I must have been high on
sugar, or so thoroughly fed up of feeling sorry for myself that I decided I was
leaving the country. What a good idea! I’m scared in my own country and suffer
from anxiety attacks just going to the supermarket I have visited for years,
but I know! I’ll go somewhere I have no clue about, probably can’t afford and
will be bloody terrified of. I had a passport, Visas were easily sorted and I
had ‘some’ money I could use for flights and accommodation.
I did my research on which
countries were currently ‘safe’ I.e. No wars, floods, earthquakes, plagues of
locusts etc. Also they have to speak English as my Spanish is very rusty (and I
was never good in the first place) and the few words of Japanese I know are not
going to get me anywhere. I can ask where things are, say good morning, thank
you and name random objects. I can also say I don’t understand which would
probably be useful, but I don’t think it would make me popular.
America it is then. They apparently speak English (they
take the ‘u’s out of everything! And WTF is a faucet? It’s a frelling tap!) and
it’s cheaper than rip off Britain, or so I’ve heard. Plus I might have to buy
petrol over there (even though I don’t drive or have a car) just because it’s
cheaper. I might also take photos of the signs for petrol prices over here,
then show them to Americans who are complaining about gas prices. I’m going to
be so popular over there.
What will really happen is this; Terrified of the airport,
claustrophobic on the plane, terrified at US airport, forget Visa papers, look
guilty, get arrested, have cavity search, homeless, jobless, die of exposure.
It’s lucky I can’t afford (and am not attractive enough) to be a crack whore. I
think if I get scared enough I’ll be willing to do anything to get myself
through it. Though I am far too much of a control freak to do drugs, smoke or
even drink. Tea and crumpets bitches!
They were going to love that I was the typical Brit chick
in the sense that I was relatively well spoken (not posh, but not chavvy. I
said darnce rather than dance.) I drank tea, moaned about the weather etc. etc.
I was expecting that I would get a lot of questions about the Royal Family,
because everyone in the UK is on a first name basis with all of them, and
frequently get invited to the Palace for high tea. They were going to think my
accent was ‘cute’ and ask what part of London I lived in (because everyone in
England lives in London.) I would hide the fact that I had Irish roots as I
think they’d go even more loopy over that. I’ve been to Ireland once, so don’t
think I would be able to answer any questions.
I was packed (it was pathetic
how little I had; just a few clothes, toiletries, my iPod, a book…) and had
everything sorted. Due to my complete and utterly level of genius-ness, I had
chosen Hollywood. Yeah. A girl who doesn’t wear make-up or care about fashion
chose Hollywood. Nice move idiot. But I suppose I thought that if I’m going to
do something stupid and crazy, I should push it that little bit further. Why do
things by halves?
The airport in England was bad
enough. Having no one who cares enough to see you off, or telling you they’ll
miss you, and to write soon, is deeply depression. Plus it is a scientific fact
that time goes backwards in airports. Duty free only burns so much time, and
then it’s just you staring at the departures board to see that your flight has
been delayed for two hours. Awesome. I don’t know how I passed the time. I
spent a lot of it in a toilet cubicle having a huge, epic, mother of all panic
attacks which was fun. Once the adrenaline was burned out, I felt like I might
not die, which was nice.
The plane journey sucked. Once you’ve taken off and landed,
there isn’t really much else of interest. I’d been too poor to buy tickets on a
flight that had a movie, and didn’t get the window seat. I also forgot to tell
them I was Vegan so couldn’t even eat the food. 8 hours sat next to someone who
snores, belches with their mouth open and has rolls of fat spilling over the
arm rests. I honestly couldn’t tell if they were male or female, it was awful.
I must have dozed at some point, but was woken by the god awful snoring of the
‘dude looks like a lady’ next to me. Their huge arm fell into my lap and I was
unable to find anywhere else to rest the bloody thing. The armrest was
enveloped in flab, the stomach was a huge round mound that wouldn’t let it sit.
I kicked the person’s leg and pretended to be asleep. I was already feeling
claustrophobic without feeling trapped by how much the person next to me was
spilling onto my seat.
And it just got better when I
got to the good ol’ US of A.
“GET BEHIND THE GREEN LINE!” The official in the glass box
yelled at me.
There was no green line! I
looked around me everywhere in a panic thinking that maybe I had actually lost
it, or he had, when I saw a grey patch on the carpet. Did he mean that? I
stepped back behind it feeling thoroughly sick. I’d only just come into the
country and I was being yelled at. I was already nervous enough without that.
On TV, everyone in America was friendly and happy, cheerful and ‘have a nice
day now’. This guy was evil. He stared at me with narrowed eyes even though he was
checking other people’s passports. Mine was getting wetter by the second as my
palms sweated on to it. I wiped it on my trousers, not wanting to annoy him
even more. I could feel tears pricking at my eyes and my throat beginning to
close up. I won’t cry. I won’t cry. He’s just having a bad day and taking it
out on me.
“NEXT!” He yelled.
I leapt clean out of my skin,
hurrying over to the window on locked knees and shaking calves. I handed my
passport to him in such an apologetic way, I probably looked incredibly guilty.
I felt incredibly guilty. He looked it over several times, looking from me to
it over and over. He wasn’t going to let me in. I was going to be sent back to
England without even having seen any part of America but the depressing airport
and the evil security guy. Shit.
He took a deep breath and
nodded in irritation, practically throwing my passport through the window at
me. I swallowed hard and continued on, feeling like a little lost lamb or
something equally pathetic. This place was HUGE. I’d been to airports before, but
not like this. How did everyone else know where they were going? At least I was
in a country that spoke my language. Small mercies.
I followed the signs to the luggage carousels, hating these
god forsaken things with such a passion I was tempted to pay someone to grab it
for me. My case was huge and probably equal to my body weight. This was going
to be embarrassing and messy. I stood by the evil thing and watched as everyone
else’s suitcases came out, people grabbing them easily and leaving. Soon I was
one of two people left and there was still no sign of my case. I was feeling
the usual signs of panic clawing at my chest and making my breathing pick up.
Please god let it come out. I don’t know what to do if it doesn’t! What the
hell was I thinking coming here? What the hell am I doing? Part of me wanted to
find a payphone and call my mum. I was 29 for Christ’s sake! I shouldn’t even
be thinking like that. This was my chance to stand on my own two feet. The case
would come, I was just being impatient.
Eventually I saw it come through the curtain and my heart
leapt ridiculously in relief. So easily pleased! I moved closer to see if I
would be able to grab it in one attempt, thankful that there weren’t many
witnesses around.
“That yours?” A heavily drawling voice made me flinch.
“Uh…yes.”
“Tiny little thing like you is gunna struggle with that.
Allow me.”
“Thank you.”
He was tall, tanned, toned and
wearing a cowboy hat. I assumed the accent was Texan, though I was no expert.
He yanked my case off the conveyor as though wrestling a steer, placing it on
the ground next to me with ease.
“Thank you so much.” I said breathlessly, relieved at not
having to look like an idiot dragging that thing off.
“My pleasure Ma’am.” He said, tipping his hat to me before grabbing
his own case and wheeling it away.
I stood there staring for a
few minutes, unsure of what to do now. That was just plain weird, and feeding
just about every cliché I had in my head about Americans, with the ‘ma’am’, the
tan, the accent. If everyone here was like him, I would be ok I think. It
didn’t hurt that he was beautiful. Maybe that wouldn’t be so great, I didn’t
think my already crushed self-esteem could handle being surrounded by beautiful
people all the time, but then I had stupidly picked the most plastic, fake,
beautiful place after all. What an idiot. Maybe they’d find me quaint and
unthreatening. Maybe they’d just assume that’s what the English are like. Maybe
I’d be torn to shreds within two days. I shook the thoughts off and decided to
deal with one thing at a time. I need a taxi. Deal with that and then come to
the next thing, then the next, then the next. That was how we would get through
this, by breaking it down into manageable chunks. Not by thinking I was a
million miles from home, knew no one here, had very little money, needed to
find a job and had no idea what the hell I had been thinking when I hopped on
that plane. No, this was fine, everything would be good. I was fine. I was ok.
The sun was unreal as I
stepped out of the air conditioned airport. SUN! I felt like maybe doing a
little dance as it had been so long since I’d seen the damned thing, but I
would stand out like a blatant tourist. I already did with my impossibly pale
skin. I felt like a different species to every other person that walked by,
they were all bronzed with sun bleached hair. The sun was normal for them; they
weren’t breaking out in a sweat just by looking at it. I looked around for a
taxi rank and began wheeling my stupidly heavy case over to it. The curb was
something of a nightmare and I toppled the damned thing and crushed my foot,
but no one saw so it was ok.
“Where ya heading?” A middle aged guy with very little hair
poked his head out of the window of the nearest cab and smiled.
I took the address from my
pocket and handed it to him.
“Need some help with the case?” He was already out and
popping the boot, lifting it in with ease. Was I that pathetically weak? I knew
the answer to that. When I had some money I was joining a gym as this was
getting silly.
“So where ya from?” He asked as he pulled out of the car
park.
“England, not far from Oxford.” I said trying to think of a
place he might have heard of.
“Oxford huh? You must love the sun?”
I laughed.
“It’s gorgeous! Summer was a complete wash out this year.
I’m in awe of it.”
“Your accent is so damn cute!” He said, looking at me in
the rear view mirror.
And so it had begun. I knew I
would be hearing that a lot while I was here. I didn’t have a posh voice, but I
didn’t speak like a chav either with the ‘innits’ and ‘whatevs’ crowd. I used my
‘t’s and said barth instead of bath. Southerners, what would you do with them!
So I’m sure to him I probably sounded like a snob. Who knows, maybe I could use
it to my advantage; say I’m a Lady or something. They wouldn’t know otherwise.
“Thanks.” I said, not knowing what kind of response was
appropriate.
“They’re gunna love you here. All Colin Firth or that new
princess…’Kate’?”
“That’s it.” I said sighing.
The royal wedding could not
have interested me less, but I knew some Americans had been fascinated by it. I
had hoped to escape all that by coming here, but apparently not. Could I put on
a fake American accent? I knew the answer to that.
“So here for business or pleasure?”
“Both I suppose. I need to find a job; I have a long term
working visa.”
“You’ll be fine. There’s no end of places here that are
crying out for waitresses, or the studios often need runners and gophers.”
Bugger. I had hoped for
something a little better than that, but needs must. Life was supposed to be
cheaper over here, I had come from rip off Britain after all, I’d be fine.
“So where are you from?” I asked politely.
“New York originally, but Hollywood calls to us all. That
or Las Vegas.” He laughed at some inside joke, or maybe I was just being slow.
I smiled politely.
We got to the apartment block
in about an hour. When he pulled into the car park, I prayed he had gotten the
address wrong. Shit, what a dump.
I paid and took my case from
him, staring at the building as though it would magically transform into
something nicer if I prayed hard enough.
We were clearly in a rough
part of town, with cars racing past, over turned bins everywhere and people
screaming abuse on the other side of the street. I was given the finger when a
woman caught me looking at her, so I put my head down and rushed to the
entrance. I was going to be murdered in a week.
The front of the building was no better than the side; the
sign had lost half its letters, or someone had stolen them, as it read ‘Ass
Wood Apartments’. It was supposed to be the Classic Hollywood Apartments, but
the ‘new’ name seemed to suit it better. The paint was flaking from all the
wooden window frames, the windows on the ground floor were smeared with…I didn’t
want to know what, and the door buzzer hung by exposed wires, swaying in the
wind. I took a steadying breath before pushing the door open, hoping the inside
was better.
It wasn’t.
The lobby area stank of urine,
alcohol and cigarettes, and litter was everywhere. The lift was apparently out
of order, and the guy behind the desk looked more likely to murder me than
help. He wore a dirty white vest and had a lot of teeth missing. He took a drag
from his cigarette and blew the smoke in my direction.
“Yeah?”
“I uh….I have a flat rented. My name’s Georgiana MacManus.
Uh…George is fine.” I said, not knowing why.
He raised an eyebrow, looking
irritated, puffing on his fag again before rifling through a pile of tattered
papers on the desk.
“302. Lift’s broke. Good luck with the stairs.” He laughed,
pushing a set of keys across the desk to me.
My chewed on my lip to stop my
eyes tearing up again. Weakness would be the worst thing to show a man like
that.
I managed a flight of steps,
dragging the case behind me, but had to stop and rest at the break between
them. A suspicious liquid was all over the floor here and I was guessing it was
pee from the smell. Excellent.
Land of opportunity my arse!
But this was all I could afford. Hopefully if anyone did try anything, they’d
kill me before raping me. Just thinking like that made my stomach roil
dangerously. What was I doing here?
It took a good fifteen minutes to make it to the third
floor. Several people passed me, all laughing as I struggled, making no effort
to help. I wasn’t really surprised, but I was a little disappointed. My ankles
were in agony from whacking the bastard case against them as I pulled it up the
stairs.
I put my key in the lock of 302 and prayed to gods I didn’t
believe in that it would at least be clean and not full of roaches.
How wrong can a girl be?
Opening the door disturbed
several from whatever they were eating and they scurried away into the kitchen
area. They were huge. I mean HUGE. There were Chihuahuas smaller than those
things. I hate bugs! How was I going to sleep in here?
I closed the door behind me
and wheeled the case into the centre of the main room. It was an open area with
a kitchen part by the door, a bathroom opposite (I wasn’t feeling brave enough
to open that door yet) and a tiny bedroom with a single bed. The mattress was
stained with what I hoped was tea. The whole room was musty and damp, stains of
it crawling the walls and converging in every corner. Gorgeous.
I opened the windows wide to
get some air in, wondering what to do with myself now. I didn’t want to open my
case with those roaches around, but I couldn’t kill them. I was a Vegan for
Christ’s sake. Urgh! Urgh! Urgh!
I put my case in the room and decided to go talk to the guy
behind the desk. The room may have been cheap, but there must be some kind of
rules about how clean it was?
“Hi…there are cockroaches in my room.”
“Just be thankful I don’t charge you extra for them.” He
said with a laugh, stubbing out his cigarette and lighting another.
“I was hoping you could remove them please.”
He laughed again, like it was
the funniest thing he had ever heard. He got to his feet and leaned over the
counter, towering over me and trying to make me feel small. I was fucking fed
up. I was tired, irritated by dragging that bastard case up the stairs, my room
was gross, the area dangerous and now this bastard was being an arsehole.
“Look, you remove them and I won’t go to Environmental Health,
ok?” I smiled sweetly, wondering where this burst of courage came from. I
assumed it was either adrenaline or exhaustion and just hoped he wouldn’t punch
me out.
“Enviro what?” He blew smoke in my face.
God I missed the indoor
smoking ban that we Brits enjoyed.
“Environmental health, the authority that ensures that
living conditions are up to a certain standard.” I thought for a moment.
“According to Bylaw 32.5 all places of residence must be free of damp, vermin
and in a sanitary condition before new tenants are allowed to live there.” I
was so full of shit, but I hoped he would just assume I had some idea of what I
was talking about.
“Is that so?” He scratched a scab on his neck, picking the
skin off and dropping it to the floor. “Whatever lady. I’ll move you to another
room if that one is unacceptable.” His voice was laced with venom and I had no
doubt I would be regretting this at some point in the future.
He smiled, but there was no
warmth or kindness in it, it was a feral, sly thing. He was going to give me a
worse room. Great!
My new room was at least free
from bugs and damp, but was facing the main road. Cars zoomed past loudly and
my new neighbours on either side liked to play their music very loudly.
Fan-fucking-tastic. Today just got better and better. Maybe he’d give me back
the roach room if I asked nicely? The mattress at least was clean, though I’d
stupidly not thought to bring bedding with me. I unpacked what I could, feeling
a little despondent at how empty this place was without a TV or radio to drown
out everyone else’s noise. Maybe I could ask them to turn it down? I’d probably
end up getting stabbed or worse. This area was no doubt filled with delightful
people such as gang members or drug dealers, crack whores and every other kind
of low life. Call it snobby, but I was more concerned with my personal safety
than being open minded about the types of people that lived here. Sure there
must have been those like me who couldn’t afford anything else, but there were
areas like this back home and they were all bad news.
I sat on my bed and stared at the wall, wondering what to
do with myself. The sun was setting and I wasn’t sure it was safe to leave once
it got dark. My stomach rumbled. I had no food. I took a couple of notes from
my wallet and left everything else hidden I my case. If I were going to get
mugged, I’d rather they didn’t get my passport and cards.
I descended the stairs,
smiling at everyone I passed. One woman was clearly on meth, her face caved in,
cheeks sunken and teeth rotted. Excellent. I was screwed.
“Is there a local shop nearby?” I asked her, not wanting to
have to talk to the guy at the desk again.
“Yeah, turn right when you get out of here and walk three
blocks. Run by rag heads.” Delightful. Racist and a meth addict.
“Thank you.” I said, trying to get away as quickly as
possible.
Seriously, I don’t know what I
had had in my head about coming here, but this was not it. I was slightly proud
of myself though; I hadn’t cried, I hadn’t jumped back on a plane back to
England, I hadn’t rung my parents telling them I lived in a drug den and I had
sorted my room out…kinda.
There were four guys smoking around the door when I left
the building. They all looked me up and down before turning back to their
conversation. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or offended. I stuck with
relieved. If I’m ugly, hopefully I won’t be attacked.
I followed the meth lady’s
directions, keeping to the street lights and walking quickly. It was getting
dark quickly and I suspected a whole new group of creatures would be coming out
when it did.
The streets themselves were a
lot like back home, boarded up shops, graffiti, litter and people looking a
little lost. The economy had tanked everywhere and no one was untouchable. The
only difference was that here it was still blissfully warm, and some of the
graffiti seemed to be in Spanish. Thank god I chose that over French at school-
I might need it.
I reached the shop, not feeling too reassured by the metal
grating over the windows or the gun the shop owner had on the wall behind the
till. Guns. Not something I had any experience with at all. No one I knew had
them, used them, or even wanted to. I wasn’t so naïve as to think there weren’t
any, but it seemed to be confined to the cities. I was happy to stay well out
of it. The one mounted here looked to be some sort of shot gun, not that I
really knew, I was guessing from the times I’d played Resident Evil and found
it best for head shots.
The owner didn’t seem pleased to see me, his eyes following
me as I wandered the aisles. It was a dank, dreary little place, but I found
bread, fruit, pasta and diet cola easily enough. Teabags, soya milk and sugar
had been a little harder, but I found them in the end. I counted out my money
and handed it to the owner.
“You forgot the tax.” He told me the amount with the tax.
Cheaper over here my arse! Why not just add the bloody tax to the prices? What
the hell! I was not a happy bunny as I lugged my bags back to the building,
wondering why people put up with never knowing how much anything ever was if
the tax was added at the till.
I was in full rant mode in my
head when I got back to the building. The four guys were still smoking, but
they’d moved on from cigarettes.
“Hey cutie, want to join us?” One of the men called out,
blocking the doorway.
“No thank you, I’m really tired.” I said, trying to smile,
though my knees had started to lock. I felt like a rabbit in headlights, unable
to move though I know I need to.
“We can help with that honey.” One of the other men said.
It was too dark to make out
features, but they were all in their late twenties at a guess, taller than me,
stronger than me and smoking what smelt like pot.
“I’m jet lagged, but thank you. Maybe some other time.” I
said, trying to get past the one who blocked the door.
“You’re English right? Awesome!” The guy who blocked the
door was smiling down at me.
I nodded, took the handle and
tried to pull it against him, losing the feeling in my fingers from the weight
of the bags I was carrying.
“You need some help with those?” He went to take them from
me.
“I’m good, but thank you. I really should be going.” I
smiled as convincingly as I could manage, before pulling the door gently.
He took the hint and moved.
I let out the breath I had
been holding as I got inside, leaning against the door for a moment and trying
not to cry. They probably hadn’t wanted to do anything to me, but that didn’t
make it any less scary. My heart was thudding, my hands were soaked and my
knees were feeling unreliable. I sat on the bottom step and took a minute to
catch my breath.
“MOVE!” Someone shouted from behind me, kicking me sharply
in the back.
I fell to the ground, hitting
my knees on the hard floor and knocking my bags over. Everything spilled out
over the floor as the guy stepped over me and spat. It hit my cheek and ran
down. I was on all fours staring in disbelief.
“What you fucking looking at bitch?” He yelled, squaring up
and taking a step closer. I looked down at the floor and busied myself with
picking up the shopping.
I don’t know how I made it back to my apartment, but once
the door was closed, I collapsed in a heap against it and began to cry. My
knees were bleeding and bruising already, my hands were grazed, my back was
pounding where he had kicked me and I was scared, genuinely scared.
What the hell had I been
thinking coming here? Could things get worse than this? I hoped not. I was a
heartbeat from getting a cab back to the airport and heading home.
A banging on the door made me yelp in fear.
“KEEP THE FUCKING NOISE DOWN IN THERE!” A female voice
yelled through the door.
So I can’t even cry in peace.
I hate this place. I stuffed the bottom of my t shirt in my mouth and cried as
quietly as I could.
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