I'm Afraid of Americans

Settled into my new digs. A small apartment complex on the outskirts of downtown Tucson where the suburbs flirt with skid row. Not too shabby. Just the right mix of bohemians, fags, and outright weirdos. The apartment is small - as many apartments are stateside. Never ever again will we get what we pay for. Those days are over, youngster, be happy with what you got. Point is, I never am.

Anyways, the flat is a small, clean one bedroom. Everything works. Came furnished. The bed is fine and I have a comfortable desk to write on. Central air is a plus, being 108 outside, the chilled air is a God send. So long I have lived in 3rd world country's, it is kind of nice to drink water straight from the tap again without it tasting like sewage water.

I am on the first floor and my door opens to a shade dappled patio with several picnic tables lined together where the other tenants congregate on warm nights to chat or relieve boredom when the Reality Shows on TV have lost their intsa-appeal. However, they are a snide, arrogant group. Being Americans, it's apt.

One hugely, obese fucker who I will refer to as 'Bitch Tits' stopped me on my first day as I was taking trash out to the dumpster.

"Hey, you just move in?" Bitch Tits blubbered.

"Yeah. This morning." I croaked.

"It's okay here. Just don't get wrapped up in other tenants shit. All they do is complain about everything." Then Bitch Tits went into a thirty minute rant on how he hates everything. I left that titan still droning on under the tree.

I attempted to make my self known. Several tenants were sitting out on the patio one evening and I thought I'd chat with them. There was the hidden queen, Johnathan a youngish Latino in medical scrubs who claimed to work at a pet clinic. He was the positive one. A haggish lady and her equally demented mother lived on the second floor. When I stated that i did not work, but was a writer, the mother snarled, "That ain't no way of makin' a livin'! You gotta toil! Sweat for what ya get!" I'd sit there casually smoking my cigarette as the mother continued on how she hated - completely loathed - anyone who didn't do manual labor.

There was a sprinkling of elderly Hispanic men who mumbled to each other in Spanish. Occasional, a couple of emaciated tweekers would scurry out of their lairs, rapidly smoke on rollies, and then dart back into their apartments. Though these people communicated with each other, their dialog was so arrogant and distant from one another. You could see the venomous hate spitting out with each word. Their eyes suspiciously darting, faces in a constant scowl. A far cry from the warm camaraderie issued from meeting absolute strangers when I was South of the Border. No wonder the world wants us wiped off the face of the Earth.

Later that same evening, around one a.m., I took a break from writing and walked out onto the patio to have a smoke and look at the stars. Out of no where, a dumpy haggish woman appeared from the second story row of flats and plopped down next to me.

"You just move in, huh?" She hissed.

"Yes."

Long silence.

"I'm so bored. I'm looking for me a man on this night." She wheezed.

No! I thought. This ugly hag is not putting the moves on me!

"I need something to do..." She cooed all the while leering at me.

"Well," I began, "My expectations are already pretty low. But, even I have my limits."

"No." She blubbered. "I ain't interested in any of the losers that live here! Haha! I need a responsible man."

Good save, witch. "He'll come around, I'm sure." I said squishing my cigarette out with my shoe before returning back to the safety of my flat.

Well, I am here until whatever I decide to do kicks in, so I'll roll with it. I'm not saying I'm going to like it, but I'm good at putting up a front. No matter how hard and continuous these yanquis try to chisel away on it...