she was filled with attitude and an accent i couldn’t place at first. her name was victoria, but that had to be fake.
picked her up at the giant motel 6 near lax up against the 405. id dealt with passengers there before, usually travelers who needed to get to the airport. it was a short little jaunt as long as there was no traffic at the airport’s horseshoe loop.
but victoria’s request said she was going up century, east a few miles. simple.
as i rolled into its driveway, i could see about a dozen worn out visitors in the lobby waiting their turn to check in or check out.
first thing i noticed, you probably woulda too, was how fucked the feng shui was: construction in the parking lot, a fenced-in dog walking area over there, cones and nonsense over here, and a temporary chain-link fence near the doorman.
out came victoria with three suitcases, which i did not help her with because i was mad she made me wait the full three minutes to come to the car.
but finally i sighed, and helped her anyway, because she was going to bring one of the bags into the car and that always leads to a seat getting scratched or the inside of the door getting dinged
or omg! dirty wheels rolling across my moneymaking back seat.
they done kicked me out because i was burning incense, she said as i slid back behind the wheel.
who?
those raggedy assed negros at the motel 6.
and indeed, one of her beat up bags did happen to reek, delightfully, like an entire incense convention.
they probably thought i was hiding the fact i was smoking. but I was not smoking. i burn it for my anxiety. i don’t even have any weed, but imma get some as soon as you get my Black ass to the next trap spot.
i turned down the heavy metal that was soothing my anxiety and worked my way out of the weirdly barren motel 6 parking lot. it was weird because it was the thursday of coachella. almost all of my passengers were either crashing in la for a night before heading to palm springs or coming to LA to escape the onslaught there. every other hotel was nearly full.
she kept talking while rifling through one of her purses. i didn’t do nothing wrong. i know what to do: i’m a sex worker. but i took last night off so i could sleep. i was burning incense and they got this big brother up at my door knocking saying, ‘you gotta get up out of here and leave.’ my friend told me to freeze my card so they don’t charge me an extra $250 fee, but i don’t even have $250 left on that card. but i done froze it anyway. HA! can i roll this down a bit, sugar? she asked while lowering her window.
immediately i took her side in the discussion because that motel 6 was seedy af. they had no reason to kick her out. and Lord knows people are smoking all sorts of things in that place which is why they pay the $100 or whatever they do for a tiny room in the 8-story building across from a liquor store and a dozen shittier motels.
one of which we were heading to.
i wanted to ask her how much she charged, but how do you even say that?
she said, i just need a spot where i can make some money to get my mans out of prison. we were in san diego, and i done tole him he on probation, be cool, but he couldn’t resist and got popped for a two-eleven (robbery) with a strike.
how many strikes does he have? i asked, knowing that if it was his third offense and one was violent, he would face a mandatory minimum of 20 years under the state’s controversial Three Strikes Law.
it’s his second, she said. was she filing her nails back there?
we passed a burger king, a dollar tree, a spanish language check-cashing joint and a row of abandoned buildings graffitied with all sorts of things. i turned a corner and we approached her new motel, which was row after row of motel rooms attached to each other.
it was a weird little motel village, painted brown, with scenes of touristy LA landmarks on the walls: a sad, almost impressionistic hollywood sign, then marilyn monroe, then the santa monica pier sign. all of it looked rushed, painted by someone with an unsteady hand using paint that could not wait to fade.
the driveway was too narrow. an unusually long pickup truck was blocking our path but I got around it. was i on shrooms?
baby, do you know where I can get some good schwerm? she asked. at first, i thought she was requesting mediterranean food, but this girl knows shes in the hood and there isn’t a shawarma spot worth the risk anywhere near here.
so I assumed she meant indica.
just download weedmaps and they’ll deliver it for free right to your room I said, and put the car in park.
hold up. hold up. hold the fuck up! she demanded, clacking her long fingernails on my head rest. you telling me niggas gonna roll up to me with bags of weed, free delivery, and i pay them cash money and i don’t even have to leave my room?
that is what I am saying, yes. you are in Los Angeles now. the real magic kingdom.
imma wear out that app then, victoria said, and whispered something to herself like, those delivery boys gonna give me a whole mess more than schwerm.