America 2009: Survival of the Underclass

Li Ang wandered around the poor 11th block for a long time, and then spent $50 at a 7-Eleven on Fifth Street to buy a completely anonymous black card.

He had hoped to freeload at a street supply point and experience the life of a top-notch lecturer, but he failed—there were too many people, and he would have to pay MS13 a small protection fee to get anything.

We haven't reached the point where you can get away with anything by saying "God bless you, sir!"

After figuring out the layout of the poor street, he eventually returned to the seventh street south of the taxi drop-off point and looked for a property to rent a warehouse.

The reason for choosing to settle here is simple: it's on the very edge of the poorest area, safe enough, and it's an abandoned industrial zone with cheap rent and private contracts that are rarely online.

Although the south is the territory of the Crippled Gang, this group has always been primarily focused on making money, and their reputation among the gangs in Los Angeles is considered relatively high.

It's located near the city center to the north, and it's expensive!

The east and west sides are the battle zones where the Blood Gang, 18th Street, and MS13 are clashing, making the risks too high.

As for the core area of ​​Poor Street, holding onto MS13 there is the epitome of "chaos"—there are no rules at all, and they wouldn't even take it if it were given away for free.

Of course, these are just the major gangs that set up stalls and sell their goods on the main street.

In the depths of alleyways, backpackers who make quick sales, grab a quick buck, and run away are as numerous as hairs on a cow.

"This is Jack, what's up?" A rough voice came from the other end of the phone.

"Sir, I'd like to rent your warehouse."

Li Ang stood in front of a nearly 200-square-meter red brick warehouse, his gaze sweeping over the contact number sprayed on the iron gate, his tone calm.

"Where are you from?"

"Seventh Street, let's talk about the price first."

"$95 per week, minimum two-week lease, $150 deposit."

"Sir, you can come and collect your money once the contract is no longer online."

"15 minutes."

After hanging up his phone and putting it back in his pocket, Li Ang turned around and leaned against the iron gate of the warehouse, looking at the few tents on the sidewalk across the street. He had already made up his mind.

He had already carefully observed the interior through the crack in the door. There was no clutter in the space, and it could be used simply by sweeping away the dust on the cement floor, saving a lot of cleaning work.

Most importantly, a small cubicle of about 20 square meters has been partitioned off in the upper left corner of the warehouse. Through the half-open wooden door, you can clearly see the independent small toilet with a toilet and sink inside, making it extremely practical.

It can be used as a place to live and store goods that need to be managed later, making it an excellent venue for low-cost entrepreneurship, perfectly meeting all his current needs.

He leaned against the old iron mailbox at the warehouse entrance, and in less than ten minutes, a Ford pickup truck pulled up on the side of the road in front of him.

The car door was pushed open with a bang, and a burly white cowboy with a cigarette dangling from his lips jumped out and casually closed the door behind him.

"Jack Smith."

"Leon, Leon Smith."

"Oh?" The middle-aged man removed his cigarette, his eyes softening slightly, and said casually, "There's running water and electricity here; you can get it connected with just a phone call."

Li Ang nodded slightly and joked with a smile, "Mr. Smith, could you give me a discount?"

"Hahaha." Jack laughed heartily and nodded readily. "Of course, no problem, Mr. Smith. $90, how about it?"

"Thank you so much, Mr. Smith!" He nodded gratefully and patted the other man lightly on the shoulder.

After signing the contract and paying the money, Jack patted him on the shoulder and handed him a rusty iron key: "If there are any problems with the water or electricity later, feel free to call me, Mr. Smith."

"Of course, thank you for your trouble, Mr. Smith."

Li Ang smiled as he watched Jack drive away. Just as he turned to go into the warehouse, he was bumped into by a white man in a hoodie pushing a shopping cart.

Without even looking at his face, the other man stretched out his thin hand and said in a hoarse voice, "Hey! Buddy! You bumped into me! Pay me one dollar, or I, Smith, will be lying in your doorstep for a week."

Li Ang raised an eyebrow, secretly amused.

Well, I just found a landlord with the same surname, and now a homeless person with the same surname has appeared. The density of Smiths is higher than that of cockroaches.

Seeing that he didn't seem like a street drug addict who liked to communicate with God in private, Li Ang was spared the trouble of looking for cheap labor. He shook the canvas bag in his hand:

"Come in, Mr. Smith. Work for me, and I'll give you $20 a day."

He paused, then added:

Meals are provided.

The other person's eyelids twitched suddenly, a hint of wariness flashing in their numb eyes. They licked their chapped lips and said in a hoarse voice, "Really cash? You're not lying to me?"

He had heard too many lies about "giving you a job" in his life, only to end up being used as free labor.

"I'd change my surname if I was lying." Li Ang pulled out a few rolled-up US dollars and waved them around, introducing himself, "I'm also Smith, buddy."

He paused for three seconds, then suddenly leaned the shopping cart against the door, his voice hard but firm: "Fine, Mr. Smith. But if you dare mess with me, I'll burn your warehouse down."

Li Ang shook his head indifferently, strode into the warehouse, and casually tossed out a sentence: "Alright, Smith, push your beat-up truck in. At least you'll have a roof over your head tonight, right?"

"My name is John Smith," he called out as he pushed his bike behind Leon.

"Understood, Mr. Smith." Li Ang didn't turn around and walked straight into the small cubicle inside.

Stepping into the cubicle, he raised his hand to turn on the light by the door and couldn't help but exclaim "Oh ho!" His face instantly lit up with a smile—there was an unexpected surprise inside.

A 1.5 x 1.8 cm folding bed, a plywood desk, and two small armchairs.

Everything was old and worn out, but that was enough to make him happy.

In the early stages of starting a business, every penny had to be carefully spent, and this saved hundreds of dollars in expenses.

He turned and went into the bathroom, reached out and turned on the faucet on the sink. A stream of reddish, rusty water gushed out, and after a moment, the water gradually became clear.

Li Ang nodded slightly and then tested the toilet's flushing function. The buttons were smooth and the water flowed without any problems.

He nodded in satisfaction; the money was well spent.

A $150 deposit plus two weeks' rent of $180, totaling $330, provides a safe and secure place to live and store goods—it's a win-win situation no matter how you look at it.

He stepped out of the cubicle and looked at John, who was leaning against a shopping cart in the middle of the warehouse: "Come on, John, let's go out and buy some things."

"Okay, boss."

He locked the warehouse and led John toward the secondhand market on Sixth Street.

It's not really a flea market, not high-end at all; it's all extremely cheap but usable junk.

For example, using half a bottle of unbranded shampoo.

In just a few minutes, the two arrived at the gathering point—an abandoned basketball court surrounded by a wire fence, about 300 square meters in size.

Two lame gang members wearing blue headscarves were guarding the entrance, leaning against the door frame and smoking.

The stadium was densely covered with tattered bed sheets, which served as stalls and were filled with all sorts of miscellaneous items.

Just as Li Ang stopped and before he could even look around, John said from behind, "50 cents for a ticket, boss."

"Okay." He nodded in satisfaction, reached into his pocket, took out several tens of dollars, pulled out a bill and held it in his hand, then walked towards the entrance.

Seeing the two men walk to the entrance, the two lame gang members didn't even look up, and the taller one of them stretched out his hand directly.

Li Ang gently placed the dollar he was holding into John's palm and led him straight inside.

"8 dollars, stolen from the donation box, washed spotless, smell it if you don't believe me, buddy." The black guy in the graffiti jacket held up a corner of a brown blanket and handed it over.

A glint flashed in Li Ang's eyes. He reached out and took the blanket, brought it to his nose, and smelled it. It did indeed have the scent of laundry detergent, and the color wasn't dirty. He nodded in satisfaction: "Deal, buddy."

He handed over the money, took the blanket, put it in John's hands behind him, and continued shopping for what he needed.

In the end, I spent $43.50 to buy two thick blankets and pillows, a set of personal hygiene products, a broom, mop, cleaning tongs, and several plastic buckets.

The two men, carrying and holding loads of belongings, walked back towards the warehouse on Seventh Street along the street covered in graffiti by the "Crippled Gang."

The crippled gang members, puffing away at the entrance of the distribution center, didn't even raise their eyes.

"John, throw away your flea kingdom and get a blanket to sleep on the floor."

After putting his things away in the small cubicle, he pointed to the blanket in the plastic bucket and joked.

"Thank you, boss." John nodded gratefully and turned to walk towards the door.

Li Ang picked up a broom and carefully swept away the dust on the bed board. Then he took a plastic bucket to the bathroom, filled it with water, and splashed it onto the original-colored bed board.

He had John, who had returned, take a mop and carefully clean the bed, then spread out a thick brown blanket and threw in a pillow, and that was it.

Given the current conditions, there are only two clean blankets in the entire distribution center, so we can only make do with curled-up clothes for one night.

"How did you end up on the streets, Mr. Smith?"

Lying on his side on the bed, Li Ang looked at John, who was shivering on the floor wrapped in a blanket after taking a cold shower, and casually joked.

"Uh... the boss... foster family. I turned 18 and the government stopped giving me subsidies, so they kicked me out." John's teeth were chattering and his voice was trembling.

"Kids who get hurt by the foster care system, it's such an old story." Li Ang touched the burn on his hand, looking completely unconcerned.

John nodded. "Yeah, boss. I think this is basically a legal way for the government to kidnap people."

"They are picky about the family of origin, and take the child away at the slightest problem, making a bunch of complicated procedures, and you can only take them back after buying three years of insurance."

"But once you're put into foster care, they completely abandon you. I'm lucky I wasn't sold into a child labor factory or crippled."

"Even though I was kicked out, I don't really resent them."

"That makes sense. Time to sleep, future millionaire." Li Ang said, then yawned, curled up in the blanket, and closed his eyes.

John unwrapped the blanket, got up, walked to the door, glanced at him, and then, with a "snap," the light went out.

But the symphony of gunfire and sirens in Los Angeles that night had only just begun.

Goodnight, Li Ang.

Good night, John.

Goodnight, City of Angels.