culture and other kinds of shock

So I'm in the process of moving. I should have been moved out already, but it's so hard to find good help these days. I'm kidding. I've simply found myself repeatedly overcome by inertia or nostalgia, or some weird combination (nostartia? inergia? sounds like a Russian energy company), and besides that, as most people who know me know, I don't have a car.

For the time being, I'm moving in with a Mexican family. I forget which city they hail from, but it's near the border. Said family is the brother's of a neighbor of mine, a small-time crackhead near and dear to me, since I've found that as long as no one's tweaked out, I can absolutely enjoy nearly anyone's company. I'll amend that to exclude arrogant people. I'm thinking specifically of arrogant white boys, of which bros are an endogenous race of their own, who'll dicker with the middle-aged Sikh guy who runs the 7-Eleven 'cause they thought they had more money than they did, and certainly it's that Middle Eastern guy who's wrong about how much you paid for two packs of Marlboros, since you're white and tatted and think you probably speak better English. (You're wrong.)

Anyway, back to culture shock. My Spanish has been better than it is now, chiefly because the people I hang out with casually are speaking slangy Mexican Spanglish ("Chingon!") and my code-switching's not up to par, so I keep falling back on translating in my head. Also, the previously over-white population of the college I went to (sad) lost me my ability to roll R's with the best of them. I used to have a native-like flair for Spanish pronunciation, and where is it now? Somewhere back in Long Beach, under the painted-over graffiti marking claims like the homeless guy's shits in the back parking lot. "This city is my toilet!" Surprising how common and applicable that statement can be.

This morning I wake up to the sounds of about half a dozen or so people, and a handful of kids, conversing in the garage outside my room's door. I put some pants and a jacket on--reverse Blink 182--and step outside to find that they're all gathered in chairs, gossiping or whatever while the kids run in circles. I wave shyly and step out, 'cause in the process of moving I've forgotten to buy a new thing of deodorant in time, and I'm not going to stop to piece out in Spanish, "Hey, hi, I'd stop and try to be neighborly or what-have-you, but I smell funny and it's embarrassing me." I think I made it through one and a half armpits yesterday before the little spray can coughed and died, leaving me standing in the middle of the room, staring stupidly at the little thing, thinking, "Man, I hope it's not too hot or humid today."

Fast forward to today, when I'd made it as far as Big Lots before I realized, one, none of the stores open until nine AM, and two, it's only twenty past eight. So I turn around and head back to my new room, passing a now-empty garage on the way, and grab a random book to read (Euclid's theorems are fascinating when your head hasn't quite percolated to life yet), and at five to eight put my stinky shirt back on and head back out the door, where I see to my surprise that where had been an empty garage are now twice as many members of the Hispanic Ladies' Social Club and Attendant Children as before, and now three or four of the tiny ones follow me out toward the front lawn instead of just one trying to ask me to help her blow up a balloon.

I don't think I'm a particularly frightening person, but as I bend down to pat the littlest girl on the head and tell her, "Okay, regrese a su madre; no puedes ir conmi--" she starts sobbing loudly. I'm surprised, embarrassed, and a little scared, and I pretty much high-tailed it out of there, muttering to myself in a squeaky voice, "But I didn't do anyting!" as her mother comes to grab her. Meanwhile I'm thinking as I head back to Big Lots for mi desodorante and a snack, "Great. Now, after my first night sleeping there, they're going to think I'm a creep."

I think I've got a lot to look forward to, including writing up a bilingual rental agreement, sharing la cocina and la ducha (yes, the Spanish word for shower is related to the word from which we derive the term "douche"), and getting my own key--not to mention that the inside door doesn't lock, and I'm scared to death of the eldest child, who is a typically nosy, ingratiating little cutie for her age, barging in while I'm dressing for work or something. Shudder, shudder, though it's just a little kid and she probably wouldn't know the difference.

Meanwhile, the cuties of my age are helpfully proving me close to incompetent in my other area of nonexpertise, the social field. Culture shock is showing up here, too, as I'm finding that even though I'm getting helpful lessons in standing up straight and looking the opposite sex in the eye, I can't always do much more than that.

Take three exciting examples, in chronological order. First, toward the end of last year I started talking to a very nice, interesting young lady through one of the too-many social networking sites I find myself browsing out of poverty-stricken late-evening boredom. After some fun conversations, she invited me to join her and her friends to watch some sick and twisted horror opera and maybe grab a bite and some conversation at the nearby Denny's. Since she's coming from out of town for this musical event, I originally agree--and then enters the shadowy figure of my landlord, telling me the rental check he waited three and a half weeks to cash has bounced and if I don't want to face eviction and mild but damning entries on my so-far-empty criminal record, I must give him all my money. In cash. Today.

This was a day before I was planning to meet said interesting person, and during the one and a half days last year when the rain was storming down like all the water in the Southern California sky couldn't find anywhere more interesting to be, ahorita, than my forehead. But being a man of my word (namely, "uh, okay, okay, I will"), and not much liking the idea of homelessness repeating itself for me without my owning an interesting car and being free to drive to, say, the Grand Canyon, I dutifully walked a quarter mile to the nearest free ATM and withdrew almost every penny I had to my name. Having returned and partially sated the ravenous bill, I now found myself incapable of coming through on my earlier promise to meet and chill, et cetera. Can I manage my checkbook? After this, pretty much yes. I've learned my lesson in being forced by my own bad and irresponsible guesstimation to be a flake.

Possibly in part due to this fun little trek of mine, I found myself near the turn of the year nearly unable to breath. New Year's Eve I made it through a day of work and headed own, feeling my lungs closing up with every breath, and the next year woke up whistling and gurgling when I sat up and tried to, you know, get oxygen in my blood stream. This did not bode well for my working day, and while I made it to work at my assigned time, I couldn't catch my breath. For half an hour. Thinking this might be a good reason to call out sick, I walked over to my boss, tried to breathe in front of her, and got sent home, where I curled up into a fetal position and stayed in bed for the next twenty hours or so. Thankfully I had the second and third off, and after trying to spend as much of that time unconscious as possible so as not to think about the pain of breathing, I woke up the third day and stared at the ceiling, hoping that when I got up I'd be able to breathe. I thought to myself, sensibly, "I should take myself to the hospital."

Then I sat up and found I could breath, still with some difficulty, but not as badly as the last couple days, and thought to myself, "I'd hate to go and get diagnosed with something expensive. Or something medically insignificant but expensive." After a moment's pondering, I added on, "I wish I had health insurance. Maybe I should go to the library to recuperate."

After deciding this was the best course of action, I got my lovely Friday paycheck--minuscule, but still better than three dollars-odd--and hopped on a bus downtown, where I stopped to get a cup of coffee, people-watch, and read a Spanish-language magazine in hopes of improving my vocabulary. At some point, the most beautiful woman I've seen in possibly two or three months walks into the coffee shop. I notice her, she glances briefly at me but with apparent disinterest, and I go back to my frustrating article about certain proteins causing weight loss after their blood levels go up due to exercise. (What a discovery! Regular exercise can assist weight loss?)

After a little while struggling with probably fourteen key multisyllabic words I don't know, I toss the magazine down in frustration and pick up my crossword puzzle, only to find that now I can't think in English. So I put that down too and take a survey of the room around me. Most Beautiful Woman in Three Months-ish is sitting at the table immediately behind me, texting somebody, and I can't help staring at her over my shoulder, probably doing a horrible job at being surreptitious. When she glances up from her phone, I look away, back at my crossword, and then look back. The tall, lovely individual with long, dark, curling tresses is staring back at me, just watching me.

So I straighten my shoulders, take a deep wheeze, gather up my courage, and spin back forward in my chair, eyes wide, hunching in my seat, melting inside. Out of the deep La Brea tar pits of my romantic soul, something tiny inside of me is yelling up at my brain, "Just talk to her, dammit! Say something! Smile at her, even!" And I can't move. Finally, after an eternity of five to ten seconds, I turn slightly, trying badly to be nonchalant, and glance back behind to find that she is still looking at me.

Repeat process. Twice. And then tell yourself, "Y'know, I really wasn't trying to meet anybody today. I'm still sick. It's not like I could afford to take her out or anything." And then realize you're a big coward from time to time, inevitably at the most inopportune moments, and go back to your silly article about Hispanic proteins crying and looking for their mothers.

Third embarrassing confession follows here. I met a cute, fun redhead recently, and this time my confident side found its way out of Señor Temeridad's ridiculous clutches and had a date with her. Went fairly well, for me, as I was only somewhat lame but otherwise acted fairly normal to whatever extent wouldn't've been lying for me. Afterwards, did I do the normal thing and propose a possible second date? No, of course not. I don't do that scene enough to have thought of it. In case she hadn't lost whatever interest she might've had, I texted her to tell her I'd love to do something more interesting another time, which the next day she replied in agreement to, and then . . . I couldn't think of anything to say for two and a half days!

Man alive, am I good at life or what? Hopefully all the victims of my social forays will eventually forgive me the annoyance, and by the time I've visited China, India, Germany, France, and Ireland and learned three or four more languages, maybe gotten my PhD in something uselessly abstract but intellectually entertaining, and picked up an instrument or two, I'll be thirty-ish and know what to do with myself around other people.

Meanwhile, I'm going to get a cup of coffee.