My situation at home had become dreadful. I was bored, exceedingly bored. Bored past the point of it being a luxury, it had become a serious impediment to my merriment. I needed a change. I needed someplace else to revel. I needed to get out!

Vacation. No! Vacations are for dullards with pension plans and 8 hour shifts, for shirt tucking louts who fancy a break in their cubicle life, for schmucks who are more content snapping a photo of themselves in front of the Transamerica Building than moving to North Beach and stumbling home drunk at 6 in the morning under its shadow.

Nope, no vacations for me, no, no, no. When I vacate, I permanently relocate. Besides, this dapper dame is too fastidious to fancy a mere vacation.

America, I’ve always loved America. America is happening, I’m drawn to it, it needs me and I need it. America is where everyone wants to be, America is where I wanted to be, America is where I was going to be. I was going to America. Going to live, going to work and —of course— going to play!

Yup, you heard me right, I said it, to live and to work. Live and work.

Now, you’re probably thinking that I have dual citizenship (I don’t). Or that I hold a masters degree in Engineering from the University of Bangalore —wrong. Ok, ok, well then I must be the daughter of some high ranking government official from an energy rich nation…—Uh no!

You see, the American immigration “problem” has been widely publicized in my country. There, most would agree that you’d draw more indignation from a crotchety Indian motel clerk by staying 2 hours past your checkout time then you would form the American authorities by staying 2 years past your visa’s expiration date. It’s a joke and, after months of sitting around like an old boiler with a bed sore, I decided it was about time to sort my self out and bask in the laughter.

Really, I’ve been doing a lot of laughing. Laughing ever since I walked out that American Consultant with my non-immigrant visa. Now that I think about it, I was laughing all the way to the airport. I was even laughing in the lavatory on that 747. Damn, I think I even managed to crack a few chuckles at that US Customs agent as he authoritatively welcomed me into the USA. I’ve managed to laugh myself all the way to a place to rent and an under-the-table cash job (more on that in a bit).

Surely everyone knows how the new ol’ saying goes: The Hispanics do it with fake paperwork, The Whites do it with expired visas. Besides, it’s not like I was going to be a Turk in Frankfurt, an Albanian in Athens, or even a Moroccan in Paris, no! I’m a comely white girl with a cute accent in the friggin’ United States… gees I nearly had 3 boyfriends before I stepped out the baggage claim.

“…closed his shop, sold a house, bought a ticket to The West Coast”

What’s the first thing I did when I got out the airport and onto the filthy streets of Los Angeles? I purchased a prepaid cell phone of course. I’d even looked up the location of the wireless store before I boarded my flight. I live in this country now, I can’t have people call me on an international number. Plus I plan on meeting people. (I love American men!)

It was shocking to see all the trash and filth in this city. Even the beaches are dirty. There’s trash and grime all over your beaches! What the hell is wrong with you people, why wouldn’t you want to keep you beaches clean? Have you no pride in your country? No pride in the way you live and your personal behavior? Do you keep your houses clean?

Anyways, my first few weeks here I did nothing but party. Oddly enough, most of what I do now is party —party and buy, buy, buy, buy. I don’t shop, I buy. It’s a lot more impulsive and requires no vetting or frugality. It’s sort of a vice.

A girlfriend of mine (from home) had been out here on vacation (sorry about my vacation rant earlier hun), so we linked up and started partying. I wasn’t much worried about housing at that point. I’d been staying at her hotel for a few weeks and I knew another illegal —an illegal alien white boy— who’d said I could stay with him until I got settled. Hostels were another option. Backup plans, really. What I truly needed was a long term arrangement. I couldn’t be working, partying, and seeking gainful employment, all while worrying about where I was going to rest my precious little head.

My illegal friend suggested that I check the website Craigslist. Great suggestion!

Apts/Housing, westside-southbay, I began to peruse Craig’s list: $2400, $1250, $3200, Santa Monica, Mar Vista, Marina del Rey. Come on people, I sure as hell didn’t come all the way out here to live in Inglewood, or the San Fernando Valley with the other illegals.

I continued searching: $2300, $2250, $350; $350! I paused and rubbed my eyes thinking, “$350, this can’t be correct”.

I pulled my chair in close to get an accurate read. Still, $350.

“Hummm, must be a mistake”. I clicked on the link and sure enough, there it was again, nice and bold and west of the 405, $350. “No way” I muttered, “$350 a month for a place on the Westside”.

I began to read the ad; of course, there was I catch: the $350 was for a sofa bed in some guys living room.

I didn’t care, I respond to the ad like a teenage girl to a text message. Several hours later I received the call. The man gave me his address and told me what bus I needed to catch to get there.

Sadly, when I arrived, he told me that the he’d just rented the couch to some other woman and that she’d already left a deposit (yes, apparently others are content with living in some stranger’s living room on their couch). Though my looks, and my accent, ended up catching his attention. He loved it, he loved me, we ended up talking for 20 minutes. He seemed really cool, and the place, the place was fairly nice. I told him my situation and said that if he would drive me to a bank I would give him $400.

And, just like that, after what, 15 minutes of searching and an 25 minute bus ride, I had I had a place to live in America.

Get your 9 to 5

I knew I couldn’t work without a Social Security number. Though I figured if I could somehow find a cash job, that little impractically would be more or less a nonsensical formality.

I was nervous about going into a place and asking for work since, legally, I was ineligible. I thought that this would diminish my prospects considerably. Boy was I wrong.

As it turned out, having no social security number or H-1B Visa was inconsequential when it came to finding a job. Really, I think “find” is too strong of a word, as it seems to imply an exertion of effort while searching. Please! I’ve exerted more effort trying to find a Brazil nut in a bag of Fancy Raw Mixed Nuts than I spent “finding” a job.

When I asked around, the overwhelming consensus was that I wouldn’t have any problem finding an under-the-table cash job at Venice Beach. Turns out they were right.

I headed down to Venice Beach, it was one of those sought after Los Angeles spring days. You know, the kind that make you feel good about spending a million dollars for a 2 bedroom 1800 sq ft. house with a gorgeous beige ceder block wall separating your from your nosy neighbor.

It didn’t take long before I spotted a friendly looking restaurant. I went in and asked the gentleman behind the counter if they needed staff. He introduced himself as the owner and informed me that one of their waiters had just quit. He handed me an application. I took a seat and began to fill it out.

Name, Address, Phone number, yeah, yeah, yeah, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit, no problem; until, I reached the dreaded “Are you legally allowed to work in the US?” check box. Yikes! Proceeded by, uh oh, Social Security Number.

I called the manager over, timidly pointed to the social security section, and told him “I don’t have one of these”… “Oh well”, he says, “just come back tonight and meet the manager”.

Wow! I remember thinking: “Could it really be this easy? Maybe he misunderstood me? Did he take it that I just don’t have my social security number with me?” “He had to understand me”, I thought, “I made it clear that I had no social security number. Why would he hire me then —could he hire me? I know he can’t hire me. I need a SSN to work. I had no SSN. He’s the owner he must know I need an SSN. Maybe he doesn’t know, maybe it’s the manager who’s privy to the ins-and-outs if hiring. Maybe it’s a setup, will the authorities be waiting for me when I return this evening?”

On and on and on I went, driving myself into a state of unsubstantiated paranoia.

Not too sure why I all of the sudden I became irrationally fearful. This is LA. I’m in an illegal alien stronghold, the Fallujah of the illegal alien world. If the authorities were inclined, they could drive down any arterial in this city and have themselves an immigration jamboree: flower seller, fruit stand operator, the guys drinking, loitering, and urinating in public at the “Labor Center” on Sawtelle and Pico. Anybody driving a Mazda pickup truck with a lawnmower in the back!

It’s quite clear they wouldn’t have to set up some nonsensical hiring sting to bust illegal workers (aspiring or otherwise). Besides, most people don’t come to this country on a non-immigrant visa to fill out a job application. They come to join their ilk on Hollywood Blvd., take pictures with those degenerates dressed as their child’s favorite comic book hero, cash in on the great exchange rate by buying tons of shitty made in China merchandise, and leave.

Yup, it would be a really stupid way to net some busts.

So that night I returned and met with both the manager and the owner. I reiterated to the manager that I had no social security number… she didn’t care, she had a workaround. They would write me out a personal check each week; great! I ended up starting the next day.

Luck or Laissez-faire?

Initially I attributed my swift employment to sheer luck. I mean really, how many employers are willing to break that law in order to hire someone? Apparently quite often —at least at this establishment because, come to find out, surprise, surprise, everyone in the kitchen is illegal! Several of them have been in the United States for over a decade! They have families, cars, houses. I was surprised that they were able to stay here for so long without a single immigration problem. All of them were either being paid under the table like me or, actually on the payroll.

On the payroll you say? Yes, on the payroll I say. Apparently passing off a fake SSN on a W-4 buys you 6—9 months of working time. When it finally gets back to the boss, one either presses the reset button (quit and pass of another fake SSN to your new employer) or, if the employer is in cahoots, they’ll just tell The Man that they “wrote it down wrong” and provide them with another one. Apparently, this back and forth eventually causes the matter to get lost in the shuffle and the illegal worker continues to work, unscathed —once again— by American immigration and labor laws due America’s inability to enforce its immigration and labor laws.

As funny as it sounds, working with illegal Mexicans made me feel as if I had struck gold. OK, maybe more like copper. It was a positive acquisition for me nonetheless.

You see, I needed a mentor, someone to show me the ins-and-outs of the system. A Girl’s got questions, ya know? Can I open a bank account? Will I go to jail if the police stop me? Could I obtain documents? Can I drive without an American driver’s license? If I drink too much and get alcohol poisoning will the hospitals help me? These were all pressing questions that I needed answered. Like a good American cocaine dealer, I’d have to make my Mexican connections.

So I worked, I befriended, and I asked questions. The guys really got a kick out of working with a (soon-to-be) illegal alien white girl; a hot illegal alien white girl.

Driving without a license —not a problem, going to hospitals —not a problem, opening a bank account —not a problem. Best of all was the information I got regarding what seems to be the most important step in this whole illegal immigration “assimilation” process: obtaining the coveted social security number.

To my delight my coworkers —mis compañeros de trabajo— claimed they could get me any document I wanted. Quality documents that could be used for most anything as long as it didn’t involve passing them off to the authorities (i.e. don’t give your fake California drivers license to the police if they stop you).

They emphatically assured me that acquiring social security numbers, green cards, ids, any sort of documentation was not a problem. They made it sound so simple and so promising. I got the impression that getting fake documents was like turning on a faucet. You simply turn it a little, and documents come out. Turn it 20 minutes later, more documents. Come back in a month and turn it, the documents are still flowing.

“Why isn’t everyone doing this”, I thought. Everyone must be doing this. We all have hands and arms; anyone can turn on the faucet if they want to. Christ, this frigin’ country must be full of illegals.

Wait, did I mention the price? I didn’t even get to the price. Wow, the price is really amazing. Hold on to your hats Department of Homeland Security. (Drum roll…) $50! Yes you heard me right fifty american dollars. I know, I know, it’s too good to be true, oh, and when you factor in the exchange rate —damn. Not much of a price to pay, I’d say. Especially considering that the $50 is a package deal, a gift basket of sorts that includes a Green Card, ID, and Social Security Number.

I find what they’ve told me to be amazing. Prior to coming to this country I knew that American immigration enforcement was, at many levels, a farce, but this whole document thing is amazing. If I wasn’t planning to capitalize on them for my own selfish reasons I probably be a tad outraged. (Instead I’m a tad elated.)

I now can assure you that my rather firm intention of staying in the United States has now been etched into stone.

Initially I had no plans to get any sort of documents, I didn’t think they were absolutely necessary. But for $50, why the hell not? It’ll be my illegal alien 401k plan.

As for you guys, American citizins, listen up. Attention American Citizins! What I’m telling you is that in your country, it’s easier and cheaper to get someone’s social security number, to assume someones identity, than it is to get 2 mezzanine level tickets to a Lakers basketball team playoff game.