Escape From LA pt.1

“The smog was heavy, my eyes were weeping from it, the sun was hot, the air stank, a regular hell is L.A.” ― Jack Kerouac

It all began one hot Los Angeles spring in the year of our Lord, 2016. I was a freak on the run when I got to LA, an aberration that needed to be culled or at least contained. I was convinced that dark spiritual forces were pursuing me, all for the grave transgression of daring to dream. You see, the tax on dreaming had increased considerably in early 21st-century America, and I’d made it a habit of never paying taxes in a world owned by devils.

Our story begins with a revelation.

I was sitting in the backseat of a cab, attempting to catch my breath as my manic cohort belted out the lyrics to the Electric Prunes’ “I Had Too Much to Dream Last Night,” to the great dismay of the old Mexican cab driver, whom he’d pestered to the point of a mental breakdown to play the song.

“I HAD TOO MUCH TO DREAM LAST NIGHT! NOT READY TO FACE THE LIGHT, I HAD TOO MUCH TO DREAM!”

The blood on my face and shirt was already starting to dry, but the adrenaline was still going strong. We had just narrowly escaped that hellish manse in the Hollywood Hills, and whatever those godless maniacs had slipped us was starting to affect my vision and consciousness. Had we ventured too far into the dark? Gazed too long into the abyss? Regardless, there was no turning back now; this roller coaster was in motion, and there’d be no peace until the ride was over. Little did I know at the time that America itself would be going on a ride of sorts, one that could forever alter the trajectory of our doomed nation, leading it boldly into the future for a time, or leading it even quicker into the dustbin of empires, where all global superpowers eventually go to die.

I’d come out West in search of something, lured by the hungry ghosts of Allen Ginsberg, Hunter Thompson, and William Burroughs. As a naive young man, I’d always believed that escaping out West would be the key to unlocking the life I’d envisioned. Instead, it would function as an exhibition of atrocities, a type of shock therapy that would rescue me from the moral brink. I’d seen over the ledge, stared into the darkness, and now the only options left were to jump or run.

The revelation came earlier that evening; it had come over me like warm bathwater, bringing both a sense of joy and horror, all at the same time. I attempted to replay the events of the last couple of weeks that had led me to this point, where fundamental aspects of who I was were entering a chrysalis state; everything had changed in a moment.

A couple of weeks earlier.

I came out to LA from Michigan back in January 2016 and had spent the last half-year halfheartedly following the presidential primaries. I was making a meager living penning clickbait garbage for a tabloid-y online news rag. I was pursuing a dream, but the awful psychic stench wafting up from Hollywood had quickly become more than my soul could bear.

I was staying on Kingsley Drive, just off Hollywood Boulevard, in what I believe qualifies as "Thai Town," with an old friend and colleague who, for the sake of privacy and my amusement, I'll refer to as "Hermes.”

Los Angeles can seem glamorous to young artistic hopefuls and small-town discontents, but within months of my arrival, it became apparent that the “city of angels” was little more than a glorified den of inequities—a breeding ground for social vampires and the self-obsessed. The vibrations in that place were decidedly low; an exaggerated sense of self-importance seemed to be branded on the very souls of those Tinseltown denizens. Everywhere you went in that place, there was anxiety, fear, panic, bloodlust, and a general sense of desperation in the air—the only exception being when hiking deep in the hills, where the best you could hope for was being carried off by a mountain cat and never returning to civilization. As Kerouac warned, “A regular hell is L.A.”

It was technically Hermes’ place; he’d been working as a video editor in Hollywood close to a few big names for nearly a decade by this point. It was always his dream to move to Hollywood and make movies, and well, he’d managed to make it pretty far down that road, but it had taken its toll.

I hadn’t been in Los Angeles for more than a few months, but I felt as though I’d aged well over a decade. Even then, before the shit started to rain, I knew the place would kill me if I lingered too long.

One morning, I thought my number was finally up. Running late for our weekly meeting, I rushed out the front door of our apartment, only to nearly trip over what looked like a dead body. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that it was one of our friendly neighborhood vagrants, a fellow we called “Old Red,” who was barely conscious and splayed across the sidewalk. His hand was stuffed deep into the recesses of his grimy black jeans, and his colostomy bag was plopped out onto the concrete for all to see.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" He called out. His voice sounded like a garbage disposal filled with phlegm and gravel.

“No time to talk, Red, I gotta run.”

“You can’t run your whole life, baby; you ought to learn how to take her slow like old Reddd.”

Red’s long, greasy mane was also his namesake. He always had something uncomfortably lewd or weirdly insightful to say to Hermes and me about our comings and goings in the apartment. The California sun had thoroughly cooked Red, a veteran with Gulf War Syndrome, over the last few decades of rough living.

"I hate to leave you hanging like this, Red, but duty calls. I’m a very important person, don’t you know?" He was muttering something, but I scrammed before he could finish his thought.

It's a controversial topic, but in many cases, the homeless crisis is encouraged and exacerbated by certain individuals and groups who know how to play the game. It’s a racket, a blood-sucking carnival, and the profiteers are picking the bones of the dispossessed for every last nickel. You’ve got bureaucrats, NGOs, slumlords and private prison barons licking their chops, people who know how to turn a problem into dollar signs—shelters packed like sardine cans, funded by government grants that vanish into offshore accounts faster than smack into a junkie’s vein. Developers circle like vultures, snapping up blighted lots for pennies, then flipping them for luxury condos while the street-dwellers get herded around. It’s a rigged game, man, a grotesque hustle where the facilitators funnel just enough aid to keep the machine humming but never enough to fix the mess. (#)

I felt bad for lying to Red about being in a hurry; the truth was that I didn’t care if they laid me off. LA is a city that was built on its propensity to weave fiction, lies, and exaggerations; here, dishonesty is compulsory. Sometimes, the darkness creeps in, particularly when you don't have the necessary tools to combat it.

I cared very little about my job. They could have easily replaced me with a chimpanzee at any moment. Everything I wrote was both nausea-inducing and contributed to the ongoing fall of Western civilization. I penned some real IQ-melters, headlines like "21

Celebs Who Are Ugly Now" or "Why Did This Politician Eat a Burrito Wrapped in a Diaper?" and the occasional gem like "The 50 Best Simpsons Tattoos of All Time".

I reluctantly made my way to the shared office space across town that held our “newsroom,” if you could call it that; by 2016, most of the smaller clickbait outlets operated remotely, but we still maintained a small office space where we’d meet weekly to discuss content strategy, trending topics, how to maximize clicks, etc. As I approached the door to our office, dreading every step that brought me closer to that room, I could hear more commotion among my colleagues than usual. Even though I couldn’t make out what was being said from the hallway, I could sense intuitively that whatever was about to transpire would have lasting consequences.

Everyone was seated around a large table at the center of the windowless room, except for the managing editor, who was standing, arms folded, engaged in a back-and-forth with one of the staff. The awful fluorescent ceiling light spilled down on everyone like God's judgment, and an uneasy excitement lingered in the air—a rare occurrence in a place like this.

“So, how will this affect us? Will we receive higher pay in the future? Could you please share how you will determine who will be responsible for the write-ups?

“The pay increase is a one-off, meaning it will only be applied to the story you write. We will pay you double the standard rate and expect each of you to write at least one piece. We may request an additional write-up from anyone who performs exceptionally well.

As the two loudly exchanged words, I sat next to a younger gal who worked exclusively on celebrity and lifestyle content. She was tapping her long artificial fingernails on the lid of a Starbucks cup when I asked, “What did I miss?” Before she could answer, the editor chimed in and caught me up.

“We’ve received some additional funding, and to show our appreciation, we’re going to do right by the people who’ve seen such potential in our little outlet.”

“Political?”

“Of course it’s political.”

“Who provided the funding?” I asked, to no avail.

“You’ll each come up with your story. The goal here is to find something about a candidate that people can relate to, like what sport they enjoy or their favorite Netflix series—you figure it out and run it by me. It’s election season, so this kind of content is hot right now anyway. You’ll be doing what you’d normally be doing, only with a little more direction.”

The conversation droned on, but I was so taken aback that I struggled to follow. "A little more direction?" The problem is that I already loathed what I was doing without the extra “direction,” and now I was expected to write up a puff piece for a political candidate?

“It doesn’t have to be any more detailed or polished than the usual smut we churn out; just make sure it sufficiently humanizes whatever candidate you choose. Have your ideas with me by Wednesday, and if they’re what we're looking for, I’ll okay them, and you can get to work. We won't accept everyone's submissions, but we'll provide feedback and encourage you to try again."

When the meeting was over, I decided to lurk in the alleyway next to the building. There was nothing that I could do about the bad taste in my mouth—made worse by the cheap cigarette I fired up from the stress (a filthy habit, I know)-- I could at least try to get some clarity out of the editor before he scampered off to whatever sunless dwelling he existed in outside of office hours.

He was on the phone as he exited the building and did not seem to notice me as he passed by the alleyway. Being the snooping, investigative type, I figured I’d trail behind the man and try to listen in on his conversation. The task was not an easy one; I made out very few words due to the sound of traffic and the hubbub on the sidewalk. The tone in the editor’s voice was the kind of tone you'd take when sucking up to somebody who’s in a position to improve your life.

It wasn’t long before his call ended, and he began firing off a text to somebody. This was my time to strike.

“Heya, Skip, funny running into you here,” I said as I caught up to his stride.

“DeLarme? What do you want?” He barely looked up from his cellphone, but his tone had shifted dramatically.

“Oh, nothing in particular. Say, this funding arrived at a particularly fortunate time, didn't it?

He sighed, “Yes, it certainly did. Do you have any questions about your assignment?”

“Me? No, no. It seems simple enough. I am curious, though, where’s the funding coming from? If you mentioned it back there, I must have missed it.”

“It’s a grant." He said, "There’s nothing particularly exciting or out of the ordinary here, though if we perform well, it could lead to better things for us down the road, so keep that in mind.”

“Aye aye, captain!” I allowed the briefest moment of silence before prying further, “…so, who made the grant?”

He shot me a quick, cold glare. It was obvious he was perturbed by this line of questioning.

“I don’t recall.” He said sternly, "I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but the name of the organization is irrelevant to your assignment. Is that understood?"

“Understood, sir! Was just curious.”

“It was a garden-variety NGO with the word 'Democracy' in the title. That’s all I know. I look forward to seeing your submission. Once you have the subject matter, please send me a headline, okay?

I scrammed.

I had a bad taste in my mouth, but I told myself to buck up and get the job done. Despite my determination, I couldn’t shake off the bad feeling. I headed back to Thai Town on the Metro Line 2, got off at Hollywood and Western, and skulked the rest of the way home.

---

From a young age, I believed that the only worthwhile endeavor in this lifetime for me was to write one of the great American novels of my generation. Unfortunately, I’d been born too late, as print was on life support and writing books was only profitable for the small handful of household names—the Danielle Steeles, Clive Cusslers, Tom Clancys, and Stephen Kings of the world. It was also the perfect industry for politicians, who, I’m told, used book sales as a vehicle for money laundering, kickbacks, and influence peddling.

Large book deals with hefty advances from publishers can be a way to funnel money to politicians indirectly. For example, a corporation or interest group might buy thousands of copies in bulk to inflate sales, essentially transferring funds to the politician under the guise of legitimate royalties. This is why you see well-known politicians pulling huge sums for books they didn’t even write, and that no one ever reads. Despite the payout, they always inevitably end up overstocked and discounted down to only a few dollars, and they still don’t sell.

Maybe I wouldn't end up writing the next great American novel, but writing was the only marketable skill I had, and so I inevitably settled for journalism, an increasingly cringe-inducing industry that was heavily infested with the worst kind of devils.

I’d returned to our little hovel at sunset and would spend the evening in Hermes’ “battlestation” (the room where he did his video editing) watching the Republican primary debates on one of the various monitors that lined the walls there. My usual spot was a recliner stuffed into the corner of the room where I’d poke at my miserable little articles through the night, hopped up on Joe from either the French press or the Italian stovetop espresso “moka pot.”

Hermes sighed, “This project makes me want to start drinking again.” he said, followed by his signature maniacal chuckle that often followed his external monologues.

“I didn’t realize you’d quit.” I said, half focused on my pitiful little article.

“It’s a recent development, I decided this morning.”

“Ah. Well, I think I can relate. This new assignment has me questioning my career choice.”

“If you're going to jump ship, do it now before the job gets its hooks into you. Once that happens, there’s no getting away.”

“Maybe it’s not too late to become a mariner, I always thought I’d make a good seaman.”

“It’s honest work.”

Hermes was a rare breed; the kind of character that only comes around every couple of decades or so. He was fearless, witty, and completely insane. Think Andy Kaufman mixed with John Belushi and a dash of Charles Manson, and you’re getting close. We’d met as teenagers in the local hardcore music scene in Saginaw, Michigan, and would meet again by chance on the streets of Chicago in 2008—he as a film student at Columbia and I as a wandering vagrant hipster street poet. We would end up living together in the windy city for a few years until he left for grad school in Los Angeles. In those days, we both wrote constantly, we still enjoyed the creative genius of youth, that spark that life as an adult eventually beats out of you.

In our teens and early twenties, I’d seen Hermes exhibit some of the most shocking human conduct I’d ever experienced, always pushing the limits of what behavior is acceptable short of being arrested or killed. Yet somehow, in the twilight of our twenties, he’d managed to keep the beast contained enough to make something of himself in the professional world. Unlike myself, Hermes had managed to find success in this city, though it took him the better part of the decade to get there, and God only knows what else it cost him besides time and effort.

He’d started in this town as the personal assistant of Pauly Shore and would eventually work his way up to employment at one of the largest “creative agencies” in Los Angeles, where he worked on commercials for big brands like Dr. Pepper and Taco Bell. He also made inroads with the comedy world, heading several improv groups over the years and developing a close relationship with a certain director who shall remain unnamed. Suffice it to say that this director was well-connected and would end up marrying one of the most successful lobbyists in DC.

We were both working and listening to the debates simultaneously. Unlike many of our peers, we’d followed politics from a young age, not because we were politically active, but because the American political drama provided an endless supply of material for creative pursuits. This cycle, we found the Republican debates to be far more entertaining than the Democrats, and that was largely because of a single variable: Donald John Trump.

Hermes and I were both creative types who devoured the endless comedy of humanity with a voracious hunger, and so it was only natural that we had ironically begun to root for Donald Trump, at least in the Republican primaries. It was well before the major shift in public sentiment against him had begun in earnest, though some of that was already underway, it made rooting for him at the time all the more funny to us. We both leaned to the left, but neither of us was foolish enough to believe that any of these yokels on screen would be anything more than a figurehead; a willing puppet for the political establishment. Even Donald Trump, with all his chutzpah and outward contempt towards the Bushes and Clintons, was likely still just another cog in the machine. Little did I know how wrong I was.

So there we were, a not uncommon scene. The two of us working--I at my laptop and he at his battlestation--hopped up on coffee with a couple of cats coming and going as they pleased and the smell of warm Californian air coming through the screen in the window behind Hermes' many monitors.

“What’s the assignment?” He asked, half interested.

“They want me to pick a candidate and write up a puff-piece, something that humanizes them. One of the poor saps I work with is going with a story about Chris Christie's weight loss regimen.”

“Jesus, on second thought, maybe it is too late for you. After this assignment, you’ll be doomed for life.” The truth in his words was not lost on me, it’s all I could think about.

“I’m thinking about going with something about Bernie Sanders, maybe talk about that Killer Mike interview he did, the one in the barber shop. Mention the powerful influence hip hop could have on politics, something like that.”

“You should do something on Trump.” he said, followed by that laugh again.

“Great idea, if I wanted to lose my job, I’d just quit.”

The debates had come back on television after a brief commercial break. Unable to focus on the assignment at hand, I watched as Donald Trump laid into Jeb Bush, experiencing some small schadenfreude at the sight of Jeb’s pained expression. In a heated exchange, Trump blamed former President George W. Bush for failing to prevent the 9/11 attacks, saying, “The World Trade Center came down during your brother’s reign, remember that.” He also called the Iraq War a “big fat mistake,” provoking boos from the audience. Boos? These people were booing for somebody calling out the Iraq war for what it was? But of course they were, after all, they always seat the donors closest to the stage at these debates. Their boos and cheers are what comes through to the unwitting viewers at home, who mistake their applaus or condemnations as popular sentiment. Since it was the Republican debates, the people closest to the stage were the very same people who profited from endless wars in the Middle East, soulless representatives of the military-industrial complex.

“It’s a shame he’ll never win,” Hermes said. “I’d vote for him for the entertainment factor alone. Maybe he’ll announce that he’s resuming his wrestling career after he drops out.”

“Why not?” I said, “There’s not a whole lot of difference these days between a politician and a professional wrestler.”