Not that I had a Plan B.
Pretty much everything hinged on Jake. He’d found me an apartment, and I’d already wired him the money for one month’s rent. I hadn’t liked the idea of paying for something without seeing it, but Jake said if I didn’t grab it, somebody else would, and he didn’t know of any other place I could rent that cheap, especially on such short notice. I told him I’d take it and sent the money. I hadn’t asked for the address, though.
That was a mistake.
I checked my phone again, like somehow it might have magically charged itself in my pocket. Still dead. Unfortunately, in my excitement to leave, I’d forgotten to throw my charger into my bag.
Another mistake.
Unable to stand still any longer, I crossed the street and jumped in a taxi.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
Well, fuck.
“Downtown,” I decided, figuring I’d grab some food somewhere, maybe see if I could charge my phone. Hopefully Jake would get in touch in the next couple hours. If he didn’t, I’d have to get a hotel tonight. It would be ridiculously expensive and I didn’t want to waste that kind of money on one night, but I didn’t see any way around it.
It took a long time to get downtown—traffic was terrible. I was nodding off for the third time when the driver spoke.
“What’s the address?” He glanced back at me, and I blinked a few times.
“Uh, no particular address. Any suggestions for a bar or restaurant around here?”
He scratched the top of his head with his thumb. “The Blind Pig is pretty popular.”
“Blind Pig?” I repeated, a little confused. Maybe the words had different meanings than what I thought. My English was pretty good, but far from perfect.
“It’s another name they used for illegal speakeasies during Prohibition.”
“Ah.” Quickly I pulled my notebook from my bag and scribbled that down. I wanted to be a screenwriter, so not only did I have to improve my English, but I needed to learn all those little cultural details that would make a script authentic.
My friends made fun of me for it, but I always carried a notebook with me so I’d have somewhere to take notes and write down all the ideas that came to me at random times during the day or night. I’d learned the hard way that I wouldn’t necessarily remember them later. And since I’d sold my laptop last week to pad my savings a little, a notebook was all I had. As soon as I could afford it, I’d have to get a new computer.
But that would take a while.
A few minutes later, the driver pulled over and switched off the meter. “It’s just up ahead there on the right.”
I thanked him, paid him with some of the cash I’d gotten from the airport ATM, and jumped out. Even though I wasn’t sure where I’d sleep tonight, it was hard not to feel excited as I walked up the street. Before today, I’d only seen places like this on a screen, but this was real. I was actually here. It made me feel invincible, like anything was possible.
A moment later, I pulled open The Blind Pig’s heavy wooden door and stepped inside. The light was low, the atmosphere warm, and the music upbeat. It was crowded, but I managed to find an empty seat at the long wooden bar.
“Hi there.” The bartender smiled at me as I set my bag on the floor. She had dark hair pulled into a ponytail and big brown eyes. “I’m Ellen. What can I get for you?”
“Could I look at a menu, please?”
“Of course.” She brought me a menu and I looked it over, deciding to order the most American thing I could think of.
“I’ll have a burger. And a beer.”
“Great. Can I see your ID?”
“Sure.” I pulled out the travel wallet where I kept all my important documents, handed her my passport, and dropped the wallet back into my bag.
“Russia, huh?” Ellen smiled at me again. “Are you here for work or just visiting?”
“Just visiting.” I didn’t want to jinx myself by announcing my intention to try to stay here for good. Technically, I could only stay for six months on my tourist visa, but I had no intention of using my return flight.
“Having a good time so far?”
“Well, I’ve only been here for about three hours, and I spent two of them waiting for my friend to pick me up from the airport, but he never showed.”
The bartender gave me a sympathetic look. “L.A. traffic can be awful. Have you called him?” She handed my passport back to me, and I tucked it inside my coat pocket.
“I can’t. My phone is dead. And I forgot to pack my charger.” I gave her a smile intended to charm. I wasn’t into women and never intentionally led them on, but I won’t lie, sometimes being attractive to them was helpful. “Do you think anyone has one here I could use?”
It worked—or she was just nice, because she smiled back warmly. “I can check. Let me get you that beer—sounds like you need it. What kind would you like?”
“Corona, please.”
She nodded, and a moment later, she set it in front of me. “This one’s on me. I’ll put your food order in. You’re probably super hungry after that long trip.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
After a long drink from the bottle, I pulled my notebook from my bag again, and a school photo of my eight-year-old sister Liliya fell out from the front pages. She’d given it to me right before I left, and on the back she’d written, To Maxim. Don’t forget about me. Love, Liliya. I set it on the bar as a woman slid onto the empty seat next to me. “Hi there.”
She was about my age and dressed professionally, like maybe she worked in an office, but she was the kind of American blonde I pictured more like a lifeguard on TV or a dancer in a beach movie. Her grin was confident and flirty. American women were so different from Russian.
“Hello,” I said.
She glanced at the photo of Liliya and gasped. “Oh my God, she’s so beautiful! And she looks just like you. Is that your…daughter?” she asked tentatively, wrinkling her nose like she hoped that was not the case.
“No, that’s my little sister. But we do look alike.” Although we had different fathers, Liliya and I both had our mother’s wide blue eyes, dark blond hair, and dimpled chin.
She smiled and held out her hand. “I’m Amy.”
I shook it. “Maxim.”
“Maxim.” She repeated my name as I’d said it, complete with the accent. After giving my palm a suggestive squeeze and holding onto it way too long, she swiveled to face me, crossing her legs in a way that put them on display. “I’ve never seen you here before.”
“I’ve never been here before.”
“I like your accent. Where are you from?” She leaned a little closer to me, so close I could smell her flowery perfume.
“Russia.”
“I was going to guess that!” She looked pleased with herself and slapped me lightly on the leg. “What brings you to L.A.?”
“Just visiting.”
“Traveling alone?” She widened her eyes and batted her lashes.
“Uh, yeah.”
“So you’re single?”
It was strange to me the way Americans asked such personal questions. I’d have to get used to it. “Yes, but…”