Lost in America: A Dead-End Journey (6 page)

While finishing my second bottle of wine, feeling updated on current events, I turned the television off and sat there on the sofa, staring at the wall. Somewhere down the hallway was a commotion, and again I felt no desire to find out what it was all about. My thoughts were consumed with this feeling that there was something missing in this room of mine. I was vexed trying to determine what it was exactly, and then it hit me. I need a dream board.

A dream board is a visual aid you set up to help you achieve whatever goals you might have, like a collage. Say your dream is to be rich, with a huge house, a fancy car, a picturesque family that never fights and is always smiling. Well, if that’s not a nightmare to you, and truly is your dream, you post pictures depicting all that on your dream board, and according to my sister, who believes in this shit, if you stare at your dream board long enough—somehow, someway—it’ll all miraculously happen to you.

Since I didn’t have any magazines to cut and paste from as inspiration for my dream board, I decided to instead just post words related to my dreams. I pulled out my pen and notebook, and, after taking a huge swig of wine, I put the end of the pen in my mouth and gently gnaw while thinking long and hard about the words I wanted to use. I put down “Writer,” but then tore that page out of my notebook, crumpled it up, and shot a three-pointer toward the wastebasket. Missed.

I needed to keep my dreams realistic. I was beginning to freak when I realized that I couldn’t think of any dreams that were—my imagination was drifting to impossibilities like “Dinosaur Tamer”—so I quickly asked myself what I needed or wanted. The first thing that came to mind was a plot. A plot that would give my book—or my life—a purpose, a meaning, a point. I decided that this plot would be a good short-term goal for me, but it was too abstract. I needed to think long-term; what was a good long-term goal? A job would be a nice, obtainable long-term goal; work gives your life meaning, and since that’s what I needed, I write down, “Employment.”

When I couldn’t think of any other words to post on my dream board, I decide to give up and be happy focused on just that one dream. I realized then that I had nothing—no tape or thumb tacks like my sister had—to post it up with on my dream board, so I improvised. I turned the sink on, got the paper soaking wet, and very satisfactorily slapped it up on the wall.

I stared at it for a while, until eventually it dried, slipping to the ground. No longer interested in my dream board, I turned the light off, and went to bed.

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fter about five or six turns of the key, I was about to say fuck it and call the toll-free USAA roadside assistance number when finally, finally, the engine fired up. I let it run for a bit, spewing toxic carbon out into the atmosphere. Once I felt the engine was running properly, all heated up, I pulled the vehicle out of the parking garage and rolled onto West Lincolnway, eastbound.

The sun was just now peeking up over the horizon. Waiting patiently for a red light at the corner of Central Avenue, I noticed that most of the enormous pickup trucks rumbling around were covered in rust, and looked like they’d been buried underground for the last decade or two. It was impressive that they still ran. Occasionally I’d see a brand-new F-150 or F-250 with massive engine and tires, big silver industrial steel toolbox bolted into the bed, full of heavy and expensive tools. We were all heading in the same direction, all on our way to work. Maybe a couple of them were on their way to
finding
work, as I was, but looking at these men—the rugged men who drive these pickup trucks, staring silently at the road ahead, bright and early in the morning, sipping shitty gas station coffee while puffing away on cheap generic soft-pack cigarettes, old sun-faded ball caps emblazoned “Makita,” thick salty sweat rings all along the brim, bent down to shield their eyes and face from the sun—I didn’t think the majority were looking for work. No, these men had work, and had done real work their entire lives.

When the light finally turned green, one by one we headed down the same path, together.

I parked the Caliente over in a residential neighborhood, in front of a one-story with a chain-link fence around it two blocks from where I had to be that morning. I locked her up, and as I began to walk away, I noticed steam coming from under her hood. Since it was a bit cold, my first thought was that it’s just morning moisture coming up off my engine. But when I lifted the hood, I saw that there was green shit splattered all over the engine, dripping down my radiator.

Was this God once again telling me not to get a job? I’ll worry about all this later, I thought; first I’ve got to get a goddamn job.

On the street corner directly across from the day labor place I’d been referred to in Utah was a tire repair shop. I saw an auto mechanic, wearing greasy blue work khakis, in front of the shop rolling a tire with his hands, a lit cigarette hanging from his lips. Since I was running a couple minutes early, I stopped to talk with him about my problem. He told me that they didn’t do radiators, just tires; they usually sent radiator work over to another guy clear on the other side of town. That didn’t help me any, and when I asked him if there were any radiator guys at all in the neighborhood, or within walking distance, he told me no, there weren’t. I thanked him and proceeded to ignore my car problems, making my way to the day labor agency to pick up some freelance work, Cheyenne Edition.

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bout a dozen people were standing around, sullenly smoking, outside. I made my way past them, walking inside with my game face on, eager to work, radiating positive energy. The lobby inside was like the waiting room to poverty; a couple dozen white plastic chairs set up, nearly all the seats taken. Most occupants looked like they had already been waiting around a couple hours, it now only being seven o’clock.

The television up in the corner was playing some work safety information video. When I told the guy behind the counter wearing a blue polo shirt and glasses that I was looking for work, I could see written on the job board behind him that they had a job available for an auto mechanic with three years’ experience and his own tools. I was tempted to ask them if they could add next to that, “Mechanic who can fix a radiator on a 1964 Mercury Comet Caliente desperately needed. Will trade beer and NAME BRAND cigarettes for time and labor. See Colby.”

After a couple questions, including if I’ve ever worked for them and “Do you have two forms of ID?” the guy behind the counter sat me down at a folding table in the back, which had one of those keypads you see at the checkout aisle at the grocery store that you type your debit card information into, and a binder containing test questions for me to answer to the best of my ability to determine whether I was employable.

With the guy standing next to me to help get me going, I sat down in the chair. The first couple questions that he guided me through were pretty basic, along the lines of whether I was male or female, and whether I knew my social security number. When the
What race are you?
question came up, he told me to mark one if I was white, two if I was black, and three if I was Hispanic. That’s it.

He stood there for a couple seconds with his hands on his hips and a patient smile on his face, waiting for me to punch the correct number into the machine. I just kind of sit there for a couple seconds, looking at him, waiting for more options. Finally I ask, “What about Asian?” His smile dissipated into a look of confusion. I could see the wheels turning in his head as he thought about it. He told me that he did not know what to press for Asian, and asked me to wait as he went back to the front desk to check the manual.

I’m half white and half Asian. I remember that when I was in D.C. for the inauguration, I saw many wearing T-shirts that read, “My President Is Black.” So I think people who are half white go with whatever other half they are, like the president. I hadn’t seen any fellow Asian-Americans waiting around for a job—come to think of it, the only Asians I’d seen so far here in Cheyenne all worked at the Chinese buffet near my hotel—so I thought it might be best to tell them that I was Asian, in case they were hip to the whole diversity thing. It might help me land more jobs here.

While I was waiting for him to find out what an Asian is to do, a Native American at the table behind me, his long hair tied back in a ponytail, was doing paperwork, organizing time cards. “Hey,” he said in a low voice, one I hadn’t heard since high school, like he was helping me cheat. “On that test, whatever you do, do not say that you’ve ever beaten somebody up on the job, stolen anything from an employer, or done any drugs. Even if you have, just say no to those questions.” I thanked him for his help just as the guy came back, a smile back on his face, and told me to go ahead and press four for Asian.

There were about seventy-five multiple-choice questions, clustered in groups revolving around four basic concepts:

Had I ever knocked somebody out while on a job?

Had I ever stolen work or office supplies?

Had I ever cheated on my taxes or received government assistance?

Was I a drug addict or alcoholic?

For example, question 34 asked, “When do you drink alcohol?” a reasonable multiple-choice option being “While driving.” I noticed that for a lot of the drug- and alcohol-related questions where they asked whether you partook, the multiple-choice option never included “No.” All they had available was “Seldom or Never.”

When I was all done with the test, I went up to the front counter. The guy with the glasses was busy sending a couple of people out on a job, so a very kind petite lady assisted me by sending my test answers electronically up the chain, the test results instantly indicating that I had passed. According to them, I was employable.

I was handed some forms to fill out. One asked about prior work experience, whether I had experience welding, pouring concrete, and the like. I marked down that I had experience in pretty much everything, which is somewhat true. A lot of these things that they were asking about—janitorial work, gardening, manual labor—were things that I got experience doing while I was in the military. If they sent me out on a job that I didn’t have any prior experience with, I was pretty sure I could figure it out. When I joined the army, one of the very first things they handed me at basic training was not a weapon but a lovely mop and bucket to wipe down the barracks bay. I was a mop prodigy; I figured it out pretty quick. I reasoned that I could do the same thing here. When I got down to some of the questions specific to armed forces work experience, one of the questions was, “Is this person deceased? If so, enter date of death.” It seemed this agency had experience placing dead people, taking the notion of equal opportunity to a somewhat new level.

After more paperwork, W-2s and crap like that, the lady asked me whether I wanted to take a drug test, which is optional. She explained that I would be available for more jobs if I was drug-free; some employers like that. Trying really hard to remember the last time I did any drugs, while at the same time trying really hard not to look like I was trying really hard to remember the last time I’d done any drugs, I tell her, Sure, I’ll take the test. She handed me a plastic cup to piss in, which I brought to the bathroom. When done, I returned it to her, setting it on the counter. She looked at the label on the side of the plastic cup and said, “Oh, good. You passed.”

I was caught off guard by this. “What?!” I exclaimed without thinking. “I passed?”

“Yeah. You passed.” She studied me. “Why are you so surprised?” she asked.

“Umm . . .” I then explained that it wasn’t the results that surprised me. “I’ve never done any drugs before, ever. I don’t like the way they make me feel.” I tell her that what I am surprised about is how fast the test results came back in; for some reason, I thought it would take a couple days or weeks for that to happen, that they would actually have to test my piss to get a result. She chuckled a bit and explained to me that the side of the cup had a sticker that instantly gave the results.

Now that I’d passed all these tests with flying colors and was available to work that day, she made me sign my name on the work clipboard on the counter along with all the other people looking for work. She told me they would call me if they had any work today. If not, I should show up the following morning at five. I would check in just like I did now, and if any work came in that they believed I was qualified to do, they’d send me out. If not, I’d get the opportunity to sit around all day waiting for work, just like everybody else here.

I felt really good—excited even—about my future. I’d passed all the tests that they threw at me, including the safety test I winged. When I stepped outside, I threw my sunglasses on, lit up a smoke, and thought to myself that this must be how it feels to get a high score on the SAT. Then I remembered the damn car, and started wondering what the fuck I was going to do with that. Then I saw it: right there in front of me, only one block away from where that guy at the tire shop had told me there were absolutely no auto mechanics in this area, was an auto shop. Buck’s Auto Repair.

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guy who appeared to be my age, sleeves rolled up, was working on a mid-1960s Chevy Camaro in the garage when I walked up. We shook hands and I told him all about my problem, and that she was parked right around the corner. He told me to go ahead and drive it in, he’d take a look and tell me what’s wrong. So I did, and when I drove it up, he saw the vintage black and yellow California plates and asked whether I was from there. I told him I was, and of course the next question was, What the hell are you doing here in Cheyenne? I told him I was driving across the country looking for work, and I heard I could find it here. He nodded as he lifted the hood, knowing exactly what I was talking about, telling me he himself was here in Cheyenne for the same exact reason, helpfully adding that there was “no work at all down in Florida,” where he was originally from.

Using a bicycle-pump-looking thing, he did a test on the radiator to see what was wrong with it. He removed the cap and, after a couple pumps, told me that the entire radiator was shot, explaining why—it was cracked all along the top, and I could plainly see that fluid was just pouring out of it. He said I needed a new one. I told him fine, and he went to get his boss, this older guy with a handlebar mustache who I assumed was Buck. My guy relayed the problem to him, and after a couple phone calls, I was given an estimate: $350. Plus tax.