The Eastman Hotel
DMZ 
I know where I am but I'm not sure why I am here. I just knew that I had to escape Bakersfield.
To call the place I live, The Eastman Hotel, a “Hotel” is a joke. It has no reviews, nor stars on Yelp. It is on the same block as the 16th street BART, which always smells like urine. Always. There's a Johnny Cash cover singer at the station some days and he's the only street performer I give money to. Every night I have to avoid the thieves, dealers, pimps and hookers to get to my room. Room 402. As I'm writing this a hooker is dropped off by a john driving a black Toyota truck with a camper. She walks into the alley to give the cash to her pimp. Yes, he's black. There's no liquor store on this block. If there was it would probably just get robbed all the time. There is a Mexican church in a retail space. I wonder what they make of all this. Outside the security gate of the Eastman someone is passed out in the hallway again. Hopefully he puked on the street before making his bed in the entrance, unlike last week.
My local bar is called something ironic of course. This is the Mission after all. If I ever had a drink of choice I don’t remember it. I sit at the bar, as opposed to a table, because I don’t know anyone and I like it that way. Wednesday night I watched a cute girl pick up some floor drugs. This bar is where the dude-bros slumming it bring the good shit and it's probably ok. She saw that I was watching her and came over. “Ten for half.” It sounded more like a question. I looked her over. The scars on her body marked her as a habitual cutter. “No chance. But if you throw in a fuck I’ll consider twenty.” “OK” she said. We made our way to the bathroom.
At the Eastman my neighbors are mostly meth hookers. I met a high-class hooker in Hawaii once. Six-foot-two blonde speaking Japanese. I can still remember her heels as she got into the limo, red on the bottom. The local Mission breed are as far removed from high class as you can get. You’ve seen them though you try to forget them. You think that they must be 50 years old but the meth just got them early. Their teeth, or lack of teeth, is always a dead giveaway.
On my way back from the bar last night I saw a man wearing only a bathrobe. He wretched into one of his shoes, the other was on. He swayed for a while, as if considering whether he gave a fuck, put his shoe on and stumbled down the alley. Squish…squish…squish…
One of my neighbors has been stabbed in the face. He has the scar and the slur to prove it. He hangs out front of the Eastman with a rotating group of miscreants. Their behavior reminds me of teenagers. Yelling, or in McStabby's case, mumbling after women. Good people, hurrying home from work. Glad that it is still light.
There were a couple cops circling on black Treks outside the bar tonight for some reason. ‘Dykes on bikes’ I like to think to myself. Almost as bad as the fixies. “Denver blows and I want to move back. I don’t remember all the cops. Want to hit this blunt?” Some asshole is speaking in my general direction as his girl takes a picture of me. "Hmph" I snort. "It’s the Mission. The cops will probably light it for you.” Two guys got robbed at knife-point the night before. Explains the cops.
Walking back to the Eastman I see three gorgeous Asian girls, dressed for the evenings debauchery, get out of a cab. They are followed by two fat guys clearly out of their league. Apparently their wallets make up the difference. I wonder how much an Asian girl costs the evening and if the two douche-bags got the third girl for a discount.
In room 402 I lie awake smoking one of the eight cigarettes I have left, staring at the flies on the wall. How I could have ended up here? I know that I will never leave.
Reader Comments (3)
good start. theres some inconsistencies in the style, but editing will fix that. start to flesh it out and youve got some good shit...
Thanks Joel. That means a lot to me. I don't do much fiction.
oh baby i like it raw...