The First Step in Los Angeles

The plump waitress came over to refill Henry's coffee and asked, "What are you looking for?"

"I need to find a cheap motel first, or I'll be sleeping in the park tonight."

The plump waitress glanced at the Yellow Pages Henry was flipping through, turned a page, and pointed at one listing. "Try this place. It's decent."

"Oh." It was a motel in northern Los Angeles, near Hollywood. She'd clearly considered Henry's needs before making that recommendation.

If she were angling for a kickback, she'd have suggested a motel near the diner so she could easily claim a referral fee. A place too far away would make it hard to show up and say she'd sent him.

Henry jotted down the basic info from the Yellow Pages and said, "Thanks." He fished around in his pockets, scraping together enough for the meal and leaving a generous tip.

The sight of the tip finally coaxed a grin from the plump waitress.

Guess all the sweet talk in the world couldn't beat cold, hard cash.

He put the Yellow Pages back, grabbed his map, newspaper, and belongings, then headed to his car and set off for his destination.

If he wanted to make it in Los Angeles, renting a place was a must—buying a house he'd be happy with was out of reach for now.

Sure, he wasn't afraid of bullets, but having petty thieves drop by every other day would drive him crazy. So safety was something to consider.

But finding a rental took time, and he couldn't just rough it in the car the whole while. A motel was the best bet.

Henry didn't bother searching on his own; he drove straight to the motel the plump waitress had recommended.

He cruised around the area for a bit. No suspicious men or women loitering on the main streets.

By "suspicious," he meant guys with tattoos or sloppy clothes, and women dolled up in skimpy outfits—probably a miniskirt paired with some ratty fur coat in this winter weather.

Those types weren't selling flowers or friendship. They only showed up in sketchy neighborhoods.

The motel the waitress had suggested was in a block where he didn't see anyone like that. That was as good a sign of safety as any.

He pulled into the motel's parking lot, grabbed his stuff—including the all-important backpack stuffed with tens of thousands in cash—and walked up to the front desk.

At first glance, the counter seemed unattended, but the clerk was actually sitting behind it, hidden by the high counter. A TV was playing a show, and the woman who should've been manning the desk was munching on chips and soda, chuckling at a soap opera.

Henry tapped the call bell twice. He'd already spotted the woman with her legs crossed. She'd probably caught him out of the corner of her eye too, but she didn't turn her head or shift her gaze, glued to the TV.

At the bell, she dropped the act and asked, "What?"

"How much for one person per night?"

"Twenty bucks." She didn't even look up.

Henry pulled a crumpled hundred-dollar bill from his chest pocket and slapped it on the counter. "That's for five nights. Key."

The woman moved like she'd practiced it—posture unchanged, right hand grabbing a key off the wall hook, left hand taking the cash and setting the key on the counter. Then she slid a registration book over. "Sign your name." She pocketed the bill smoothly.

Only when the money hit her hand did she bother glancing down to confirm the denomination.

She didn't even check if it was counterfeit. That was just how confident Americans were back then—they didn't give a damn that the U.S. dollar was the most forged currency in the world.

With the dollar's global economic clout, any extra printing was paid for by the whole world, not just the U.S. So why would they worry?

Besides, there was so much shady business going on in the States—what gangster would call the cops over a fake bill? Even if they knew it was counterfeit, as long as it wasn't too obvious, they'd just pass it along.

As long as you didn't deposit it in a bank or try to pay federal agencies—especially the IRS—with it. Using fake cash to pay taxes was practically asking for trouble.

The motel's guest registry was handwritten, with scribbles so wild that even Henry, with his super-brain, could barely make out a few names.

The signatures looked like doctor's prescriptions.

He thought about writing his real name, but on a whim, he scrawled "Clark Kent" in messy handwriting.

The woman wasn't checking IDs anyway, so using his actual name felt weird.

It was like back before he'd crossed over—whenever he signed up for some unimportant website, he'd use a fake email address. It was practically instinct for protecting personal info online.

Seeing that the woman really didn't bother to verify, Henry shrugged and took the room key. A small worry about the neighborhood's safety crept into his mind.

He asked, "Got a Yellow Pages?"

"They're by the phones in the rooms. Hahaha."

At least she answered that one without attitude. But that laugh was from the soap opera's punchline, not anything to do with Henry.

Whatever. Twenty bucks a night was dirt cheap. He couldn't complain.

The motel room was as basic as the ones he'd seen in movies or TV shows—maybe even shabby. But it was clean; the cleaning and linen changes were done right.

The detergent smell from the sheets was so strong it nearly knocked out Henry's super-sensitive sense of smell.

He couldn't tell if the sheets were germ-free, but the amount of detergent used was definitely generous—almost like a dry-cleaning job with just soap and no water.

The Yellow Pages he'd asked for were tucked under the phone.

He glanced at the cover. It was an old directory, not this year's edition.

But Henry wasn't looking for brand-new companies anyway, so the outdated version didn't matter.

He hung his coat on the hook by the door, tossed his backpack aside, and lay down on the bed, which still had a decent spring mattress.

At that moment, the reality of being in Los Angeles hit him all at once. The mattress wasn't the bar sofa from Alaska, or Old John's lumpy spring bed, or even the driver's seat of his car.

He wouldn't say his future felt hopeless, but being in a strange country, heading toward an unknown path—it'd be a lie to say he wasn't nervous.

A Kryptonian's powers only guaranteed he wouldn't die, not that he'd succeed.

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