pitch black outside and the time in the middle just erased itself. Tracy never showed up with those tacos. I’m starving. I think maybe I should be pissed at her. I walk over to the beach so I can at least sleep somewhere soft.
The next guy who picks me up wants to take me to West Hollywood. He’s in a Lexus, jocky like he’s probably got a girlfriend that he’s mean to, but I go with him. Before I get in I do one more check to see if Tracy’s anywhere, even though I can see she’s not. Just in case she’d want to come.
He drives all the way east on Santa Monica with the windows down and the strip malls flicker by, their signs lit up even though they’re closed, the too-bright plastic lights against the black. Even the strip malls here are full of things hiding just behind where you can see, like if you reached past the outsides of them you could touch a thousand things you never knew. The air’s a mix of car exhaust and ocean; wind whips my hair against my cheeks. It hurts just enough to make me feel awake and I miss Jim. I wonder if he misses me the same, and then it scares me that I’m even wondering, so I tell myself Of course he does , and push away the question. The lights blink way into the distance, all the way out to Bakersfield and past it; if you look far enough you can’t tell the difference between lightbulbs and stars.
It’s quiet for so long I’m surprised when the guy talks to me, but he does, tells me to get out of the car and come in, asks me if I want a beer and tells me what he wants, and then doesn’t talk again for a long time. Afterward he says to leave because he’s got people coming over, and doesn’t let me finish the beer.
Outside his street is full of little squat houses, orange and yellow and green; they all look like sherbet and have trimmed lawns with agave plants and bougainvillea growing right up to the row of shiny cars. Every ten feet there’s another sign that says NO PARKING THIS BLOCK WITHOUT PERMIT; it makes me wonder who gets all those permits and what the rest of everyone’s supposed to do. It doesn’t bug me, though; all I’ve got is my feet and I’m sure when Jim gets here he’ll be able to park his Cabriolet wherever he wants. I walk through no-parking streets to Melrose where there’s pay phones and I let Jim’s number ring till it gets dark.
Starting that night I stay in Hollywood. Venice is better, but I can’t find anyone to drive me back and it’s far and I don’t know the bus routes. I’m tired, too, from strangers and car fumes and waiting. Before Jim I always wished I didn’t have to go to school, but now I’m realizing how hard it is to find something to do all day long if you don’t have a place to go. Every time I find something like go to Starbucks it only lasts an hour or two and then I’m back at zero with a Frappuccino sitting in my stomach, looking for another thing, and no one ever talks to me. It kind of makes me understand jobs.
There’s no beach to sleep on in Hollywood, so I check into the hostel on Vine, lay down on the stiff white sheets and think of Jim. When it’s quiet and I close my eyes I can see invisible cords that cross the highways and the hills, stretching out between me and him and tying us together. They tug at the middle of my chest, make it ache, but I’m still glad they’re there. Sometimes I roll over and stare at the space beside me on the bed, picturing he’s filling it, and some nights on the pay phone I imagine his voice in the space between the rings.
Besides that I’m alone. I’m trying not to pick anybody up: in Hollywood the air is like an oven and it feels like I could crawl into the back of some guy’s car and never get let out. I guess it’s really like that everywhere no matter how it feels, but I try not to think about that. Between not working and the hostel I’m almost out of money. One dollar and seventy-three cents left.
There’s a kind of hungry that’s way past stomach
The next guy who picks me up wants to take me to West Hollywood. He’s in a Lexus, jocky like he’s probably got a girlfriend that he’s mean to, but I go with him. Before I get in I do one more check to see if Tracy’s anywhere, even though I can see she’s not. Just in case she’d want to come.
He drives all the way east on Santa Monica with the windows down and the strip malls flicker by, their signs lit up even though they’re closed, the too-bright plastic lights against the black. Even the strip malls here are full of things hiding just behind where you can see, like if you reached past the outsides of them you could touch a thousand things you never knew. The air’s a mix of car exhaust and ocean; wind whips my hair against my cheeks. It hurts just enough to make me feel awake and I miss Jim. I wonder if he misses me the same, and then it scares me that I’m even wondering, so I tell myself Of course he does , and push away the question. The lights blink way into the distance, all the way out to Bakersfield and past it; if you look far enough you can’t tell the difference between lightbulbs and stars.
It’s quiet for so long I’m surprised when the guy talks to me, but he does, tells me to get out of the car and come in, asks me if I want a beer and tells me what he wants, and then doesn’t talk again for a long time. Afterward he says to leave because he’s got people coming over, and doesn’t let me finish the beer.
Outside his street is full of little squat houses, orange and yellow and green; they all look like sherbet and have trimmed lawns with agave plants and bougainvillea growing right up to the row of shiny cars. Every ten feet there’s another sign that says NO PARKING THIS BLOCK WITHOUT PERMIT; it makes me wonder who gets all those permits and what the rest of everyone’s supposed to do. It doesn’t bug me, though; all I’ve got is my feet and I’m sure when Jim gets here he’ll be able to park his Cabriolet wherever he wants. I walk through no-parking streets to Melrose where there’s pay phones and I let Jim’s number ring till it gets dark.
Starting that night I stay in Hollywood. Venice is better, but I can’t find anyone to drive me back and it’s far and I don’t know the bus routes. I’m tired, too, from strangers and car fumes and waiting. Before Jim I always wished I didn’t have to go to school, but now I’m realizing how hard it is to find something to do all day long if you don’t have a place to go. Every time I find something like go to Starbucks it only lasts an hour or two and then I’m back at zero with a Frappuccino sitting in my stomach, looking for another thing, and no one ever talks to me. It kind of makes me understand jobs.
There’s no beach to sleep on in Hollywood, so I check into the hostel on Vine, lay down on the stiff white sheets and think of Jim. When it’s quiet and I close my eyes I can see invisible cords that cross the highways and the hills, stretching out between me and him and tying us together. They tug at the middle of my chest, make it ache, but I’m still glad they’re there. Sometimes I roll over and stare at the space beside me on the bed, picturing he’s filling it, and some nights on the pay phone I imagine his voice in the space between the rings.
Besides that I’m alone. I’m trying not to pick anybody up: in Hollywood the air is like an oven and it feels like I could crawl into the back of some guy’s car and never get let out. I guess it’s really like that everywhere no matter how it feels, but I try not to think about that. Between not working and the hostel I’m almost out of money. One dollar and seventy-three cents left.
There’s a kind of hungry that’s way past stomach
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