Q: Whats the difference between living in St. Louis, Missouri without a personal motor vehicle and living at the bottom of the ocean without scuba equipment?
A: You're much more likely to get shot, robbed or raped living in St. Louis.
I look back on my 3 months in St. Louis as an endurance test, an exercise in the limits of my boredom tolerance and ability to avoid gunshot wounds. I had the misfortune of finding myself there thanks to an internship with a major international engineering firm, which sounded like a good idea at the time I landed it. My research of the city prior to arrival was skeletal, I just giddily packed my bags and hopped on the next flight over, eager to experience life in the states again after living in Europe for 13 years.
I quickly discovered that St. Louis was the the worst city in which to have this experience. It's is located about as far away from any item of interest as is physically possible on the North American continent. The muddy Mississippi flows by, separating St. Louis from its aptly named neighbour to the east; East St. Louis. Like a child at a family reunion sheepishly steering clear of his crazy cheek-pinching great aunt, the river moves quickly, trying its best to avoid excessive contact with the city. Apart from a soulless core of half empty skyscrapers and a giant steel arch, St. Louis spreads out for about 50 miles to the north, south and west. This dire patchwork of ghetto and cookie-cutter suburbia is sprinkled with creepy stip malls and is stiched together by dilapidated 6-lane highways. This was once a proud, bustling city, but when Chicago became the rail hub for westward expansion in the late 1800's, St. Louis lost its national relevance and its long decline commenced. It now seems to have comfortably settled into a pattern of decay.
I was too busy meeting colleagues and getting briefed on the job for the first few days to notice what a dump I was now living in. But come the weekend, I had ample time to explore. Aside from a couple bums fighting over a 2-dollar bill, the empty streets surrounding my 'downtown' accomodation were entirely devoid of life now that the weekday office workers were off duty. Prospects of finding excitement in outlying areas were equally slim. St. Louis' one and only metro-line linked the airport with downtown via a series of park-and-ride stops in the suburbs. Great. The thrill of being in a new place quickly wore off and I realised that any nuggets of gold in this bleak city would have to be discovered by car.
Part I
Scanning through the local classified ads, my eye was immediately caught by BUFFORD'S DIRT CHEAP AUTO SALES, 5 miles to the north of my place. This sounded like just the place to suit my need for wheels on a $1000 budget. After a 40 minute wait, I hopped on what may have been the city's only bus. A cursory glance at my fellow passengers led me to conclude that I had about twice as many teeth as the rest of them combined. A 500 pound white man lay slumped in the handicapped seat, drooling on the floor. Two young black women at the back said: 'Uh uh' and 'He be workin' it', over and over. Never wanting to miss out on a chance for small-talk, I struck up a conversation with the guy sitting next to me. He'd been clean for a few years and now coached a christian-negro-little-league(!) baseball team on which his son Melvin was a star player. His most memorable quote on the subject of substance abuse was 'mmm, that shit felt so good when it hit yo' head!' He was bemused by a cracker like me on a bus in St. Louis. I explained that I was hunting for a car so I wouldn't have to make such journeys in the future.
Outside, the highrises abruptly gave way to a landscape of alternating decrepit single-story houses and empty lots on which houses used to stand. These had long since been destroyed by authorities wanting one less place from which crack could be sold. I now found myself in Baden, North St. Louis' version of hell on earth. I have a feeling the neighbourhood is aware of its plight and one day, when no one is watching, will drown itself in the Mississippi. Next to one bus stop, a man lay half on the street and half on the sidewalk, face down. The scene didnt improve when I got off the bus. A trio of gangbangers dressed all in green walked by and commented on 'that white piece of shit'. I checked the address I was looking for and made my way down the street, passing a stripmall in which the only open business was a drug testing clinic.
After 5 of the longest minutes of my life, I reached Bufford's, a crumbling house on a corner with about a dozen suicidal looking cars in the front yard. I entered and found 3 morbidly obese guys watching TV. I told them I was looking for a car for about a grand. They silently stared at me for about 20 seconds, then the fattest and oldest of all (no doubt Bufford himself) reached down into his overall's front pocket and pulled out a couple keys. He flung them at me and said 'check out dem two blue buicks out front'.
Car #1: 1988 Buick Le Sabre, $800
Pros:
-Probably the most stolen car in the midwest.
Cons:
-Slashed Seats.
-Trunk didn't close.
-No windshield wipers.
-No reverse gear. 'Its aight,' said Bufford when he finally came out, 'If you got a friend with you he can jus' get out and push you back when you gots ta park.' I guess to cope with life in Baden, he'd developed a superhuman sense of optimism.
Car #2: 1993 Buick Riviera, $750
Pros:
-Blue
Cons:
-Amongst others that could fill a small booklet, the lights didnt work. Bufford's advice: 'Well you jus' shouldn't drive dis one at night, dats all.'
I thanked Bufford and told him I had to be on my way. He gave me his card and told me to call him up if I needed any more info. Yeah, like: 'Hey, Buff, whats the best way to remove blood stains from trunk upholstery?' Sensing that death or serious injury was imminent if I returned to the spot where I got off the bus, I headed down towards the next stop. On the way, I passed another car lot and spotted the only other white guy in a 10-mile radius, putting an outrageously high price tag on a rusty chevy van. These cars were in an even sorrier state than Bufford's, if that's possible.
'You got anything for about $500?' I asked.
'Uh, well hey man I just work here part time, but come back next week and ask my boss, you'll probably get a bargain since you the first guy who ain't a nigger who come by here in years!'
I figured another trip to the 'hood would probably be the last trip I ever took, so I decided to give this one a miss too. I returned to civilisation empty handed but with all my bodily organs intact. Some brief online research soon made it clear that I was now living in officially the most dangerous city in the United States, with 1/40 people finding themselves victims of violent crime each year. Undeterred, I vowed to continue my hunt for wheels the next week.
Part II
I raised my budget to $2000, figuring that anything less than this amount would get me a deathtrap-on-wheels. Looking around online, I found a number for a used car dealer in Arnold, MO, about 30 miles south of the City. I dialled, it rang:
'Hullo?'
'Yeah hi, is this mike? I'm looking for a used car for about two grand.'
'Oh yeah hey listen I'm just tryin to fix up this goddamn mothafukin piece of shit jet ski that I bought at an auction last week but it wont start dammit! Anyways, why are you calling again?'
'Err, I'd like a car for 2K'
'Oh yeah I got one of them - its red. Why don't you tell me where you live I'll come by and show it to you.'
And so begins the story of Car # 3: 1996 Ford Escort Coupe, $2000, and more entertainingly, the story of Mike, the used car dealer. I've encountered some thoroughly grimy people in the past and had been expecting for Mike to be a grimy guy, but even I was shocked by his level of depravity. He pulled up to my place and got out of the car - a shiny red little coupe with no visible scrapes, scratches or bullet holes. 'Take her for a spin,' he said, getting in the passenger seat.
I hopped in and immediately noticed an inappropriate amount of exposed hairy thigh. Mike was wearing a pair of cut-off jeans tailor made for easy access ball-scratching. He was also clutching a jumbo sized Styrofoam soda cup between his filthy fingernails, from which about half of the contents had spilled on his wrinkled t-shirt. I tried to keep conversation to a minimum, thinking it best not to give him reason to open his mouth. Now there's bad breath and then there's this guy's breath. This guy's unique aroma would make Filipino street dogs howl. Thank god it was a hot day and the car didn't have working A/C, so there was no excuse not to have the windows down. But even going 80 mph on the highway, each breath brought tears to my eyes. Luckily, he wasnt a terribly talkative guy. He asked me where I was from and I replied that I'd lived in Greece for a long time. He shrugged.
The car handled alright, the lights, reverse gear and windows all did what they were supposed to do, and I figured the stink would fade after a couple days. I decided to take the car, so we drove down to his 'office' in Arnold to sort out the paperwork. Unsurprisingly, he worked out of a trailer, which he also lived in.
'Can I use your bathroom?' I asked, stepping into the sauna-like caravan.
'Yeah just go round back, and don't piss on any of my stuff.'
I walked around to the back of the trailer, passing a few tyreless cars on blocks and a jet ski that looked like it had been gutted by a pack of ravenous wolves. No wonder the thing didn't start. I did my business and came back in to find him looking at online porn. I cleared my throat rather loudly.
'Oh hey man. You took me by surprise. So uh, you're from Greece right?'
'I lived there for a while, yeah.'
'How old you gotta be to have sex over there?'
I scratched my head. '15 or 16, i'm not really sure?'
'Well lets look it up.'
He typed in www.howoldyougottabe.com and waited for the page to load.
'Mothafukers, they're always taking this one down. This one should work though,' he said, typing in www.ageofconsent.com. Scrolling down the list of nations and states, he came to G. Sure enough, the age of sexual consent in Greece is 15.
'Cool, that's pretty young' He said, between slurps on his maxi-pop. 'But check out Yemen dude, they know where its at. They don't even got an age!'
'Wow. I learn something new everday. How 'bout that car now? I got $2000 cash on me.' I reached into my pocket and got out the envelope, not wanting to spend any more time discussing child rape with a used car dealer in an oversized tin can oven.
'Alright man, I'll just get you your deed.' He rifled through a stack of stained, crumpled papers on his desk. 'Shame you're not a chick, we could have did some 'creative financing' in my other office!' Pointing to his bedroom, he winked and grabbed his crotch. Mike's trailer was starting to make Bufford's Dirt Cheap Auto Sales look like Buffingham Palace. I shuddered and signed the deed.
'Now if you live in St. Louis, you better park your car under a bright light. Them negroids steal tyres like flies steal shit.' I couldn't blame the whites and blacks in the city for not associating with each other. Both groups were best avoided.
I said my farewells and pulled out of the yard in my newly purchased car. As I started to drive off, he came up to my window. 'Dude, if you wanna see some young poontang, theres a big ass pool a couple miles down on I-55. I drive by there everyday and I'm all like: is she legal?' I hit the gas, excited to have my own means of transport but mainly relieved to have escaped the grime den with minimal mental scarring.
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