Barbie? Got a call from the park rangers over at Griffith. Woman down in a parking lot, probable 187. Tag, you’re it.”
“Which lot in Griffith?”
“East end, back behind one of the picnic areas. It’s supposed to be chained off, but you know how that goes. Take Los Feliz like you’re going to the zoo; instead of continuing on to the freeway, turn off. The blues’ll be there along with a ranger car. Do it Code 2.”
“Sure, but why us?”
“Why you?” The sergeant laughed. “Look around. See anyone else but you and Kenny? Blame the city council.”
She hung up.
“What?” said Stu. His Carroll amp; Company foulard was tightly knotted and his hair was perfectly combed. But tired, definitely tired. Petra told him.
He stood and buttoned his jacket. “Let’s go.”
No gripe. Stu never complained.
CHAPTER
3
I pack up my Place Two stuff in three layers of dry cleaner’s plastic and begin walking up the hill behind the rocks, into the trees. I trip and fall a lot because I’m afraid to use the penlight until I get deep inside, but I don’t care-just get me out of here.
The zoo’s miles away; it will take a long time.
I walk like a machine that can’t be hurt, thinking what he did to her. No good. I have to put it out of my mind.
Back in Watson, after trouble with Moron or any kind of difficult day, I used lists to keep my mind busy. Sometimes it worked.
Here goes: presidents, in order of election-Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, Quincy Adams, Jackson, Martin Van Buren.. the shortest president.
Oh shit, here I go again, down on my knees. I get up. Keep going.
Back in Watson, I had a book on the presidents, published by the Library of Congress, with heavy paper and excellent photographs and the official presidential seal on the cover. I got it in fourth grade for winning the President Bee, read it about five hundred times, trying to put myself back in time, imagine what it was like to be George Washington, running a brand-new country, or Thomas Jefferson, an amazing genius, inventing things, writing with five pens at one time.
Even being Martin Van Buren, short but still boss over everyone.
Books became a problem when Moron moved in. He hated when I read, especially when his chopper was busted or Mom had no money for him.
Little fuck with his fuckin’ books, thinks he’s smartern everyone.
After he moved in I had to sit in the kitchen while he and Mom took up my sleeper couch watching TV. One day he came in the trailer totally blasted while I was trying to do homework. I could tell because of his eyes and the way he just kept walking around in circles, making fists and opening them, making that growling noise. The homework was pre-algebra, easy stuff. Mrs. Annison didn’t believe me the one time I told her I already knew it, and she kept assigning me the same work as the rest of the class. I was speeding through the problems, almost finished, when Moron got a container of bean dip out of the fridge, started eating it with his hands. I looked at him, but just for a second. He reached over and pulled my hair and slammed the math book on my fingers. Then he grabbed up a bunch of notebooks and other textbooks and ripped them in half, including the math book, Thinking with Numbers.
He said, “Fuck this shit!” and tossed it in the trash. “Get off your fuckin’ ass, you little faggot, do something useful around here..”
My hair smelled of beans, and the next day my hand was so swollen I couldn’t move the fingers and I kept it in my pocket when I told Mrs. Annison I’d lost the book. She was eating Corn Nuts at her desk and grading papers and didn’t bother to look up, just said, “Well, Billy, I guess you’ll have to buy another one.”
I couldn’t ask Mom for money, so I never got another book, couldn’t do homework anymore, and my math grades started going down. I kept thinking Mrs. Annison or someone would get curious, but no one did.
Another time Moron ripped up this magazine collection I’d put together from other people’s trash and most of my personal books, including the presidents book. One of the first things I looked for when I finally located the library on Hillhurst Avenue was another presidents book. I found one, but it was different. Not as heavy paper, only black-and-white photographs. Still interesting, though. I learned that William Henry Harrison caught a cold right after his election and died.
Bad luck for the first William president.
This is working; my head’s clear. But my heart and stomach feel like they’re burning up. More: Taylor, Fillmore, Pierce… James Buchanan, the only president who never got married-must have been lonely for him in the White House, though I guess he was busy enough. Maybe he liked being alone. I can understand that.
Lincoln, Johnson, Grant, McKinley.
Another William president. Did anyone ever call him Billy? From his picture, bald and squinty and angry- looking, I don’t think so.
No one ever called me William except teachers on the first day of school, and soon then they switched to Billy, too, because all the kids laughed at William.
Billy Goat, Billy the Goat.
William Bradley Straight.
It’s a plain name, nothing special about it, but better than some of the other things I’ve been called.
Chuck chuck…
Oops-I stumble but don’t fall. Place Five is still far. It’s a warm night. I wish I could take off my piss-stink clothes and run through the trees naked, a wild, strong animal who knows where he’s going… I’ll breathe ten times to cool down my heart.
… better. More lists: tropical fish: platys, swordtails, neon tetras, guppies, angelfish, oscars, catfish, tinfoil barbs, arowanas. Never had an aquarium, but in my magazine collection were old copies of Tropical Fish Hobbyist and the pictures filled my head with color.
One point the fish articles kept making was you have to be careful setting up an aquarium, know who you’re dealing with. Oscars and arowanas will eat all the others if they’re big enough, and if the arowanas get really big, they’ll try to eat the oscars. Goldfish are the most peaceful, but they’re also the slowest and get eaten all the time.
My stomach still burns, like someone’s in there, chewing at me.. breathe… animals you see in the park: birds, lizards, squirrels, snakes once in a while. I ignore them.
Same for people.
At night you sometimes see homeless crazy guys with carts full of garbage, but they never stay long. Also, Mexicans in low cars, playing loud music. When they stop, it’s over by the trains. Junkies, of course, because it’s Hollywood. I’ve seen them drive up, sit at one of the picnic tables like they’re ready to have a meal, tie up their arms, jab in needles, and stare out at nothing.
After the dope really gets into their blood, they sigh and nod and fall asleep and they just look like anyone napping.
Sometimes couples park at the edge of the lot, including gay guys. Talking, making out, smoking-you can see cigarettes in the distance like little orange stars.
Everyone having a good time.
That’s what I thought they were going to do, tonight.
Someone’s always cutting the chain, and the rangers take weeks to fix it. The cops don’t patrol much,
