week before he disappears he mentions something Hans said to him. “Society has rules. And if society will not punish those who break the rules then I will.”
I’ve only just started writing again and I’m not sure I’ll be able to find the story without Sean. The trial seems a long way off. I can’t stand another year of writer’s block, sitting at a desk, staring out the window, waiting for something resembling insight to arrive like a packet in the mail.
3 . It is not universally agreed upon that the ReiserFS is the first Linux journaling system but the majority of programmers believe it to be the first. A majority also agree that the reason ReiserFS never made it to the Linux kernel was because of Hans’ difficult personality. There are also programmers that claim Hans stole the basic code for the file system.
4 . Nearly two years after first speaking with Sean I find out Books In Print does not list these titles, although it does list
Divorce for Dummies.
5 . The car actually belonged to his mother, but she rarely drove it.
6 . Alameda County Court File 98866.
7 . Though widely printed elsewhere I’ve decided to use fake names for the children.
Chapter 3
June; Minor Breakdowns and a Flight to Los Angeles; The Part about Justin; Dungeon in San Fernando; Nick Flynn on Torture; Paris Hilton; A Phone Call from My Oldest Friend; Everybody Has a Murder Story
On June 5 Paris Hilton turns herself in at the Century Regional Detention Facility in Lynwood. Her incarceration is the biggest story of the year, almost comparable to that day in 1994 when O. J. Simpson walked into the condominium on South Bundy Drive, knocked his wife unconscious, pressed his knee into her back, lifted her head, and slit her throat. Paris eclipses everything. On June 7 the Los Angeles County Sheriff reassigns her to home confinement. The next day the judge sends her back to jail. Everywhere I go I see pictures of Paris Hilton or hear her name. People talk about her, even while saying they’re tired of talking about her. They talk about her then say we should really be talking about Iraq. But the war is off the front page, along with Phil Spector’s murder trial and Britney Spears’ comeback tour. There’s only Paris Hilton, her aquiline features and uniquely yellow hair, her small eyes staring at the rest of us.
When Sean disappears I head to the airport and purchase a one-way ticket to Los Angeles. The first time I came to Los Angeles was June 1986. I was nearing the end of my homeless year. I hitchhiked with my best friend, Justin. Justin was a year older than I and he had been running away since he was twelve. I was supposed to be starting high school soon and Justin should have been going into his sophomore year. But we didn’t think about that. We thought about places to sleep, listening to music, and getting high.
Everything about Justin was cool: his long black hair, cheap bandanas, the way he carried his cigarettes in his sleeve or in his back pocket when he didn’t have sleeves. He had an easy sense of style but he was also very handsome; he would have looked good no matter what he wore. Girls were always inviting him into their houses when their parents weren’t around. When he lived at home, his father beat him with a stick, and sometimes Justin would tap on my window at night, his entire body covered in welts.
Our plan was to get to California and become beach bums, but we never made it to the beach. We got a ride across Arizona from a trucker. He had a wife back East and called her from the booths set aside for long-distance haulers at stops along the way. He hardly even looked at the road, smoothly shifting the giant gears as we drove west. He said he picked us up, even though it was against company policy, because we looked harmless.
“I’ve been all over the country many times,” he said. “Been to Detroit and all points south. But where I’m dropping you kids is East LA. And there ain’t a
I’ve only just started writing again and I’m not sure I’ll be able to find the story without Sean. The trial seems a long way off. I can’t stand another year of writer’s block, sitting at a desk, staring out the window, waiting for something resembling insight to arrive like a packet in the mail.
3 . It is not universally agreed upon that the ReiserFS is the first Linux journaling system but the majority of programmers believe it to be the first. A majority also agree that the reason ReiserFS never made it to the Linux kernel was because of Hans’ difficult personality. There are also programmers that claim Hans stole the basic code for the file system.
4 . Nearly two years after first speaking with Sean I find out Books In Print does not list these titles, although it does list
Divorce for Dummies.
5 . The car actually belonged to his mother, but she rarely drove it.
6 . Alameda County Court File 98866.
7 . Though widely printed elsewhere I’ve decided to use fake names for the children.
Chapter 3
June; Minor Breakdowns and a Flight to Los Angeles; The Part about Justin; Dungeon in San Fernando; Nick Flynn on Torture; Paris Hilton; A Phone Call from My Oldest Friend; Everybody Has a Murder Story
On June 5 Paris Hilton turns herself in at the Century Regional Detention Facility in Lynwood. Her incarceration is the biggest story of the year, almost comparable to that day in 1994 when O. J. Simpson walked into the condominium on South Bundy Drive, knocked his wife unconscious, pressed his knee into her back, lifted her head, and slit her throat. Paris eclipses everything. On June 7 the Los Angeles County Sheriff reassigns her to home confinement. The next day the judge sends her back to jail. Everywhere I go I see pictures of Paris Hilton or hear her name. People talk about her, even while saying they’re tired of talking about her. They talk about her then say we should really be talking about Iraq. But the war is off the front page, along with Phil Spector’s murder trial and Britney Spears’ comeback tour. There’s only Paris Hilton, her aquiline features and uniquely yellow hair, her small eyes staring at the rest of us.
When Sean disappears I head to the airport and purchase a one-way ticket to Los Angeles. The first time I came to Los Angeles was June 1986. I was nearing the end of my homeless year. I hitchhiked with my best friend, Justin. Justin was a year older than I and he had been running away since he was twelve. I was supposed to be starting high school soon and Justin should have been going into his sophomore year. But we didn’t think about that. We thought about places to sleep, listening to music, and getting high.
Everything about Justin was cool: his long black hair, cheap bandanas, the way he carried his cigarettes in his sleeve or in his back pocket when he didn’t have sleeves. He had an easy sense of style but he was also very handsome; he would have looked good no matter what he wore. Girls were always inviting him into their houses when their parents weren’t around. When he lived at home, his father beat him with a stick, and sometimes Justin would tap on my window at night, his entire body covered in welts.
Our plan was to get to California and become beach bums, but we never made it to the beach. We got a ride across Arizona from a trucker. He had a wife back East and called her from the booths set aside for long-distance haulers at stops along the way. He hardly even looked at the road, smoothly shifting the giant gears as we drove west. He said he picked us up, even though it was against company policy, because we looked harmless.
“I’ve been all over the country many times,” he said. “Been to Detroit and all points south. But where I’m dropping you kids is East LA. And there ain’t a
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