The plump waitress strolled over, refilled Henry's coffee pot, and casually asked, "What are you looking for?"
"I need to find a cheaper motel first," Henry replied. "Otherwise, I'll have to sleep in the park tonight."
The waitress flipped a page in the yellow pages Henry was thumbing through and pointed to one of the listings. "Try this one. It's decent."
"Oh." Henry took a closer look. The motel was located north of Los Angeles, near Hollywood. It seemed the plump waitress had truly considered his needs before making her recommendation. If she had been aiming for a commission, she would have pointed to a motel closer to the restaurant—easier to claim her cut. But this one was too far, which suggested her help was genuine.
Henry quickly jotted down the address and details on a napkin. "Thanks," he said, then reached into his pocket and dug out enough money to pay for the meal, leaving a generous tip.
The amount of the tip finally made the waitress smile. It seemed that no amount of sweet talk could rival the magic of cold, hard cash.
He returned the yellow pages to their place, gathered his map, newspaper, and other belongings, and headed to his car to begin the next leg of his journey.
If he intended to build a life in Los Angeles, he'd eventually need to rent a place. Buying one outright was far beyond his current means. Even though he wasn't afraid of bullets, being pestered by petty thieves every few days would be exhausting. Safety, if nothing else, was worth investing in.
Still, renting would take time. In the meantime, he couldn't just live in his car. Finding a hotel was the most immediate and practical solution.
Henry didn't bother scouring the city. Instead, he drove directly to the motel the waitress had recommended.
The area surrounding the motel appeared quiet and relatively safe. He drove around a few blocks, noting the absence of suspicious individuals. There were no tattooed men loitering on corners, no women flaunting flashy outfits—at least not the type typically seen on street corners known for less-than-legal trades. Even in this chilly winter weather, those women might pair miniskirts with strange fur coats.
Drug dealers and prostitutes weren't uncommon in certain areas, but they weren't everywhere. The lack of such people here gave Henry a reassuring first impression.
He pulled into the motel's parking lot, grabbed his belongings—including his most important possession, a backpack stuffed with hundreds of thousands in cash—and walked toward the front desk.
At first glance, it seemed no one was at the counter. But in truth, someone was seated behind it, obscured by the tall reception desk. A TV flickered behind her, playing a soap opera. The older woman manning the desk was clearly enjoying the show, her legs crossed, munching potato chips, and sipping soda.
Henry rang the bell twice. The woman had clearly noticed him from the corner of her eye but hadn't turned away from the television.
Upon hearing the bell, she finally broke her pretense and said without looking, "What is it?"
"How much for one person per night?"
"Twenty dollars," she replied flatly, eyes still fixed on the screen.
Henry pulled out a crumpled hundred-dollar bill from his chest pocket and laid it on the counter. "Five nights," he said. "Give me the key."
The woman moved as if she had done this routine a thousand times. Without shifting her gaze, her right hand reached behind her to grab a key off the wall, while her left hand took the bill and laid it on the counter. She pushed the guest book toward him and said, "Sign your name." Then she casually pocketed the cash.
Only after taking the bill did she glance at it briefly to confirm the denomination. Yet she didn't even check if it was counterfeit. That said a lot about Americans' confidence in their own currency during that era.
They hardly seemed concerned about counterfeit bills—an irony, considering the U.S. dollar was the most widely counterfeited currency in the world.
But it made sense. With the dollar being the backbone of the global economy, no matter how many were printed, it was the rest of the world that paid for it—not the United States. Why worry?
And if a gang accidentally received a fake bill, would they call the police? Unlikely. As long as it wasn't blatantly fake, they'd use it anyway. Just don't try to deposit it in a bank or use it to pay federal taxes—especially not the IRS. That would be asking for trouble.
Henry glanced at the motel register. It was a handwritten log, but most of the names were illegible. Even with his superhuman memory and cognition, the flamboyant, messy handwriting made it difficult to decipher.
He intended to sign his real name, but on a whim, scrawled "Clark Kent" in a similarly messy script. The woman didn't ask for ID or verify anything, so it didn't seem to matter. Besides, using his official identity now felt awkward.
It was like those times before he transmigrated—when signing up for an unimportant website, he would instinctively use a fake email address to protect his privacy.
Seeing the woman really didn't care to verify anything, Henry silently accepted the room key. Still, his concern over the area's safety crept up a notch.
He asked, "Do you have a yellow pages?"
"They're next to the phone in your room. Hahaha," she replied.
Her laugh wasn't directed at Henry—it was prompted by something funny on her soap opera. She was simply answering his question out of habit.
Well, for twenty dollars a night, Henry couldn't expect luxury. At least she was answering his questions.
He unlocked his motel room and stepped inside. It looked just like those rooms he'd seen in movies—basic, a little old, but functional. In terms of cleanliness, it exceeded expectations. The sheets and towels were freshly laundered.
The strong smell of detergent hit him immediately, so potent it almost knocked him out. Thanks to his super sense of smell, it was especially overpowering.
He couldn't gauge the bacterial cleanliness just yet, but the amount of detergent used was almost absurd—like a dry cleaning job done without water, just pure cleaning agents.
Next to the telephone, as promised, lay a thick yellow pages directory. He picked it up. Though it wasn't the latest edition, that didn't bother Henry. He wasn't searching for any brand-new businesses anyway.
He took off his coat and hung it on the rack near the door, tossed his backpack on the floor, and sank into the bed.
The spring mattress still had some life left in it. Lying there, for the first time, the weight of reality fully settled on him. He was in Los Angeles. This wasn't Old John's bumpy spring bed, nor the bar's sofa in Alaska, nor his car seat cushion.
He was here now, in a strange city, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, on the brink of an uncertain future.
He wasn't discouraged exactly—but to say he felt calm would be a lie. He was flustered, unsettled, uncertain.
Kryptonian powers guaranteed his survival. But they didn't guarantee his success.
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