Free Lost in America: A Dead-End Journey by Colby Buzzell

bottle of cheap vodka I took a swig. As the gang began to introduce themselves, I was handed a Schlitz. I was thinking I might inquire about weekly rates.
    I have a fear of other people, and I need to not project that fear when I enter a room filled with strangers, since people can pick up on it. I reminded myself to be friendly, outgoing, positive.
    “Hey, how’s it going? My name’s Colby.”
    Some nodded, others said hello and stuck out their hands for a shake. I began sizing them up, speculating on their career choices. Truck drivers?
    “Coleman? Nice to meet you. You want another shot?”
    Sure. We passed the plastic vodka bottle around the room for another round, and I tried not to think of the possibility of contracting some nasty incurable disease transmitted via saliva. I was feeling a bit proud of myself for making the effort to turn over a new leaf, be more sociable, all those annoying qualities I somewhat dislike in others.
    The bottle made four or five laps around the room, me turning it down that last trip. “Pussy!” exclaimed Hooters guy, next to me. I changed my mind and took one last shot. He cheered.
    The guy with the southern accent then asked, “Where you from, brother?”
    Depending upon my geographic location, answering this question could, in some situations, get me killed. I knew that, and heart skipping a beat, I decided to go ahead and tell them the truth.
    “California.”
    I knew full well that answer wasn’t going to be good enough; I could have sworn I heard one of them exclaim, “Strike one!” They wanted specifics. The guy in the opposite corner, leaning up against the wall, barely able to stand, raised an eyebrow, heavily observing me.
    As I walk through the shadow of the valley of death . . . fuck it, just tell them. No one lives forever.
    “San Francisco.”
    The guy holding himself up in the corner released an “Ewww”; another looked equally disgusted, as though he’d discovered his beer can was in fact actually filled with piss.
    “San Francisco?” Skinny asked, “Whereabouts?”
    So far, I’m liking him the most. When I mentioned I lived in the Tenderloin district, I was shocked to find that a couple of them knew exactly where that was, and had lived there themselves.
    One of them went on to tell a story. “I drive a truck, and one time I was there getting fucked up. I hired a couple Mexicans, and we went down there. One guy was like, take a walk with me, and I was like, goddamn, man, fuck that.”
    He was wasted, moving from one thought to another. “I say I’ma buy me some, how much a hundred dollar get me, buy what you want, you know? So I buy me an eight-ball for a hundred dollars, you know, and I got me fffuuuccckkkkeeeddd uuuppp!!! This was in ninety-fucking-eight. I was in Idaho, and I bought that rig. I, um, go to the massage parlor, and then get me two hookers out of them yellow pages over there, snorted all that shit and got me laid up there in the motel for three days and flew back to Idaho and told them to fuck themselves and gave ’em the truck right there.”
    He then went into talking about his ex-wife. “She got all my fucking furniture and my car, you know. She wanted half! And I want half of what’s mine, right, you know, I work my ass off for all that mutha-fucking stuff. That goddamn living room set cost six fucking thousand dollars man, that shit ain’t cheap. Ethan Allen mutha-fucking shit! You know, I paid six hundred fucking dollars for a damn end table! It’s killing me, man, I want my mutha-fuckin’ shit, man.”
    When I told them how I was going to head down to the day labor place the following morning to find work, they all knew exactly where that was, and a couple of them told me they were banned from there for life.
    Not only were they all drinking the cheapest alcohol money could buy, but I noticed that they were all smoking the cheapest generic-brand cigarettes, too, one right after another, straight out of soft packs,