The Starting Point of the Next Step

The ferry had a small shop where people who were hungry and hadn't brought food could buy bread and crackers. Hot coffee and alcoholic drinks were the most popular items.

At night, most people would roll up their coats, grab a row of seats in the common lounge, and lie down to rest.

But those who had driven onto the ferry naturally went back to their cars to hole up. At least they didn't have to smell other people's socks in the common lounge.

Sipping the hot coffee he'd bought from the shop, Henry wasn't necessarily addicted to coffee in this life, nor did he need a hot drink to warm himself. Rather, compared to alcohol, coffee had more complex flavors, which helped him train his superhuman sense of taste and smell.

Red wine was the next best option for flavor after coffee, but the wine on the ferry was too low-grade—it tasted like cheap grape juice. Although the coffee wasn't great either, it was still better than that cheap wine.

As for tea... whether it was because the tea available in Alaska wasn't high-quality or for some other reason, its flavor wasn't as rich as coffee's.

To avoid ruining the fond memories he had of tea, Henry really resisted drinking these low-grade teas that were even worse than the cheap wine.

Anyway, while savoring the rich, layered taste of coffee and letting it stimulate his taste buds, Henry mulled over what to do next.

Hiding out in Alaska for the rest of his life wasn't impossible, but as a broke loser who'd never left his country before his transmigration, now that he was in the United States of America, it would be a waste not to look around and explore.

Even if this journey had started against his will.

Still, he'd wasted nearly twenty years in the Russians' territory. Although his super-brain made learning easy, his lack of formal credentials was a huge problem.

No matter how he looked at it, following Superman's development path—working as a reporter by day and being Superman by night—was definitely out of the question.

Worth mentioning was that, although information was limited in Alaska, on this Earth, Henry had only found references to Captain America and Mutants so far.

But just looking at the map, there was no Metropolis, no Central City, and of course, no Gotham City!

That was truly a cause for celebration.

Missing the real Superman was a minor thing; without the plague-bringer The Flash and the disaster-bringer Batman, this world's safety level shot up significantly.

Anyway, the elite white-collar path was a no-go. Without education or connections, there was no way to climb the social ladder in America.

Even if he wanted to work an ordinary blue-collar job, assuming this world's economy followed the same path as the one he'd transmigrated from—globalization, the world's factory route—

That route meant America would see a massive outflow of industries, with labor-intensive manufacturing hit hardest. Only finance, high-tech including the Internet, and the design departments of big corporations would remain.

That meant even if he wanted to work in a factory tightening screws, Henry would face the risk of unemployment in the short term.

For an immigrant like Henry—especially an alien immigrant—even if he managed to get American citizenship, there really weren't many jobs available.

The service industry, where the lowest rung of society worked, was the classic case of low pay and endless hassles. He probably wouldn't last three days before he'd want to punch a difficult customer.

Before his transmigration, he'd never even been a simp, let alone had a girlfriend. If anyone dared say "the customer is always right" in front of him, he'd send them to meet God!

So jobs like store clerk, and similar roles like teacher or doctor—positions that involved dealing with lots of people—were never options for Henry. Not for the him of today, nor the him before transmigration.

The most reliable option was actually becoming a lab rat! Before those scientists decided to kill him, they'd make sure he was well-fed and wouldn't starve.

Joining an official law enforcement agency was an even worse choice. Just the loyalty tests alone would make it hard for an alien to earn their trust. He'd probably end up tricked into being a lab rat anyway.

Was robbing a bank the only way?

No wonder America's gang problem was so severe. Too many people came to this land with the American Dream, only to find that there were few legitimate industries they could enter, eventually turning to illegal trades involving gambling, drugs, and prostitution.

Don't think gambling was legal just because it was allowed in Las Vegas or on Indian reservations. The people who walked out with big winnings weren't ordinary folks.

Casinos weren't charities. If someone kept winning, they'd first investigate for cheating; if they couldn't find proof, they'd politely escort the person out and put them on the blacklist, telling them not to come back.

Anyway, making a little pocket money from casinos was fine, but treating them like an ATM would get you a harsh lesson in reality real quick.

As for Henry's savings, he'd made four trips on the crab boat: the first trip earned him eighty thousand, the next two trips a hundred thousand each, and the last trip fifty thousand.

All cashed out, minus a 6% bank fee, then deducting some expenses, the car, and the cost of identity documents, he now had nearly three hundred thousand in cash on him.

But don't think all that was his money—he hadn't paid taxes yet...

After the great American government took its cut, Henry conservatively estimated he'd only have a little over half left. He'd need to ask an accountant or study tax law himself for the exact numbers.

Still, with the remaining money, as long as he didn't blow it, he could live comfortably for a long time. In this society, a steak cost 5 to 10 bucks, a bottle of beer 1 to 1.5, and the average blue-collar annual salary was around fifty thousand.

So as long as he stayed away from drugs, didn't stupidly throw money into Wall Street as a retail investor getting fleeced, and didn't dream of a big house, sports car, and beautiful women, his funds were enough to live it up in Los Angeles.

Then when crab season came, he could head back to Alaska for a few more trips to replenish his funds.

That kind of life didn't sound too bad... yeah, right!

Without interests or goals, a person would just decay. He'd been coasting before his transmigration, sure, but at least he worked during the day, played video games at night, watched his favorite anime and TV shows, and occasionally went out to see a movie.

In 1990s America, what entertainment from his pre-transmigration days was familiar to him?

The personal computer craze sparked by Jobs' Apple was just taking off, and the Internet was probably still confined to university campuses, not yet widespread. At most, he could play around on BBS.

As for game consoles, the strongest contenders of this era were Japan's Nintendo GameBoy and SFC.

But for someone used to AAA games and animated movies, 16-bit console games were okay for nostalgia but couldn't really satisfy his needs.

Whether treating this industry as a job or just entertainment—especially the former—he was back to the problem of lacking education and experience.

So, had he subconsciously set his first stop in the continental US as Hollywood, Los Angeles, because he felt the film and TV industry was the only possible breakthrough?

He didn't dare hope to make it big, but at least he wanted to try something he'd never done before his transmigration. Like standing on a Hollywood set and shouting, "I want to fight ten!"

Yeah, that felt pretty awesome.

New book, requesting follow-up reads, collections, and recommendations. Thank you~~