America Loves You

by Yuliya Khaimovich (Kazakhstan)

I didn't expect to find Kazakhstan

I stepped off a half-empty bus – public transportation is not really a thing in Los Angeles – and walked on a clean, blemish-free sidewalk through a warm winter evening. To be fair, all evenings in LA are warm compared to those of my home country. Trees never lose their leaves here, grass remains green in strictly designated rectangular lawns, tall palms stand at attention in unwavering straight lines. You can tell it’s a first world country by how the nature is organized into strict patterns, palatable for human minds. But sometimes you can’t, I thought as I passed by the dilapidated tent of a homeless person spread out in the middle of a trimmed lawn. Homeless people were everywhere: sitting on those immaculate pavements or staring blankly into space, walking in circles and talking to themselves, unwashed, holding on to their rickety possessions kept in scavenged shopping carts. I wondered what passers-by – the people of all colors and ages fueling themselves with Venti Starbucks drinks – felt when they walked past these living ghosts. Did their vision adapt not to see human suffering right next to them? As for me, my momentary thought was, if I don’t find a job I’ll be one of them. I lifted my gaze up to the Hollywood sign standing out pompously on the hills of the Santa Monica mountains as if declaring: “Dream big! This is the place where stars are made.” It was a mystery how those plain steel letters instantly reminded people who have driven, flown, or sailed from other cities, states, or countries about their ‘American dream’. I cheered myself up. The shop I was headed to now was owned by Russian immigrants. They might show some sympathy for someone from a post-Soviet country and give me a job. “Do you have a place to live?” was the first thing the bearded Slavic store owner asked me. “I already have a guy from Ukraine sleeping in the backroom and don’t know how to kick him out.” He explained that employees were expected to work 4-5 days a week 9:00 am to 10:00 pm for $9 an hour, with no extra rates for overtime. But he wasn’t sure if he needed someone soon and promised to call if he did. My hope of employment was wan. As I headed back to the bus stop, a man swaying lightly from side to side approached me. He was in his mid-twenties and looked relatively groomed and neatly dressed compared to the homeless people around. But his air of forlornness was close to theirs. “You look like the spirit of this country,” he drawled. Under his apparent drunkenness there was a glimpse of intelligence. “Actually, I am not from here.” “It doesn’t matter.” “So… What is the spirit of this country?” I inquired. “Freedom,” he stated after some thought. I was flattered. He made me believe I was being a ‘free spirit’ and not a wanderer lost in the world. “Are you a free person?” I shifted the conversation on him. “I guess. I’m a writer.” While saying this he tripped over a curb and fell. “Are you okay?” “I love your insightful questions.” He stood up clumsily. “Do you have a friend to walk you home?” “I don’t. But I’m enjoying your company.” He made a step in my direction. Too close. “I love you,” he whispered and tried to hug me. I started and moved back. The sky had gotten dark already. My curiosity was replaced by the fear of possible sexual assault. I rushed away. From the corner of my eye, I noticed that the man sat on the curb with his head lowered. Standing at the bus stop, I tried not to think about whether the drunkard’s expression of affinity was sincere and whether I should have figured out his circumstances and helped. With me at the bus stop were several weary people. They could be immigrants or children of immigrants or grandchildren of immigrants searching for their freedom, for their ‘American dream’. All together we were watching for the long-awaited bus to appear – public transportation is not really a thing in Los Angeles.