by James Frey
Just am.
No reason?
There’s a reason.
What is it?
’Cause it feels good.
The bathroom floor?
I ain’t slept inside for almost a year. I ain’t been in a bathroom where I had any privacy for longer than that. I ain’t been in a place where I could lock the door and feel safe, for even a second, since I was a little kid. That door’s got a lock, and I knew you wouldn’t open it right away, so I got to sit here for a couple minutes and know I was safe, that no one could fuck with me, and that no one could hurt me. It don’t matter if it’s a bathroom floor. It could be a bathroom floor covered with fucking nails. It felt good.
Joe stares at her, she stares at him.
Let’s get you some food.
She nods, stands, he watches her, looks at her. The blood is gone, her face and hair reasonably clean, her hands are clean. Beneath the cuts, the swelling, the anger, the pain, she looks like a pretty teenage girl. If she had makeup and decent clothes, she might be more than pretty. Limping, hurt and damaged, she’s just sad and lonely and beaten. A fucked-up kid in some kind of fucked-up situation.
They walk around the corner of the building the tourists in their shorts, sandals and T-shirts are enjoying their food, enjoying the sun, enjoying their day. The girl avoids them, walks away from them, around them, as if she’ll become invisible if she’s more than ten feet away from them. They walk out to the boardwalk it’s packed the girl scoots quickly across and through the crowd, she carefully avoids touching anyone. Joe follows bumps into three or four people, stands next to her, speaks.
What do you want?
Can you get me a cheeseburger and French fries and a milkshake.
Probably.
That would be fucking awesome.
What kind of milkshake?
Any kind.
You don’t have a preference?
I like vanilla, but I don’t really care.
Okay.
He walks back into the mass, steps into one of the currents of people moving south he starts moving south with them. He knows the manager of a food place a few blocks away called Big and Big that makes everything ever known, invented or eaten that can be made with fat, grease, meat and cheese. The girl follows him, but not among the people she walks at the edge of the boardwalk along the patch of worn grass lined with benches and overflowing garbage cans, she limps as quickly as she can. When Joe reaches the restaurant there’s a massive crowd waiting for food, ordering food, arguing about food, paying for food. He walks to the side of Big and Big there’s a steel mesh door with a giant lock he bangs on it, waits. A Mexican man wearing a dirty apron comes to the door, in a Mexican accent he speaks.
Old Man Joe. You motherfucker.
What’s up, Paco?
Cooking shit, man. That’s it.
The boss around?
Naw, he stayed home today. There was a big fight on TV last night and he got too fucking drunk to come in today.
I need your help with something.
What you got?
I need a burger and fries and a milkshake.
For who?
A friend of mine who ain’t eaten in a while.
A friend of yours is okay with me, you old motherfucker.
Thanks.
You want cheese on the burger?
Yeah.
What kind of milkshake?
Vanilla, if you can.
Okay motherfucker, give me a couple minutes.
Thanks, man.
Next time my wife throw me out, I’m gonna come get drunk with you.
I’ll supply the good stuff.
You sure as fuck will.
Paco turns away disappears into the kitchen. Joe sits on the concrete leans against the side of the building. He looks across the boardwalk the girl is looking through a garbage can. He yells—hey girl—she doesn’t hear him he yells again—HEY GIRL—she looks up he motions for her to join him.
She waits for a break in the crowd limps across the boardwalk she avoids touching anyone. She stands in front of him, he speaks.
You find anything good in the trash?
No, but I didn’t go down very far. There’s always something in there somewhere.
You want to sit down?
You got a reason for me to sit down?
If you sit down you’re gonna get some food.
You ain’t fucking with me?
No.
She stares at him for a moment, slowly sits down Joe can tell it hurts her.
When she’s down she looks at him again, moves a couple feet away from him. He laughs.
Don’t worry, I’m not gonna touch you.
Damn straight you’re not.
He laughs again, she does not respond. They sit there, against the wall, don’t speak, just stare at the endless stream of tourists marching by they’re talking, smiling, laughing, taking pictures, checking their wallets, drinking sodas, eating cotton candy, looking around somewhat shocked and amazed and delighted by the scene before them, they’re at the world-famous Venice Boardwalk. Joe is amused by them. Enjoys watching them. Is amused by their happiness, enjoys their happiness.
He doesn’t have any ambition to be one of them, and wouldn’t trade what little he has for whatever they have, he’s made a decision about his life and how he leads it, and he is at peace with those decisions. The girl glares at them, hate and bitterness written across her face, it ages her makes her look forty instead of somewhere in her teens. Sometimes she looks down at the ground clenches her jaw and shakes her head.
Sometimes she mumbles to herself Joe can’t hear what she’s saying but the tone is nasty, unpleasant. Though she would never admit it, she wishes she were one of them, wishes she had a home bedroom a safe place of her own, wishes she had friends, wishes she went to school, had parents, wishes she had some form of happiness, wishes she had love.
Whatever decisions she’s made to end up here bloody, beaten, hungry and homeless weren’t made for any reason other than necessity, in order for her to survive the events of her life. She spits on the ground, stares at it, spits again.
After fifteen minutes, she looks at Old Man Joe, speaks.
I think I’ve had enough of this shit.
Just be patient.
Why?
Because sometimes it pays off.
Bullshit, you’re a fucking con.
He laughs, doesn’t respond in any other way. They sit there for a few more minutes he can tell she’s getting restless a few more minutes the steel mesh door opens and Paco steps out holding a cardboard box. He looks at Old Man Joe, speaks.
Motherfucker.
My man, Paco.
He looks at the girl.
Food for her?
Yeah.
Oh little girl, you motherfucker, I have got some tasties for you.
She sits up looks surprised, truly surprised, and almost happy. Paco leans over and hands her the box.
What is it?
Special Paco Burger, Special Paco Fries, Special Paco Shake, and some packets of American-made ketchup.
She takes the box.
Thank you.
There are the faint beginnings of a smile. Joe stands, speaks.
Thanks, man.
Anything for you, motherfucker. Or maybe not anything, but some tasties every now and then ain’t no big deal.
Joe laughs. Paco opens the door to the kitchen, steps inside, disappears.
Joe looks down at the girl, who is staring at the burger and fries. He speaks.
You can eat it.
She looks up at him. He sits back down, leans against the wall.
It looks good.
Bet it tastes good too.
He stares at her, she looks down at the food, stares at it. She speaks.
I ain’t had a meal like this in a long time.
Yeah.
Long time.
Yeah.
She picks up the burger. Looks at it. It’s a thick bu
rger, the cheese is melted over the rounded edges, it sits between the two halves of a sesame seed bun. She takes a bite of it, starts to chew takes another, chews. She sets the burger down in the box, picks up a couple fries, stuffs them into her already full mouth, chews, picks up the milkshake, puts the straw into her mouth sucks. She chews takes a pause swallows once, chews some more swallows again. She looks at Joe, speaks.
That was good.
He looks at the box there is still part of the burger and the fries sitting inside.
There’s more.
I’m gonna save it.
You can get it cold and half-eaten from the garbage can whenever you want. Hot off the grill ain’t happening again soon.
She looks at the food, thinks about it, starts eating again, the food disappears quickly, when she’s done she licks her fingers, wipes ketchup and mustard from her face, licks her fingers again. She stands, puts the unopened ketchup packets in her pocket, throws the box, burger wrapper and cup away. Joe sits and watches her, watches the tourists, closes his eyes and thinks about Chablis. After the trash is gone, the girl comes back, sits down next to him, speaks.
That was good.
Glad you liked it.
Can you get me more?
You gonna say thank you for what I already got you?
Thank you.
You’re welcome.
You know how to get anything else?
Like what?
Meth.
How old are you?
None of your business.
You’re too young to be on that shit.
I’m too young to have done a lot of shit I’ve done.
Why you do it?
Same reason you drink.
Doubt it.
It’s true.
Why you do it?
I just do. You know where I can get some?
I don’t. I try to avoid it. Everyone I ever knew who did it ended up dead.
We all die sooner or later.
They died sooner.
She stands.
I gotta find some.
I’m guessing you’re gonna go try to talk to whoever kicked your ass last night.
It’s none of your business what I do.
Don’t.
I need what I need.
Don’t.
I have to.
She starts to limp away. Joe stands.
You never told me your name, girl.
She turns around.
Beatrice.
Seriously?
Yeah. Seriously.
She turns back around and walks away. Joe watches her walk away part of him is happy to see her go another wants her to stay another part just wants her to smile and say goodbye. When she’s gone Joe walks out to the boardwalk and spends three hours panhandling he makes $36. He buys a piece of pizza and sits on the beach and drinks two bottles of Chablis.
When it’s dark he walks back to his bathroom and lies down and goes to sleep he wakes an hour before dawn, as he does every day. He goes to the bathroom brushes his teeth washes his face. He opens the door steps outside Beatrice is lying on the cement a few feet away. A few feet away.
In 1899 there are seventy police officers trying to control a populace of well over 150,000 people. Opium dens, brothels, gambling establishments, and gin mills are spread throughout the entire city, and exist in every racial and ethnic enclave. Over the course of the next two years, the city hires 200 additional officers. The crime rate rises.
While it might be appropriate here to once again quote from the work of a great poet, it is not going to happen. Instead, a few words from Mr. Amberton Parker, socialite, heir, thespian, international superstar: Being in love is like getting a twenty-million-dollar check for the starring role in a hot new action film, you think it’s going to be great, but when it comes, it’s even GREATER!
Yes, yes, yes, Amberton is in love, deeply in love, truly in love, head-over-heels in love, so in love that he has stopped wearing shoes with laces because he’s worried that he can’t tie them. Though he hasn’t seen or spoken to Kevin since that fateful three-minute make-out session in Kevin’s office, he is absolutely sure of his love. It’s deep, it’s true, and it’s real real real, as real as it gets in this world.
He sits with his beautiful wife Casey in stylish, yet comfortable, chaise longues by the side of their pool. They are both wearing thongs and neither of them are wearing tops (she has a spectacular, if somewhat artificial body), he is drinking a glass of chilled rosé. Their kids are at the other end of the pool with their nannies. Amberton speaks.
It’s crazy. I go to bed thinking about him, I wake up thinking about him, I think about him all day. My sense of longing is so great that it’s very literally, physically, painful.
He takes a sip of the rosé. Casey speaks.
I’m happy for you.
Thank you.
Just be careful.
I will. I know the drill.
Nothing in public, no discussion of this with anyone outside of our closest friends who have signed nondisclosure agreements, nothing around the kids.
I know the drill, sweetheart, I invented the drill.
And make sure it’s real before you go full-blown ga-ga.
It’s real. It’s as real as it gets in this world.
She laughs. He smiles, speaks.
It is. I’m telling you.
When are you going to see him again?
Not sure.
Is he playing hard-to-get?
No. I am.
You?
Yes.
Do you know how?
Of course. I’m the master of hard-to-get.
She laughs again, speaks.
You’re the master of I-am-a-famous-movie-star-come-sleep-with-me-now, and sometimes the I-am-a-famous-movie-star-come-sleep-with-me-now-or-I’ll-have-you-fired.
I’ve never done that.
Yes, you have.
Have not.
Have.
He laughs.
Okay, I have. And it was fun.
And you’ve definitely never had to play hard-to-get.
I did it twice in films.
Does that count?
Yes.
I played a blind concert pianist who could see an individual’s future by touching their fingertips.
And you won an Actors Guild Award and a Freedom Spirit Medallion for it.
I did. But it doesn’t mean I can do it in real life.
He feigns shock.
You can’t?
She smiles, playfully hits him, they both laugh. She speaks.
What’s your next step?
Well, I’m going to see him tomorrow.
Where?
I have a meeting with my team at the agency.
He’s on your team?
He is now.
Your call or their call?
I called Andrew and asked him to include Kevin.
Does Andrew know why you asked?
No one knows except you, me, and my beloved.
What was your reason?
That you told me he was an impressive young man.
They both laugh.
Don’t you think you should have told me?
I’m telling you now.
Their yoga teacher arrives, they go into their studio, and, as is the case from time to time, they do their yoga session in their thongs. When they’re finished they shower get dressed meet in the kitchen, where they have lunch with their children and their children’s nannies. After lunch they see their respective therapists (she has issues with her father, he has issues with his mother) and then they see a therapist together (they both have issues with fame and adulation). When they’re done with their therapy (twice a week, three times if it’s a bad week), they go back to their rooms change back into their thongs Casey wears a top because the afternoon sun tends to be more powerful they meet at the pool. They each have a stack of scripts they are supposed to read. Because the scripts, even by their standards, are so awful
, they rarely make it through the first ten pages. When a script is considered bad, or at least bad enough so that no amount of money could convince one of the two of them to star in it, they throw it backwards over their heads with a big laugh, knowing that at some point in the near future, one of their staff will come pick it up and throw it away. After an hour, and five scripts thrown over his head, Amberton gives up. He looks at Casey, speaks.
I think I’m going to go shopping.
Where?
Beverly Hills.
Why?
Maybe get a suit for tomorrow.
Don’t you have a couple hundred suits?
I want a new one. A nice new perfect expensive suit that makes me look so hot that even hetero men would want to fuck me.
Have fun.
Do you want to come with?
No.
What are you gonna do?
She smiles.
I’m not sure.
Why are you giving me your naughty look?
She smiles again.
Maybe I’ve been a naughty girl.
With who?
You know the new nanny?
The young one?
Oh yeah.
How old is she?
Just turned eighteen.
Oh my.
Oh yeah.
Where are the kids?
Going to a friend’s house.
Has she signed the documents?
Of course.
He stands, smiles, speaks.
I don’t want or need to know any more.
She smiles, speaks.
Have fun, and good luck.
He curtsies, walks into the house up to his room, takes a quick shower and gets dressed he wears jeans and a T-shirt and sandals. He gets into his car decides to drive a black Porsche with blackened windows pulls out of the garage down the driveway through the gate. As is always the case, there are paparazzi waiting on the street outside of his house a small group of men wearing cameras around their neck, SUVs and scooters waiting nearby, Amberton went to driving school to learn how to lose them in the Porsche he makes them disappear quickly in the roads that wind through the hills of Bel-Air.
He drives down to Sunset heads east towards Beverly Hills. He passes the mansions, estates, manor homes of moguls movie stars porn barons rock stars TV producers heirs and heiresses that line both sides when he passes the most famous of them owned by the playboy founder of a men’s magazine he smiles, remembers the parties he’s attended there, the women were so hot they almost made him want to be straight. He crosses into Beverly Hills turns south onto the surface streets they are long and straight he accelerates gets the Porsche up to 100 mph quickly and easily hits a speed bump and goes airborne there’s fun to be had everywhere for Mr. Amberton Parker fun fun fun. He drives down Rodeo Drive tries to decide where he wants to shop the street is lined with the most expensive and most exclusive boutiques in the world. None suit his fancy today, he decides to go to the Beverly Hills branch of a famous New York clothing store that is on Wilshire he can see more there, have many more options.