America 2009: Survival of the Underclass

The two thieves, a male and female, who successfully double-crossed the donation boxes, played a little game of "don't step on the homeless" along the way, their figures appearing against various street graffiti.

Although they didn't have a camera to capture their joy, it didn't diminish their excitement at all. Before long, they arrived near the Seventh Street warehouse.

Li Ang caught a glimpse of a jacket-clad figure flashing past on the street corner, and his heart tightened. He forced himself to remain calm, hooked his elbows with Karen's, and quickly stepped into the warehouse. Only after entering did he breathe a sigh of relief.

Having learned his lesson the hard way about how his outfits backfired, Mr. Li now suffers from PTSD related to jackets.

If it were a black guy, and he put a Chicago White Sox baseball cap on him, he'd probably wet himself on the spot.

He put on airs, noticing John sitting on the blanket flipping through a pornographic magazine, engrossed in his own "fighting machine," and immediately scolded, "Lazybones, stop! Is the blanket washed yet?"

"I've washed it, boss, but where should I hang it?" John turned around, suppressing his excitement, stopped what he was doing, and looked helpless.

Seeing how he only budges an inch after being whipped, Li Ang laughed and cursed, "Brother, can't you figure something out yourself? Just waiting for me to come back? You coward!"

"OK! OK! OK!" John threw the magazine aside with his left hand and hurriedly pulled up his pants from under the blanket with his right hand, nodding repeatedly in surrender.

Karen chuckled and casually teased, "Ha, softie."

"Come on, Ms. Smith, let's sort out the spoils." Li Ang nudged her elbow and strode toward the cubicle, and she quickly followed.

"Give me the money, boss." John sprang to his feet, took a few steps to the side to block the two men, and stretched out his hand.

Li Ang pondered for a moment, glanced at the warehouse, nodded, released his arm that was linked with hers, took out some change from his pocket, counted out 50 dollars and slapped it into her hand, and instructed, "Laundry detergent, brushes, and see if you can find two clean blankets. If you can't find anything, come back to me right away."

John nodded and was about to leave when Karen gently shook her head and added, "And the coat hangers."

"OK! You two bosses!" John walked to his shopping cart without turning his head, and with a bang, his belongings scattered all over the floor.

He casually kicked the cart twice to clear a path, then pushed it toward the door.

He turned his head to look into Karen's smiling eyes and curled the corners of his mouth into a smile.

"Very clever, Ms. Smith."

"Of course, Mr. Smith."

Karen gave him a light peck, and the two smiled at each other before walking together toward the cubicle.

The two pushed open the door and stepped into the cubicle. Karen placed the food on the desk, and he slung his clothes onto the clean bed. He sniffed the turtleneck T-shirt in his hand, which was full of clean lavender scent.

Karen ran over excitedly, plopped down on the bed, grabbed the new Lululemon black yoga pants, and beamed with joy.

He smiled and shook his head, then pulled out a brand new pure white Nike hoodie and handed it to her: "Take this one too, it's a Nike that can buy all my possessions."

She snatched it, licked her lips, and smiled, "I'm not some other cheap woman who can get into the back door of her house with just a piece of clothing."

He raised his hand and lightly slapped her face, laughing and scolding, "Bitch, how many times have I been in and out of the back door of your little detached house on South Homan Street? Stop talking nonsense."

"How's my back door? Is it there—" She smirked, reaching out her finger to tease him.

"That's fine, but—" He slapped her hand away and scolded her seriously, "You should do daytime work during the day and nighttime work at night. Don't be so damn greedy."

"There's still work to do, sir?"

"That's all the toilet paper I have in my canvas bag, and..." He pointed to the clothes on the bed, "We need to get these sorted out; the Rose Bowl flea market won't open for several days."

She draped her yoga pants and white sweater over her suitcase, looked up at him, and said, "I'm going to the hardware store on the corner to buy a screwdriver. You pack the clothes, okay?"

He raised his hand in a crisp military salute and replied loudly, "OK! Corporal Karen!"

"Oh, right," he called after her as she was about to reach the door, "buy some face masks and plastic bags while you're at it."

"Yes, Commander Smith!"

Karen gave a standard French military salute and stepped out of the room. He then spread his turtleneck T-shirt on the bed as a cushion and began to tally up his day's achievements:

In addition to the two new clothes Karen kept for herself, there were six brand new items.

One long-sleeved shirt each in black, white, and gray from Uniqlo, and two pairs of black straight-leg sweatpants.

Plus a pair of Adidas sweatpants.

The old version consisted of three pairs of jeans, an LV black shirt, a Nike black hoodie, and the turtleneck T-shirt that had been placed underneath.

He kept the Nike hoodies and turtlenecks for himself and sold the rest.

He brought each piece of old clothing to his nose and sniffed it lightly, then neatly folded it and placed it on the T-shirt pad. He straightened up and nodded in satisfaction.

As expected of a donation box in an affluent area, the clothes were all clean and had a faint scent of laundry detergent.

If it were a donation box in an ordinary community, especially near a poor neighborhood, let alone fleas, who knows what skin diseases or strange viruses the previous owner might have had? People wouldn't even bother touching it.

He picked up a black Nike hoodie from the side, got up and put it on; it fit him perfectly, not too big, not too small.

He glanced down at his jeans, grinned—hey, pure West Coast style.

He walked over to the desk, rummaged through the two plastic bags Karen had placed there, and sighed again, "No wonder this is a wealthy neighborhood."

Even the instant oatmeal is from Nestlé and Calbee, and the expiration dates are all from last month.

Add some milk and you have a meal—a perfect breakfast for the elite middle class.

"Click—"

Karen pushed open the door and entered, waving the small plastic bag in her hand. "Done, sir."

He put the Garden cake back into the plastic bag, nodded, and said, "Seal the clothes up, and we'll go get some toilet paper."

Karen nodded, and the two of them neatly stuffed the old clothes from the long T-shirts into the plastic bags.

After everything was packed, the two neatly stacked the clothes on the laminated board desk, each clutching a small Phillips screwdriver, putting on white masks, exchanging a smile, and nodding in tacit agreement.

The two of them playfully left the warehouse, opened the door, and walked straight west along 7th Street. After walking for more than ten minutes, they arrived at Macy's Los Angeles Downtown Plaza store.

Standing at the main entrance of the mall, he stretched out his arm, and Karen immediately took it. The two walked into the mall side by side and took the elevator straight to the food court on the B1 floor.

The elevator doors slid open with a "ding," revealing a bustling food court outside, its aromas wafting through the air. He led Karen out of the elevator, turned, and asked with a smile, "Ms. Smith, would you like to grab something to eat first?"

"No, I want to save room for Mazza's pizza." She shook her head.

Following the signs, the two walked more than ten meters through the white-walled passageway between the pizza shop and the burger shop, and the toilets were right in front of them—public mirrored handwashing stations, with the women's toilet on the left and the men's toilet on the right.

He waited for a white man to finish washing his hands and turn to leave, then immediately squatted down, opened the white cabinet door under the sink, glanced at the large black garbage bags piled inside, and nodded back to Karen.

He reached into the two trash bags, got up and handed one to Karen. The two walked into the men's restroom, ignoring the two white men urinating in the urinals, and each went into the two innermost stalls.

To the right of the entrance is a round plastic box containing large rolls of toilet paper. The two of them simultaneously closed the door, took out screwdrivers from their pockets, and began to tighten the four corner screws on the box.

"Guess what toppings were on that Mazza, Mr. Smith."

Karen's voice came from the innermost cubicle.

"Anyway, pizzas only have the same ingredients, why do I need to guess?" he replied casually, his hands still busy.

"You piece of trash who's never eaten anything good, there are so many things you can put on a pizza."

"You can even add Boston lobster; I've had it in London."

"Shut up, stop showing off your knowledge, Nike lady."

"You coward, don't call me that, M3?"

"Now that I wear Nike, how are you going to buy all my belongings?"

"Mine is a collaboration piece, yours is tattered, a basic style, and it's secondhand!"

"Jesus, Ms. Smith, you don't even like the basic styles? That white one I stole this morning! I'll just—"

"Ahhh—" A soft, panting scream suddenly broke in, interrupting their banter.

The two listened with great interest, and before three seconds had passed, shouts of "Give me the rice, give me the rice!" rang out.

Li Ang stopped what he was doing, a wicked smile playing on his lips.

one two Three!

"Bang! Bang! Bang!" He slammed his fist on the white partition, yelling at the top of his lungs, "If she wants it for Mitomi, then give it to her, Bro! Don't be so selfish, only thinking about your own pleasure!"

A man's furious roar came from next door: "Shut up! You bastard!"

The woman also yelled in disappointment, "Get out! Fuck!"

Li Ang laughed even more smugly, feigning innocence: "Yo, why did you stop? You wouldn't... Oh! Jesus! Christ! I'm so sorry, ma'am and sir."

The two men shouted in unison, "Fuck you—! Smith!"

"Bang!" He slammed his hand on the partition again, immediately retorting, "Fuck you! Fuck you! Especially fuck you! You two are the ones who are outrageous!"

"Can't even afford a motel, poor and pathetic Jack and Rose~ Did your Titanic just sink into the toilet?!" Karen mocked sarcastically throughout.

The cubicle door was pushed open with a "bang!"

"Scrap!"

"Bitch!"

Two loud curses were uttered, followed by the rapid clatter of footsteps fading into the distance and disappearing outside the toilet door.

"What cowards, more cowardly than mice!"

"That makes sense, Ms. Smith, you are indeed a bit of a coward."

The two chuckled and continued to disassemble the plastic box. In less than ten seconds, two "clicks" rang out almost simultaneously, and the round plastic box popped open.

The two casually tossed the shells onto the ground, where they rolled a few times with a thud.

They grabbed a large roll of toilet paper, stuffed it into a garbage bag, and at the same time, "clicked" open the door, turned to look at each other, and smiled.

The hooded, braided Black man next to the urinal glanced at it, then turned back as if it were nothing out of the ordinary, and continued humming rap while urinating.