As the bus pulled onto the street, waves of rain swept across the window. Casey tore open the Velcro on her wallet and carefully counted her money: after the bus ticket, bagels, and the orange juice, she had $79 left. It wasn’t a fortune. She didn’t care. She didn’t look back at the city. She never wanted to see Seattle again.
8
The Hollywood bus station was tiny. Casey couldn’t believe it. This was Hollywood? When the bus pulled in, she asked the driver if it was the right place. The main depot was downtown he said, but if you wanted Hollywood, this was it. She walked through the station, her backpack slung across her shoulder expecting something cool … something Hollywood. She went up to a newsstand. The woman behind the counter was in her sixties, with a big, juicy mole on the right side of her chin, and long white hairs growing out of it. She was watching a fuzzy black and white TV and Casey had to almost yell to be heard over the news. Some guy had just shot someone and was speeding down a freeway as the cops chased after him. You could see it all from a camera they had up in a helicopter. The anchorwoman, who looked like some kind of grown-up beauty queen, was talking about how whenever these things happened, it usually ended with the guy being shot by the police. No wonder the lady was so into it. Casey called over the TV to her.
“Miss, can you tell me how to get to Santa Monica?”
Santa Monica. Casey loved the name. On the bus, someone had left behind a San Francisco Chronicle, and Casey read about Michelle Pfeiffer, and that’s where she lived. It was on the beach, and there was a pier there where Michelle would take her kids that had all sorts of rides, including the most beautiful merry-go-round Casey had ever seen. Someone had to work at the rides. Why couldn’t she? If Santa Monica was good enough for Michelle Pfeiffer, it was good enough for her.
“Boulevard or city?” the lady said. She didn’t turn an inch from the TV.
“What?”
“You want Santa Monica Boulevard, or Santa Monica City?”
“The city. Where the beach is, right?”
“You got another hour on the RTD bus.”
“Do you know what number bus?”
“I told you, it’s outside.”
“What number?”
“Outside.”
Casey leaned into the heavy glass door, but unexpectedly it opened with ease. Above her head, was a hand with a gold bracelet, pushing on the glass for her.
“I heard you asking directions. You need some help finding something?”
Casey turned towards him. The guy was in his late twenties, had an okay looking face and expensive blue sunglasses hanging from a leather strap around his neck. Still, there was something a little creepy about him.
“You look like you need some help.”
She did, but she wasn’t going to tell him. “I’m okay.”
“Hey. I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “‘Who’s this guy talking to me in a bus station? Do I really want to have a conversation with some guy I don’t know who comes up to me in a bus station?’ Well, I’m not a mugger. I promise. I’m just here to pick up my sister and her little girl who are coming to visit me. But typical bus company shit, they’re two hours late. Yours on time?”
“We were like half-an-hour late.”
“It’s all messed up, isn’t it? California has the best freeway system in the world and they still can’t get you from point A to point B on time. I heard you asking Madam Personality over there for directions.”
As soon as he said it, the lady at the newsstand shot over a nasty look. Casey thought all she cared about was her stupid TV. Guess not. The guy saw her glare, and smiled. Casey grinned a little too—Madam Personality—she liked that.
“I can show you how to get anywhere you want.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
She pushed past him, not rudely, she thought, but like she knew the score.
Casey looked down the street and saw a bunch of low buildings which were just like the streets in Seattle, lined with mini-malls. This was the Hollywood people dreamed of? She didn’t get it. Half a block from the station she stared at a pole topped with a triangle-shaped RTD sign. There were four separate bus route maps in chrome and glass frames, all of them covered in graffiti. Casey tried to read through the tags, but they were impenetrable. She’d wait for the next bus to show up, and then ask the driver.
“Messed up, huh?” It was the guy again. He shook his head and said, “The whole reason you have maps, is so people can use them. Then some jerk sprays his tag on it, and you can’t. Now is that some kinda rebellion, or is it a screw-you to the rest of us? You ask me, it’s like a dog pissing on a pole, telling everyone he’s here. But does he care that he’s leaving piss all over the place? These guys are just flat-out disrespectful to normal people like you and me who just want to ride the bus in peace. Am I right?”
“It’s okay, I’ll ask a driver.”
“Ask me. I live here.”
“It’s okay. I think I know where I’m going.”
“Then don’t ask me. But I’ll tell you, anyway. Take these buses, and you’re heading straight to Pasadena. But next block up, on Sunset, that’s your bus. I’ll walk you over. Look. I’m not some scum, I’m just a guy waiting for his sister with two hours to kill.”
“Thanks. But I’ll find it.”
Casey headed up towards Sunset and he was still beside her. He was being kinda helpful; she began to think maybe she’d been too quick to put him into the creep category.
“Let me guess something,” he said. “You’re from Minneapolis?”
“Wrong. What is this?”
“Just a game I play, okay? Let me guess again. Dallas?”
“Beep. You only get one more.”
“Only one, huh? … Then it better be a good one … Seattle?”
Casey stopped.
“How’d you know?”
“Because I live around here. I meet lots of kids … and you know something, ten years ago, I ran away to come here myself.”
“I didn’t run away.”
“Never said you did. But lots of kids do. You gotta know that. It can be hard at first. I know, I been there. C’mon, I’ll buy you something to eat.”
“I can’t. I’m visiting a friend in Santa Monica, and he’s gonna be worried if I don’t get there by seven.”
“Take twenty minutes. When I came here, nobody did nothing nice for me, so I says to myself, some day, when I got some money, I’ll share it a little. Now I got some money. Look, you get a free meal, and I get to pick up my kid sister and her little girl, knowing that while I was waiting, I got to do a little good in this world. Coming?”
Casey nodded. Dinner, that’s it, she thought. The reality was, she didn’t know anything. There wasn’t exactly a guide book for people like her. And one way or another she had to start figuring out the place … Dinner, that’s it, and then down to Santa Monica. For real.
“My name’s Dennis. What’s yours?”
They turned onto Cahuenga. It was just after six, but the street was nearly deserted. She pulled her jacket tight around her.
“That jacket don’t seem so warm, I’ll lend you my coat.”
“I’m okay,” she said.
“I got a long sleeve shirt on. It’s no big deal.”
“I’m fine.”
She was cold. But she wasn’t about to let him know. She had to be tough. She had to stay tough.
“You’re gonna love this place. Chao Prya—Thai food. You ever have Thai food before?”
“Nah.”
“It’s the best. Hot, spicy. Try it once and you’re never gonna go back to McDonald’s again.”
“I hate McDonald’s.”
“You do? Only kid in the city.”
“It’s terrible for your body, you know. And on top of that, McDonald’s is destroying the rain forest in Brazil. I’m a vegetarian.”
“No shit. That’s great. Me too.”
“You are?”
“Five years.”
&nbs
p; “Longer than me,” Casey said.
“I been around longer. This place’s got it all, lotsa great veggie stuff. You know, I got an idea. We’re right near my apartment. We can run up and get you a sweater or something.”
“I’m okay. Really.”
“I’m telling ya, it gets fuckin’ cold here at night. It’ll take a second to grab it.”
“I’m from Seattle, I’m used to the cold.”
Casey felt weird. The guy was strange. Time to bail.
She slowed down as they walked, and as she slowed, a space opened up between her and Dennis. A couple of feet … and then a few more. But Dennis turned back around.
“You don’t want a sweater, you don’t want it. We’ll just eat.”
He was checking out the street. Casey knew he was bad news. She had seen it before, but not like she saw it now. She quickly glanced up and down the block for someplace to run. Up ahead, nothing. Just closed-up stores. Behind her, a Shell station. Near the gas station, she saw a cool, punked-out couple throwing duffel bags into the back of a new, red Beetle. Casey slowed her walk to a crawl. Don’t reveal anything … Just let him get a few more feet ahead, and then make a run for the gas station and the couple. It wasn’t that far, it would take thirty seconds, less even … Just let him get a tiny bit more ahead. Then he lunged for her. His hand wrapped around her throat and he jerked her towards him.
Casey screamed. She screamed loud, she screamed with everything she had. But no one heard her. The Beetle pulled into the street. They would hear her. They had to hear her. She yelled again, but Dennis’ other hand, big and cold, slammed around her mouth. Casey fought to break free, but he was stronger than she ever would’ve guessed, and he dragged her into an apartment doorway. But even with his hands around her face, Casey managed to scream again—her loudest yet. She had timed it perfectly—the Beetle was just passing by.
But it drove on.
9
Dennis had her arms tied up to the bed frame. A rag was stuffed in her mouth and another was tied tight around her face, stopping her from screaming or even talking. The street outside was quiet; it had to be the middle of the night. Her eyes were open, but she knew they should be shut. What did she want to see for? She watched in frozen terror as Dennis sat on the bed, and without a word pulled off his boots. She tried to yell, but with the rags stifling her, all that came was a groan, full of pain, like a dying animal. The next thing she felt was Dennis’ hands tearing down her jeans. She tried to squirm free, but there was no place to go. Dennis was on top of her and she was ripping apart with pain. Suddenly she thought of being in fifth grade and staying the weekend with her father and his latest girlfriend. She was at the kitchen table doing homework while his girlfriend was cooking spaghetti. The girlfriend and her father, who were both crazy-drunk, got into a killer-fight, and the girlfriend threw the pot of boiling spaghetti water at him. Only it missed him, and landed all over Casey’s back. She fell to the floor screaming. The pain was unbearable—unending—the whole ride to the hospital she felt like she was burning up—a roaring fire—shooting right down to her bones. She wanted to live the rest of her life without ever feeling that kind of pain again. But this was worse. A thousand times worse. Dennis was on top of her and she was ripping apart. She tried to scream again. Still nothing. So she screamed silently to God. But He didn’t hear her. Where was He? If Ge wasn’t here for her now, when would He be? The pain never stopped. Blood was streaking down her legs. The fire was back, tearing into her flesh. Where was God? Where was anyone?
Morning came. She never thought it would, but it did. Her hands were still bound and the only thing she had on was her T-shirt. There was wet blood on the mattress. Dennis wasn’t there. She had to get out. How? This was the most horrible place she had ever been. It was the most pain she ever felt.
She shut her eyes and tried to think of something—anything—that would chase away the pain. Come up with a good memory—the greatest thing she ever did … when she was seven, in the first month when she and her mom were on their own, her mother would blast Van Morrison singing Brown-Eyed Girl. She’d sweep Casey up in her arms and dance her around the room, while they would both be singing along with the CD—Hiding behind a rainbow’s wall, Slipping and sliding all along the waterfall, With you, my brown-eyed girl. She’d be so happy—she was the brown-eyed girl. And with her tongue pushing through a space where she just lost a tooth, she would lean way back and then bounce forward, wrapping her arms around her mother’s head, all the while singing, You—you’re my brown-eyed girl—
The door swung open and Dennis came in holding a Burger King bag.
“Woken up?” He pulled out a burger, took a bite, and twisted it around. “Want some?”
She wasn’t going to answer him. He came closer. She thought, Stay away from me! Stay away! He came up to the bed and held out the grease-stained bag.
“Good fries.”
Casey shook her head.
“Okay.”
Then he pushed his disgusting hand under her T-shirt and grabbed her breast. God she hated it; she had only let two boys in her whole life put their hands there, and now this asshole, with his cold, greasy hand, was doing it. She started to pull away, but then she stopped. She stayed still. She let him have his feel. She stayed still as a rock. He smiled a little.
“Good. Gonna be my good girl now?”
Casey nodded.
“Can we start trusting each other?”
Casey nodded again.
He reached behind her to untie the rag which went around her head. He pulled the other rag out of her mouth. Casey coughed … then screamed out as loud as she could—
“Help me! Help me! Help!”
Dennis jumped on top of her and quickly retied the rags. She was done—she knew it. He had rage in his eyes. But for the moment, he was deadly still, not moving … just listening.
But again, no help. Not one person in Hollywood heard her. Dennis’ fist flew right at her face.
That afternoon, or maybe it was the next afternoon, she was alone in the room, the same bed, the same hell. She had no plan. She had no hope. When Dennis returned, he came in with two guys. Two assholes who should be dead. They were laughing. As they took turns raping her, through all the pain, she kept thinking, what had she done? First her father, then Dennis, and now this. She was only fourteen-years-old. What had she done? And when they finished, even if she could’ve yelled, she wouldn’t.
They were gone, and it was just her and Dennis. Never, ever, did she want that again. Never, ever. Dennis sipped a bottle of Coke.
“Mind if I sit down?”
Casey stared blankly ahead.
“Good.”
She had nothing to say.
“Look. I’m sorry about what happened. Real sorry. But you know, all that yelling and everything, things just got out of control. And we can’t have that happen, right?”
As he talked, he pulled the blanket up to cover her.
“See, there’s a hell of a lot of assholes in Hollywood—and hey, you may think I’m one of them. You may know I’m one of them. But one thing I do know, if you’re gonna survive here, you gotta have someone looking after you. And you don’t got no one. But you do got me. Now … how about this, if I take that thing off your mouth, you think we can behave decently?”
Casey nodded. Dennis took the rags off. She could yell as loud as she wanted. But she didn’t.
“Better?”
She nodded again.
“You want some Coke?”
“Sure,” she said weakly.
He put the bottle to her lips.
Casey felt hope. The tiniest bit, but hope all the same.
Dennis crossed his hands and leaned over his knees. “Let’s get rid of the games, huh? You’re a big girl, I’m a big boy. What do we need them for? You don’t got no friends in town, do you?”
“I do. In Santa Monica.”
“Come on. Games. I thought we ain’t doing that no more. I’m gonna ask
you again. You don’t got no friend in town, do you?”
“No.”
“Good. So it looks like I’m your only friend in town. And as your only friend we have to figure out how you’re gonna make it here. I mean, what are you gonna do, live on the street, begging for dimes? You don’t want that. Who would? But what about this? You do a little something for me, and then I’ll make sure you have all the money you need, all the clothes you need, and a roof over your head. Everybody needs money, right?”
Barely audibly, she whispered, “Yeah.”
“Well, your number one friend in Hollywood is gonna keep you safe and in all the money you need.”
“Untie me? … Please …”
He did. For the first time in days she wasn’t tied up, she didn’t have anything in her mouth. She brushed the hair back from her eyes.
10
Standing on Sunset Strip, Casey was wearing a miniskirt, black stockings, a tight, tiny top, and stupid heels she could barely walk in, which she hated even more than the rest of the stuff. Makeup covered the purple bruises on her face. Beside Casey was a girl named Christina, who was a little older than her and didn’t seem so bad. She was wearing pretty much the same thing. Down the block, at the corner of Vista, Dennis sat in a black jeep sipping a Coors. Casey shivered in the cold—and at that moment, she knew she was the loneliest person on the planet.
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