Kicking the Dirt

OK, here's the result of a self-imposed writing exercise--just flat out write without thinking or editing for thirty minutes. What the hell is it with me and the Central Valley?

“Aw fuck, man, you know there are people who go to college to do what we do?” Cal asked, coming out of the restroom, thumb and forefinger to his nostrils, trying to get every last snort of the blow.

I didn’t bother to tell him that those people were most likely at the San Moritz catering to all the beautiful and plasticized rather than at the Motel 6 off the Buttonwillow exit running the Visas of doughy families on their way to Disneyworld and truckers with battered porn under their seats.

One of these days, I gotta ask Cal where exactly to find blow in the Central Valley. This is crystal meth land, sunbaked and cracked full of hicks shouting “White Power” while cooking up chemicals that could bring down a federal building if you’re not too careful, cooking them up as their toddlers go underfoot sucking their mouths on empty beer bottles. There aren’t any power brokers or aesthetic effetes here.

“Goddamnit, there’s gotta be a way to stop some of that shit from going down my throat,” Cal said. “The guy who figures out how to stop that will be one rich man, I tell you. Hey, anything sticking out?”

“No, man, you got the shirt all tucked in,” I replied.

Cal is a thin, wiry little fucker, and vain too. He told me the reason he’s not a crankhead is that he doesn’t want his teeth all yellow and shit. “Gotta look good for the ladies, know what I mean?” He figures that he and his ratty ass brown ponytail will save up some money from this gig and eventually head down a 120 miles south to Lalaland. There, he’ll get a recording contract. That’ll happen when the world clamors for coked acoustic renditions of Bon Jovi, but hey, a man has to have his dreams and I’m not that much of a dick to tell him he’s full of it. So I keep to myself that I used to live in Los Angeles, and that it is chock full of people with voices that could make angels cry busking on the Promenade for singles and living in shitholes.

At two in the clock in the afternoon, there ain’t jack to do. Check out time is at noon, and the type of folks who stay here are straggles who’ve been on the road too long while too cheap to splurge for the Holiday Day in two doors down. You don’t get those folks until eleven at night. So I get back to running totals from last night for the fourth time and trying to ignore that greasy feeling in my gut that comes from trying to digest my fifth Carl’s Jr. burger in a week.