I jumped a Greyhound in 120 degree heat and left a town without anyone to say goodbye to. Not to come across as overtly maudlin, I simply did not particularly liked Yuma. In fact, I had grown to bitterly loathe the dusty little town. Naught but bad luck, mischance, and alienated angst. I actually was relieved when I stepped onto the bus. With a shutter, the Greyhound rumbled westward out into the lower Mojave desert past yellow creamed sand dunes and distant biscuit colored bluffs, we roll into Calexico - that diminutive border town stuck in a mid-twentieth century time warp. Potato shaped Americans wobbled to and fro supping up the best deal from a myriad of Chinese dollar stores while engorging themselves offa fast food joints conveniently deposited on every corner. Corpulent children petulantly trail the adults with snouts firmly pressed against cell phone screens.
There are no more family units. No more love or respect or virtue left in this Land of the Free, Home of the Brave. Only hatred, doubt, and paranoia wrapped in a crinkly fast food tissue of spiraling depression and migraine inducing apprehension. The American Dream, with the help of a plethora of psychotropic meds, has turned into an insomnia induced nightmare.
Push on north up toward Indio in a packed bus with no air conditioning. Next to me sat a young woman of indigenous decent - Ecuadorian? Guatemalan? Anyway, she tote a plump infant in fragile arms. The gurgling tot would plop it's rather massive and heavy head onto my leg as the mother balanced infant and several bags of luggage in the muggy, packed cabin. Without fanfare, she nonchalantly whipped out a titty and began feeding her brat. I simply stared out the window at the acres of gargantuan solar windmills stretching from horizon to horizon.
I hit Indio in late afternoon and it is fucking hot, my God! Grab a taxi, load my gear, and jet to my hotel. Cheap. Comfortable. Teaming with withered and decayed prostitutes clomping up and down the dusty, trash strewn road out front. I soon found Indio to be a no-where town. And, after my stint in Yuma, I was pretty much done with likened burgs. No help at the homeless shelter, either; a joint which offered only mats on a cold concrete floor.
"We got no room." Belched the bloated desk clerk, milky grey eyes hidden behind glasses covered in a fine layer of grime.
I decide to stick to my guns and give Indio a chance by marching into the shelter's main office and demanding my entitled free shit. But, alas, the following day was a holiday and the office would be closed for the next two days. Fuck. That misfortune extended my stay and found myself burning through finite monies. Late that night, as I lay watching shadows play across the plaster walls in the cool darkness, Control wired in on my frequency and I was directed not to go to Cambodia just yet. Roger wilco. The next day, I said fuck it and booked a bus to San Diego...