Malibu Motel

by Chaunceton Bird

  The shower’s hot water lasts less than ten minutes and never surpasses lukewarm. No complimentary shampoo or body wash, just a single bar of soap. The towels scratch me dry. Freshened up, I flop onto the bed, which is as comfortable as it is chic. After a nap I snack on trail mix and beef jerky, then take stock of what I have.

  My duffle bag is big enough to live out of. It’s a large leather Louis Vuitton bag with a shoulder strap, but I can also wear it like a backpack with my arms through the handles. I can fit a week’s worth of underwear and socks as well as several changes of clothes, with enough room to spare for my laptop, charging cables, pill bottles, kit, toiletries, food, a couple water bottles, and pepper spray. My roller suitcase is full of clothes, shoes, and accessories that I can sell. I have two pairs of sunglasses that I can get a couple hundred bucks for. I can also sell my suitcase and backpack.

  I post those on Craigslist low enough to sell quick. While I’m fielding texts about those sales, I plan out my next week. Without a car I can’t get to as many hospitals and pharmacies to get my prescriptions. I can’t lose that revenue stream. Without it I can’t buy lottery tickets. Or food. Tomorrow I’ll buy a bus pass. With the cash I get from selling my stuff I can get my prescriptions filled. Once I have a steady customer base I’ll be able to rent a room somewhere. That will last me until I win the lottery again. Last time I did this it took me several months, so I can’t expect to win any time soon. I’d have to weather a storm that could last months.

  The first people to buy my stuff show up around 10:00 p.m. As soon as they leave, the craggy lady from the motel’s front desk is knocking on my door telling me I had to leave.

  “What did I say? No drug dealin’. Get your shit, you’re out. No refunds.”

  “I’m not dealing drugs, I’m selling clothes and shoes.”

  “Oh come on hun, you think I was born yesterday? You think I haven’t heard that before? That you just went ahead and opened up a cute little boutique outta my motel room?”

  “No, really, look, check the room. There aren’t any drugs, I’m not sellin’ drugs.” I step aside from the door and invite her in with a sweep of my arm.

  She walks in and says, “Well I can tell ya right now, you’ve been smoking in here.”

  “Not true. It smelled like this when I walked in.” Maybe I had smoked a couple cigarettes, but I had flushed my cigarette butts down the drain. Not a trace of my smoking in the room. Except maybe the smell. “Look wherever you’d like, I have nothing to hide. I’m not selling drugs.”

  She lit a cigarette and glanced around the room. She poked around then approached me and looked into my eyes as if trying to find a mosquito on a headlight. “Hmph. Well. Alright then. Sell your clothes. But if I find out that—”

  She’s interrupted by a knock at the door.

  A valley girl is standing in the doorway with a puzzled look on her face. “Um, sorry, but is this where the Neiman Marcus suitcase is for sale?”

  “Yup! Right here,” I point to the bed. Without turning toward me to acknowledge her defeat, the craggy lady walks out the door and across the parking lot. Back to her lookout post behind the desk.

  “So, like,” Valley Girl says, “I know you posted it for fifteen hundred, but would you take fourteen?”

  “Why?”

  “Um, well, ya know, it’s a little beat up and all.”

  “Hardly. It is exactly as described in the ad. Fifteen hundred is the price. It’s been online for two hours, and I’ve already gotten tons of texts about it.”

  “Um. Alright well, here you go,” she hands me fifteen stiff one hundred-dollar bills. Still in the originally sequenced order that they left the treasury in. Not a spore of cocaine in them. I count it. Then count it again. And again. Valley Girl said, “Is there a problem?”

  “Oh, no. Sorry. You’re good. You can take it. Thanks.”

  I help her lift the suitcase from the bed and ask her if she wants a matching backpack. No but thanks, she says. She rolled the suitcase out to her BMW M3 and put it in the back seat. Pfff, M3. People who drive those are the type that want everybody to think they’re rich. M3s are poor people’s sports car. Anybody with even a little bit of money would have a Porsche 911. Valley Girl thinks we all think she’s the bee’s knees. But we know. We know it’s not that nice.

  The fifteen hundred dollars in my hand feels right. I don’t want to fold these beautiful bills. Putting creases in these would be like folding up a picture of a loved one. The picture should be framed and cherished, not folded up and stuffed into some dirty pocket. The texture of crisp money is familiar. The sequenced hundreds bring back memories of emptying ATMs into my back pocket. The smell of the newly-printed ink reminds me of paying cash for cars. Of long weekends abroad exchanging stacks of Benjamins for euros, francs, renminbi, yen, or pounds. All with their own distinct smell. All with the unmistakable weight and sturdiness of currency. Money doesn’t care where you’re from or where you’re going, power is a language spoken by every nation.

  Around midnight I stop answering texts. I’m feeling alright. I have a plan and enough money to make it happen.

  No more Fentanyl at the moment, so I have to settle for oxys. My administration kit’s leather is cold to the touch. The oxys grind nicely and melt easily. With a little trouble finding a vein in my arm, I inject behind my knee. It feels like I’m stepping into a hot tub as the warmth works its way up my thighs, through my stomach, across my chest, up my neck, and around my brain. For the rest of the night I don’t have any problems. I round off my high with several swigs of gin, then lay back on the bed.

  A vacuum next door wakes me up around 9:30 a.m. the next morning. I freshen up and pack what clothes and shoes I have left into my backpack and duffle bag. I can’t stay in this hole another night. I didn’t sell enough last night for it to all fit into my two bags, so I borrow a garbage sack from the garbage can and fill it with designer clothes. I snack on beef jerky while I Google where to buy a bus pass and a room for rent.

  The bus pass is easy enough. I can buy a week pass for $25, and I can buy them from a grocery store down the street.

  The room is the hard part. There is plenty of space available downtown, but all of the apartments rent for more than $1,600 a month. There are single rooms available for less, but then I would need to have roommates. As that is my only option, I start calling on the single rooms. Since I’m new to begging a person to take my money so I can live in their shitty room, I was honest during the first couple of phone calls. When asked if I had any felonies or evictions, I said, sure, one of each. Steady income? Define steady. References? Mmm... the motel receptionist from Southlander Motel? And that would be the end of the conversation. Even when I got the swing of it, lying didn’t seem to help, they all asked for my social security number and said they’d do a background check and get back to me. I don’t anticipate hearing back from those ones.

  The only places I have a chance at were halfway houses. Any addictions? Maybe. Steady income? Hardly. Stable, contributing member of society? I’m a huge contributor to relieving the pain of those around me. Great, swing by later today and we’ll get you all set up.

  I check out of the Southlander (taking the complimentary bar of soap with me, thank you very much) and walk north. Instead of going through the hassle of buying a monthly pass, I find a bus stop and pay per ride.

  Buses are grimy places. Full of babbling beggars and hissing hipsters. I sit by the back door and try to get fresh air each time the bus stops. After a few exchanges I’m in the neighborhood of the halfway house that said they’d accept me.

  When I finally find the place, I feel the tickle of Hopelessness on the back of my neck. The house is presentable, but the folks on the porch are downright frightening. Four people, three of whom are sitting on plastic yard chairs, the other one dangling her legs off the railing-less porch. I can smell their cheap tobacco from the sidewalk. Their clothes are threadbare thrift store donations. The two men haven’t shaved in
days, and the two women haven’t ever brushed their teeth (I could tell from the sidewalk!), or brushed their hair. But, they were smiling. It was, after all, Southern California.

  “Is this the Hope’s Haven House?” I ask from the sidewalk, half hoping that I’m on the wrong street.

  “Ah! Ya got us! Hahaha, yup! Triple H, here it is. The Merry-Go-House.”

  “I called earlier about a room, is the landlord here?”

  “You’re talkin’ to her, you Cash?” The skeleton-thin woman that was dangling her legs off the porch hops down and walks across the grassless yard with her hand outstretched. “I’m Kay, the one you talked to on the phone.” Her hand is sticky and makes mine smell like cheap tobacco. “My full name is Kay-Lynn LaShay Reeves, but y’all can call me Kay. Not so much a street name, just kind of an easier way a gettin’ my attention.” I looked behind me to see if more people had joined me to merit the “y’all,” but I was still standing alone on the sidewalk. Should I just walk away? This is no place for a millionaire. “Why don’t ya come on in and let’s get ya a room. We have two rooms available, the choice is yours! Although we ain’t no Chuck-o-Rama, hahaha.”

  I sign a few forms and give Kay my one thousand-dollar deposit. She tells me the terms of my lease, which, for the good of us both, she says, is month to month. Rent of $720 is due on the fifth of every month. The toilet and shower are at the end of the hall; everybody in your hallway shares that bathroom, so don’t go settin’ up your toothbrush and leavin’ towels in there. The shared kitchen is right over there. We’re happy to have you. Welcome home. Hope’s Haven House has these programs and those programs, and here is a brochure with those and some other clinics. Here are phone numbers you can call, these ones are the emergency numbers. Here are local employers we work with. Here is this and here is that.

  Eventually I make it to my room. It’s on the second level, last door on the left. The door has been painted so many times it looks more like plaster than wood. Like Kay said, the door sticks, so I have to bump it open with my shoulder. The sight of my new living quarters uppercuts me with a reminder of my current worth.

  The ceiling is within arm’s reach, no tip-toe required. The carpet is worn through with cigarette burns aplenty. The decades-old wallpaper is a smoke-stained beige and is peeling near the ceiling. A stained full-size mattress on a cot in the corner takes up a quarter of the room’s living space. Folded sheets and a wool blanket are piled on top of a pillow at the foot of the bed. Kitty-corner to the bed is a small desk and chair combo—the kind like in high school where the chair is connected to the desk. The surface of the desk is carved into a relief of crooked lines, profanities, and gang names. A grease-caked hot plate sits on top of a mini fridge next to the desk. Probably no alcohol in the mini fridge. I check just in case. Nope, no alcohol. Just food residue, mold, and an expired jar of pickles. A chest of drawers next to the door is the only other piece of furniture in the room. It’s missing a front leg, so it wobbles like an uneven restaurant table. There is a window above the bed with a clear view of the house next door’s roof. Not even Spanish tiles—taupe asphalt shingles.

  I set my duffle bag and garbage sack next to the bed and slump down next to them. I roll onto my side and bring my knees to my chest. My anguish wells up into tears. At first I try to control myself, fighting back tears and looking on the bright side, but I give that up without a choice. As I have now reached rock bottom, my emotions are taking control. Prayer and reason have failed me; my gut is all I have left. And right now my gut wants to air some grievances. It feels good to cry. Like it’s something I need to do. A tension that I need to recognize. When the storm runs its course, I feel cleansed of some of the sadness of my situation. I dry my face on the bottom of my shirt and sit on the edge of the bed. I need a shower.

  The shower is more complex than its three knobs would suggest, and the hottest the water gets is tepid. The pressure is comparable to getting peed on by a few people. Without warning the pressure and temperature drop and leave me freezing, then gradually return to their dismal levels. In less than ten minutes the water is running cold. Only after I shut off the water and pull back the curtain do I realize that I don’t have a towel.

  I use my shirt to dry off, then put it on along with the rest of my clothes and walk across the hall to my room. Back in my room, I hang my shirt off the corner of the desk and lay on the bed. I know there are probably bed bugs chewing up my back, but they’re probably in the floor too, so what choice do I have?

  I light a cigarette and listen to the sounds of the Hope’s Haven House. Somebody is watching Judge Judy at full volume. My neighbor across the hall is yelling at somebody she hates, or loves. Yelling her voice box to shreds. I open my window to let the smoke out and feel California’s warm breath on my face. We aren’t far from the 101. The sound of traffic drones out my neighbors. I hear a small crowd talking on the porch. I can’t make out their words, but I hear their voices get excited, then quiet, then fits of laughter followed by excited follow-up that builds the laughter into unconstrained whoops and hollers. Sounds like some real comedians down there. I envy their laughter, but refuse to join them. It has been said that you’re only as good as the company you keep. The birds of my feather are millionaires and change makers, not the talkative slothful residents of halfway houses. Plus, they probably didn’t have any money to buy my painkillers, so there was no reason to talk to them.

  But they sounded cheerful. Maybe tomorrow morning I’d say hi. Maybe one or two of them were like me, hustlers down on their luck.

  My clothes would fit into four of the drawers, but I keep everything in my duffle bag. I might need to leave at a moment’s notice. Plus, if I left anything in my room, these people would probably steal it. I have to keep everything I own on me at all times. Especially my pills.

  I wake up from my nap after the sunset. Hunger roused me. Until I could sell the clothes that wouldn’t fit into my duffle bag, I didn’t want to leave. Walking around town with a duffle bag is bad enough, and adding a garbage sack full of clothes would make it look like I was homeless. I couldn’t leave them because they were worth a few hundred dollars. Texts are still trickling in from my online postings, so I stay put until I can off-load the clothes that won’t fit into my duffle bag.

  Rifling through my bag I find two Snickers bars and a can of tuna. Tonight’s dinner. One of the Snickers is the first course. The second course, the tuna, is sealed inside a can, and I don’t have a can opener. Tomorrow I’ll buy a pocket knife with a can opener on it. Living at rock bottom, you need a pocket knife. For now, I have to use the can opener down in the kitchen. Which means I will need to leave the relative safety of this tiny dark room (two of the three lightbulbs are out). I put my laptop under the mattress and deadbolt the door on my way out.

  The hallway is as poorly lit as the room. The other seven rooms on this floor are filling the hallway with blaring TV noises and smoke smells. The last door I pass before getting to the top of the stairs is opened a few inches. Loud music is playing. As I pass, I glance in (as you do). An old shirtless man is sitting on his bed, back against the wall, eyes closed, toothless mouth open, head tilted back. Another shirtless man is bent over the old man’s lap. Head bobbing.

  Why hasn’t anyone invented one of those memory wipers from Men in Black? There needs to be a way to scrub stains from the brain. And why do our brains play repulsive memories on a loop? I consider wiping the image from my mind with a swan dive down the stairs, but decide against it and make my way to the kitchen.

  By the tender mercy of the Lord, nobody is in the kitchen when I arrive. The communal can opener is easy enough to find and doesn’t look like it will give me tetanus. With the can opened and drained, I walk back upstairs, keeping my head down and eyes averted. Safely back in the room, I bolt the door. I eat the tuna with my fingers and without any mayonnaise. I also have some trail mix and a granola bar on the side. The third and final course of my meal is the second Snickers.

&
nbsp; My Netflix, Hulu, Prime, and HBO subscriptions expired months ago, so I was left to browsing Facebook for entertainment. Everybody I know is living better than me. I don’t know anybody in the rung of life I now find myself in. The friends I used to have are still living in mansions and driving sports cars. Kelsey is still having yacht parties, the Malibu Ferrari Club is still having sushi at Nobu, and Riley is still updating Facebook with pictures from expensive clubs and the passenger seats of exotic cars. Their luck has been better than mine. God is not giving them trials. But I’m better for it. That’s the thing about these hard times, they build character. My story will be all the more remarkable when I make it out of this. Despite all the ill fortune in the world, I rise above it. I need to find a publishing agent and get this stuff into a book. Maybe it will even be made into a movie. Which of Hollywood’s A-Listers would play me in the movie of my life? Would I have a cameo in the movie? Do they use real cocaine in movies? How much in royalties will I make?

  The noises in and around this halfway house make sleep nearly impossible. I play the Eagles on my laptop next to the bed and focus on the music. After a few hours of tossing and turning I must have drifted off.

  23

  I can’t stay here. Hope’s Halfway House, or, the Merry-Go-House, as the residents call it, is sapping my ambition. Most mornings I walk to the gas station to buy breakfast and a lottery ticket. When I get back to the house, Maria and Ron are relaxing on the porch, smoking home-rolled cigarettes. One morning they asked me where I came from, and we spent the next three hours exchanging stories about our mothers. We watched palm tree shadows make their leisurely voyage across the porch. Kay joined us at noon with a pitcher of Kool-Aid and asked about Ron’s surfboard. I walk to the same gas station at one or two and buy lunch (usually jalapeño and cream cheese taquitos with a coke). In the afternoons I try to get work done. There are four pharmacies within walking distance of the halfway house, and I have enough prescriptions to keep me busy. One of the tenants, Camila, became a regular client, but she can’t afford much. I have to roam the streets and solicit to make enough for alcohol, cigarettes, pills, rent, and food. Kay says that the terms of the lease forbid me from bringing alcohol and “drugs” into the house, so I have to buy small bottles and sneak them in. This house must be one of the only places on earth to forbid prescription painkillers. Kay keeps an eye on me.