As they walked, stopping occasionally, Alan absorbed more street survival wisdom from Dominic. Unconsciously, they arrived at the Baal Relief Meal Truck on Markie Street, marked by a formidable queue. Dominic, a veteran of two and a half years on the West Coast, shared his expertise.
"Alan, see that? If you want relief meals in the future, always find a place with a big crowd. The food's better there. Places with few people? The bread's hard, the drinks are bitter, and the chicken tastes like cardboard. Impossible to eat! I swear they're just clearing out garbage inventory and feeding it to the homeless."
No doubt, man. As long as a homeless person didn't starve to death, that was considered sufficient. What right did they have to be picky? The great United States had its priorities. Taxpayers got "sweet lead sugar water," so what about social refuse like them? It was enough that they weren't secretly adding chemical castration drugs to their drinks, or potent concoctions to increase their risk of heart disease and cancer by 200%, ensuring they'd suddenly drop dead on a curb one day. While you could still breathe on the street, be grateful for the congressmen's immense mercy.
[Urban Street Survival lv 1 (Ordinary): The comprehensive survival ability and scavenging/hunting skills essential for the homeless. Mastering this life skill will influence the focus of intelligence data.]
"Man, I can smell the beef," Alan said, a hint of optimism in his voice. "Though it might be zombie meat that's been in the freezer for who knows how long, who cares? As long as I can eat enough." Alan wasn't picky. Generally, as long as it wasn't utterly unpalatable, he could handle it.
Only those who had truly experienced the gnawing hunger that left hands trembling and the whole body shaking, feeling like they could stuff anything into their stomachs, could understand this sensation. Perhaps it was just low blood sugar from that period. He'd reached this point; he'd eat whatever he could get. At least someone was providing food, so he wouldn't starve. After all, if you had no money or status, food tasted bad no matter what country you were in.
"Baal Food Truck is a charity relief truck run by a food company that's part of a Fortune 500 company in California," Dominic explained, offering his assessment. "You'll see them in many homeless camps around California. The food is pretty good, and they sometimes even distribute daily toiletries." The relief meals from the Baal Food Truck were legendary among the homeless of Los Angeles' Fifth Street District – a heavyweight welfare "wild area" that scored four and a half out of five stars. The downsides: no accurate schedule or prior notice, and always too many people, making it rare to snag good supplies. Dominic, despite his two and a half years of street scavenging, had only eaten from the Baal Food Truck a few dozen times. He'd received a few towels, some thermos cups, and a box of low-quality, miscellaneous leaf "cigarettes" – which he'd promptly sold to the many addicts on the street who craved them.
After waiting in line for half an hour, Alan successfully received his meal: beef pasta, a box of "Freshly Squeezed" juice with a straw, and a frozen fruit platter. Alan gave the black man distributing the meals a thumbs-up and offered a sincere thanks, earning a smile and a blessing in return. When the man asked where he was from, Alan replied, "I come from Asia!"
"Germany? Good!" The black man seemed to have a bad ear. Alan clearly said Asia, but the other party heard German. Believing it, he stumbled out a few words of German: "Ich mag deutsche Schnheiten!!"
Damn. What did his preference for German hotties have to do with Alan? I like all the beauties.
Alan found a random spot on the roadside and sat down. After tasting the Baal relief meal, he nodded in approval. "It tastes good." The "freshly squeezed juice" was, in fact, just juice with that brand name. The "chilled fruit platter" turned out to be diced fruit and ice cubes in a plastic bag, accompanied only by a white foam tray and a plastic fork. The fruit had a surprising crunch.
The Baal Food Truck truly lived up to its E-level "Daily Intelligence" rating. The food was surprisingly healthy and of high quality. Of course, "good" was relative, compared to other relief meals. At least it was nutritious and wouldn't kill you. The Baal Food Company's donations to the homeless served multiple purposes: tax write-offs, offloading unsold "zombie meat" inventory, gaining good public relations, and boosting sales. A win-win.
In no time, Alan finished the beef pasta, drank the juice, and speared a piece of mango from the platter. Balanced nutrition, full of energy.
Dominic tossed his trash box into a nearby bin and asked, "Alan, want to come with me to get some daily necessities? I know a really reliable shelter. The person on duty there is a friend of mine, and I'm very familiar with her. I go to her for help when I need something."
"Of course." Alan readily agreed. He was completely lacking everything. Following Dominic, he felt like a newbie being guided by a seasoned pro, overcoming obstacles and leveling up.
After several twists and turns, they reached the back alley of a green shelter. Dominic first typed and sent a text message, then waited two minutes before knocking on the door. The blue iron door creaked open from inside, revealing a tall, blonde, East Slavic woman in her thirties. Seeing Dominic's handsome face, she offered a kind smile.
"Hey, Dominic, I haven't seen you for several days. What have you been busy with recently?"
"Hello, Rena. I'm still the same, no real change. This is my friend, Alan. He just got here today and wasn't able to receive relief supplies in time. Could you help him get some daily necessities and old clothes? I also need a bottle of water."
Facts proved it: if you were handsome and eloquent, you'd always have good relationships with the opposite sex. Rena's attention was almost entirely on Dominic, the high-level street charmer. She merely glanced at Alan, was briefly drawn by his physique, then shifted her gaze back to Dominic, nodding. "Of course, sweetheart. Let your friend wait a moment." She turned back into the shelter.
Dominic felt Alan's knowing gaze and immediately began to explain.
"Rena's a good friend of mine. She has a husband, but they divorced a few years ago because of emotional problems. She's a very good person, full of love, lives alone, and used to run a car wash shop. She's self-reliant and even pays her ex-husband's living expenses every month."
"But with the economic depression hitting the market, a lot of companies closed down. She had to close her car wash shop too because she couldn't afford the high rent. She found a relatively stable job here at the shelter and usually lives here herself." He continued, "I occasionally come to her place to spend the night. You know, it's really cold in winter, and you'll freeze to death if you stay outside. Rena has warm water here, and there are compartments and beds in the employee lounge on the second floor, plus some old heating equipment."
"I understand, man, you don't have to explain so much to me," Alan immediately replied, putting on a serious face, conveying that he'd keep his mouth shut and wouldn't gossip. You grew up looking like that. It'd be strange if you weren't popular with women.
Not long after, Rena returned with a bounty: a large 2.5-liter bottle of water, a black backpack, and small, travel-sized bottles of toiletries like towels, shower gel, shampoo, and lotion. Alan even spotted a few condoms. Hidden benefits, indeed—a complete starter pack for a street homeless beginner.