prescription, guaranteed, and then your life improves dramatically.”

  “Ah, I’m not really into pills. Anyway, thanks for the tip,” some will say as they walk away. But, a few a day will say, “Oh yeah? Hm. Got any on you?” And there’s your next client.

  Quite simple, really.

  But I needed a few days off before getting to work. I hadn’t seen the ocean in years. I was in Lincoln Heights, so I took highway 110 to the 10, got off on the 405, then took Venice boulevard straight out. I parallel parked like a seasoned professional and made my way through the tourists and performers. With shoes in hand, I stepped into the sand. The sun was setting, but the sand still had warmth from the day’s cooking. The fine grains massaged and exfoliated my feet with each step. A cool breeze was blowing in from the ocean. It’s salty mist a lovers kiss, welcoming me back from the abyss.

  I stood on the packed sand that high tide had smoothed, cooled, and darkened and looked out across the Pacific. The sun was below the horizon and the sky was a display of oranges and reds—packed full of high-altitude fluffs, puffs, and whiffs catching the day’s last light. The clouds carried the colors over the water reflecting the spectacle.

  A child down the beach from me was yelling to her friends and pointing frantically, “Dolphins! See? Out by the pier!”

  Slick gray backs and dorsal fins were rolling through the water. Not a dolphin or two, but an entire pod of cousins, uncles, aunts, grandparents, and children. There must have been over thirty dolphin backs breaching. They weren’t in a hurry, just enjoying the evening. They were moving up along the beach. Soon they were swimming between me and the epicenter of the sunset and their fins were cutting through glimmering orange water. Occasionally one would jump and show its mischievous smiling face. I thought I heard it say something to me. Something like, “We knew you’d be back, you can check out for a year or two, but you can never leave.”

  How could I have been stupid enough to leave this paradise? California. The home of motherfucking Disneyland.

  When the dolphins were tiny bobbing specs in the distance and the sky’s oranges had turned to purples and dark blues, I made my way back to the boardwalk and sold a bottle of Dilaudid to the first local I saw. When filled, there were thirty pills in that bottle, the prescription cost me $13 to fill, and, after taking twelve for myself, the leftover eighteen sold for $40. Venice, it occurred to me, may be the best place to set up shop. Call centers may be the way to do it in shithole Montana, but in this tropical paradise there were droves of buyers sitting on Ocean Front Walk. No spiel necessary. Just spot the junkie (easy enough—it’s all in the eyes), make an offer (“Need percs?” or “Waiting for Captain Cody?”), and negotiate (“Ten each.” “Make it five player.” “You know these go for twelve, how about nine?” “Eight.” “How many you need?” “Everything you got.” “Cool, your total comes to $88, will you be paying with cash, card, or Venmo?”). Why these people didn’t just go and get prescriptions of their own was beyond me. Why pay retail when wholesale prices are so easy to come by? Only the big ones were worth paying street prices for. Prescriptions for morphine or Fentanyl were unobtainable.

  My new money bought me Enchiladas Del Mar and two borracho margaritas at La Cabaña. This Mexican restaurant on the corner of Rose and Lincoln is one of Venice’s crown jewels. It’s been here for more than fifty years and sometimes a mariachi band plays on the roof. My piping hot plate of cheesy tortillas filled with shrimp and crabmeat and surrounded by rice and shredded iceberg lettuce arrived just as I was finishing off my bowl of perfectly crisped chips and salsa. I dipped my last few chips into the healthy dollop of sour cream and guacamole that was on top of the lettuce. My first margarita arrived with the meal. Such friendly service. They boxed up what I couldn’t finish and I let them keep the change. Blessed La Cabaña.

  When you’re living out of your car, spending a little extra on a nice meal is the equivalent of having wealth and taking a trip to Barbados. We all need vacations. Not that I am living out of my car, of course. I am between living arrangements, but I am by no means homeless. I’m a millionaire that’s down on luck. A hiatus from my high place.

  I drove around looking for a place to park overnight. Ideally the spot would have a view of the ocean. I missed waking up to that view. Maybe it was the margaritas, or the Vicodins I took at dinner, but my head grew heavy and my sight grew dim. I had to stop for the night curbside in front of a house on Frey Avenue. I made it. I’m finally back. I crack my windows, recline my seat, and fall asleep smiling.

  22

  Even in the tentacles of Hopelessness, California can ease your pain. Just lay on the sidewalk, any sidewalk, and take in the sun. If that doesn’t cheer you up, you’re past saving. I’m in the middle of one such concrete therapy session when I decide to leave the Dodge Neon behind. It served as reliable transportation and shelter for two months, until I was pulled over for driving on expired tags. The officer saw that in the past few weeks I had accumulated a handful of unpaid parking tickets and towed the Neon on the spot. He gave me instructions on how to get the car out of LAPD’s impound lot then left me standing on the corner of 28th and Maple with my backpack, roller bag, and duffle bag. Overcome with anxiety, I spread myself out on the sidewalk and let the sun heal my wounds. If I saved up enough money to pay all those parking tickets and get the Neon out of the impound lot, I’d still have to get safety and emission inspections. And register it. That would be a hassle. My income was just enough to pay my phone bill and buy nourishment: opioids, alcohol, cigarettes, and food. Until I could earn more lottery money, the car would have to wait.

  I call the few friends I thought I had left in LA, only to confirm that I do not, in fact, have any friends left. They all give excuses like, “Ah, you know I would love to have you stay with us for a little while, but we just don’t have the room,” or “Sorry Caish, I don’t think my spouse would be comfortable with that.”

  The $104 in my wallet would be enough for a room tonight. From there I can plan my next move.

  Google Maps shows me the nearest and cheapest room is at the Southlander Motel on the corner of 23rd and Central. The mile-long, twenty-minute walk winds me. This is the most physical activity I’ve suffered in years.

  Southlander Motel’s foyer is small, dingy, and styled to pay homage to Beetlejuice. The woman behind the desk puts her cigarette out as I walk in and looks up at me from her chair. Her skin has a severe Californian-sun-and-cigarettes wrinkle and is tanner than a water buffalo.

  “Hi. Just y
ou?” she croaks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Rooms are fifty-six a night, ten-dollar deposit for the TV remote, you get that back when you check out and give me back my remote. Sign this.” She slid a form toward me. “You stayed with us before?”

  “No.”

  “K. Few rules. No hookers, male or female. Street walkers, curb crawlers, and lot lizards bring us too much drama. No drug dealin’. We keep an eye out, so don’t. If you’re gonna have anybody else in the room with you, you need to tell us. Rates go up for additional people. Don’t smoke in the room. No refunds. Check out is at 11:00 a.m. Your room number is... let me check... six. So just park in the spot in front of six. Any questions?”

  “Um, yeah. I know the rooms are fifty six a night, but could I do two nights for a hundred? I’m down on my luck and that’s all I have left.”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “No. Two nights will cost you one twelve. Fifty-six a night is the price of a room. You’re welcome to find somewhere else that charges fifty bucks a night, but I charge fifty-six.”

  “Alright, fine.”

  “Fine as in you’re staying here for one night, or fine as in you’re gonna look around?”

  “I’ll stay here, could I get the key?”

  “After you pay.”

  I handed the grumpy wrinkly woman three twenty-dollar bills and she gave me the key to room six along with my change.

  “And did you want the remote?”

  “Nah, thanks though.” I have planning to do. Plus, I have my laptop if I want to watch any porn. Which reminds me to ask, “And what’s the wifi password?”

  The room key is an old-fashioned toothed piece of metal. I even have to jimmy the knob. The room is styled like the reception area. If you were to look up “bland” on Wikipedia, you’d probably find a picture of this room. The walls are glossy off-white and void of any artwork. A simple shelf holds a microwave and an iron. Under that is an empty mini fridge. Above the shelf is a small flat screen TV. The queen-size bed takes up almost all of the room’s floor space. It has a floral print comforter with a stain that hopefully came from a spilled enchilada. No closet, and the hanger rod doesn’t have any hangers. The only furniture in addition to the bed is a folding chair in the corner. A folding chair.