PICTURES OF AN AR TRANSPLANT

It's been a year.

A year ago, a nervous boy boarded an airplane at the Little Rock Airport. It was his first time on an airplane. It was also the first time he had ever moved out of Arkansas.

As that nervous boy, I had a lot of expectations moving to San Diego, CA. I saw it as a step in the right direction. I'm always wanted to be a writer and now, freshly graduated, I could focus on that.

Now that a year has passed, I can honestly say...what was I thinking?

ONE DOOR CLOSES, ANOTHER OPENS...NOT IN A GOOD WAY

A year ago, one of the first things I did when I set foot in San Diego was search for a job. While I was waiting for that big break, it was practical to get a job. My sister told me about how easy it was to find a job. I found it was easier said than done, but I managed to score two: one as a host as at restaurant, the other as a sales associate at a retail store. I became independent enough to get my own apartment.

My eyes opened. I rolled off the couch that I've been on for a few weeks now. My nieces and nephew would be up in a little while. Their clothes needed ironing.

Yes. As of a year later, my life had come full circle. Due to lack of hours at one job, my bills piled up, causing me to lose my apartment. The truth was that unless you are a rich person here in San Diego, the only way a person could get by was by working two jobs that worked you steadily. I did not have that and now I was back where I started.

I hated it more than anything.

I left the retail store (aka Retailo Techo) due to the fact that I worked one day a week. In an ironic twist, the very next week found me reduced to one day a week at the restaurant.

It was a recurrent theme I continued to encounter here in San Diego. For every advance I made in good fortune, I could count on two things happening, pushing me back to square one. It seem that in order to get ahead, lying and scheming were the tools used. Not a liar, I guess I never stood a chance.

I now worked as a front desk agent at a hotel. It was an easy job that required multitasking. There were periods where it was so slow that I had time to think. I had too much time to think.

A year ago, I was graduated from college, determined to be a writer. A year later, the only jobs I could get were jobs in food service and retail that only scratched the surface of what I could do. I had not time to submit stories, let alone writer them because I was too busy surviving by the skin of my teeth.

To paraphrase Ms. Carrie Bradshaw...this situation was 'bullshit.'

THE GOLDEN RULE (OR TAKE TO THE HAND)

I sat at the booth in the Mexican shop. I was pretty drunk. As I've already stated in past columns, I head to the shop to get an abadado or fish burrito when I'm drunk. It was Halloween weekend so it was busy with a line in drive-thru and at the register inside.

At a booth next to mine was two punk Goths. One of them were a light-skinned black man with piercings and the queeny air of a gay man. The other was a multi-color haired . I loved my Goths and they have always been a draw.

Enter the shop: Two costumed white guys. One of them was dressed in a purple robe with a giant black afro wig. He greeted the cook in the back, voice slurred from too many drinks. Then he asked how the cook was doing since 'those blacks' came in the last time he was there.

I frowned. I wondered how stupid he was to say 'those blacks' in a shop where there was two black men sitting at booths. I was not the only one frowning as Goth Black Boi did the same things and turned.

"I'm so sick of people!" Goth Black Boi exclaimed. "Do people not think about who they're talking around when they talk? Do they even think?"

I looked at him. The words were taken right out of my mouth. My burrito was announced as ready. I grabbed it and headed to my sister's house, annoyed.

That annoyed feeling was a continuous one that has cropped up here in San Diego. It was like people here thought they were celebrities or New Yorker and did not have to follow ideals like the Golden Rule or common courtesy. They went out of their way to be Class A Jerks. Say what I have about the rednecks back in Arkansas, they actually have been nicer...even at their rudest...than people out here.

That annoyed feeling was part of the main reason I hate San Diego. I cannot stand rude people...especially when it was uncalled for. If people's lives are so pathetic that being rude was the only way they felt important, perhaps they should try therapy.

Just a thought.

BACK TO MY ROOTS

I put in my password. The computer screen changed. the browser redirected me. Then I was in, online at sdravers.net. The goal: to find out where the nearest happening-est parties were.

Over this past year, most of my fun had come from going to raves, rave parties, and rave nights at clubs. I would have thought I would have just as much fun at gay clubs here.

At first I did have that kind of fun. To this day, I was still a regular at Bacchus House, a gay club here in the North Park area. I rarely even go now due to the unusual hostile vibe I get from people there...weird given no one knew me. It was almost like they disliked me for being a black average-looking man who loved to have fun.

One of the complaints that people had on sdravers.net was that there was not enough to do. One poster DJ Snaps (of course not a real name) made a claim that there was plenty to do in San Diego. All one had to do was look. It was a claim that I took him up on in a post.

We're been friends ever since.

DJ Snap even started his own company. I missed the first party, but I was determined to go to the next one.

"Diego!"

I turned around. I had made it past security. I was in. It just surprised me that someone called me by name. It was the first time in San Diego that someone knew me on sight. I was touched as DJ Snap gave me a hug. It was good to see that old rave vibe that I was used to from someone here.

It was a vibe that was on display at the party. People hugged other people. People danced together. People dressed all kinds of different ways, but it was okay. There was very little hate and some electro.

I smiled. It was one of the first times.

I felt a new feeling.

I was home.

REALIZATIONS

Six months ago, I wrote a column about San Diego. I hoped that it would improve in a year because it really was not worth the move how things stood.

I dropped off the book at the library. it was Larry Brody's book of television writing. Over the last month or so, I read it and studied it. I put his lessons to mind.

I also had a realization that I've been avoiding as long as possible. Sadly, it now stared me in the face. If a person wanted a career in writing, a person had to go where the writing was. For me, that meant either two places: Los Angeles or New York.

I would have to move.

Being in San Diego had changed me. And if I did not like San Diego, how did I think Los Angeles, land of the soulless demons, would be? Would I lose? I almost got caught up here. It would be far worse in LA.

How badly did I want the dream?

This was answered one night in a conversation with my friend Carl. He had just celebrated his birthday. And naturally he was thinking about his life.

"I envy you," he said.

"Huh?" I muttered. "Why?"

"You're following your dream," Carl answered. "You're trying to be a writer."

I frowned. Am I?

So...how badly did I want the dream?

Answer: Enough that I will move as soon as I have the money.

I'm moving to LA.

A year ago, I moved to San Diego. A year later, I got a clue. Maybe there was a point moving here after all.

Diego (1 Door Closes, 1 Door...Slides In)



 

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