Monday, December 15, 2008

Shoot me Pedro, but don't hurt the blind girls

Where we left off: It's Monday evening, I've just landed in L.A. and I have no clean clothes.

Many steps to laundry: I phone the concierge (jealous?) and he says they don't have guest laundry facilities (dammit) and it's a mile-ride away (jealous?). I get directions to the laundromat from the concierge (who speaks in horribly broken English), get directions to where I can fetch a taxi, go downstairs to get cash from the ATM (one of those ghetto $3.75 fee ATMs no less) to pay for the taxi, walk across the lobby floor to the front desk to get change to pay for the taxi, walk back across to hail a taxi.

Que? The whatever-you-call-the-guy-who-hails-you-a-cab looks at the address I got from the half-ass-English speaking Concierge and has no clue what it means. Awesome. And it's raining. He deciphers it and explains it to the cab driver. Should I have tipped the whatever-you-call-the-guy-who-hails-you-a-cab? The cab ride is 3 minutes if that and costs five damn dollars (dammit).

Inside the laundromat

If my mother had seen this laundromat she would have sent the police to rescue me. It. is. ghetto. People who look safe but then you get close and see they're scary as hell were walking outside, washers had ants all over them (not shown in photo) and I was alone except for two blind Mexican peasant girls*.

I left my laundry and walked down the insanely scary street shouldering my large, empty IKEA bag like a sign screaming "Kill me. I'm gay."

I was going to be killed.

And I was wearing shorts. Make of that what you will.

I found a grocery store that was not-so-ghetto and inside found a huge $4 sub (truly an insane value), some cheap-ass oatmeal for breakfast and a Coke Zero. I walk back to the laundromat with the treasures in my IKEA gay-purse through what is sure a gang zone, and move my clothes to a dryer. I have to say at this point, the one happy thought I carried with me as I wrote out my will was "Hey I have a grocery store a mile away from my hotel!'

After Anchorage, this was good news.

My knees, my IKEA bag, the $4 sandwich, the oatmeal and my detergent.

Inside the laundromat looking out, wondering who would come in and rob me, shoot me in the face and steal my sandwich.

No one dared call the police after the homosexual was gunned down. They let the phone lay, cleaned up the body and went on about their Mexican-American ways.

I finished one half of my $4 sandwich as my laundry dried, folded the laundry when it was done and...

walked back to the hotel.

Am I insane? Yes.

I was scared, but I did not want to pay for the cab back. I am broke, I don't make much money and I can run fast. The walk was thrilling in a bad way. Crackheads scoped me out as I skipped past them with my giant blue bag full of clean bikini briefs, a half-eaten sandwich and dreams.

I made it back alive, put my clothes away and had one packet of oatmeal before bed.

*The Mexican peasant girls is a lie.


Summer said...

That phone is diiirrty. I wouldn't call anyone on that thing, not even for safety.
I like your knees. They look safe and warm.

Mark Baratelli said...

I'll babysit your kids with them. Ew.