Boulevard (14 page)

“Now,” he said, “you and me gotta work this out—”

But then a miracle—a police cruiser. Dennis saw it, Casey saw it. And with everything she had—she pulled free and bolted into the street, waving her hands for the cruiser. The cop saw her and pointed just up the street at the Blockbuster parking lot, where he could pull in. Dennis went back to his jeep. But he gave her a look that said, ‘your life is mine.'

Out of breath, she made it to the Blockbuster where the cruiser had parked. The cop, a buff young guy with short blond hair was writing up something. She leaned in the car. She'd tell him what a fucking asshole Dennis was, and what he did to her.

But the cop said, “Hold on a sec.” He kept writing. Casey stood outside the car, breathing hard from her run. She looked down. All the parking spaces had the names of movie stars stenciled on them. The cruiser was in Harrison Ford's spot. She could use Indy right now. The cop wrote some more. Then he got a call on his cell. He raised a finger for her to wait another moment. The call went on forever, all about who was bringing the beer, who was bringing the steaks, and where was the best place for everybody to meet. The cop had lots of things to take care of—only she wasn't one of them. He must have finished his party planning at some point, but by then, she was gone.

She lay curled up under the covers in the Starlight Motel, her wet hair splayed out on the pillow. Traffic whizzed by on Sunset. Next to Casey, a dim bulb burned in a ancient yellow lamp shade. For once she wasn't freezing. She was clean. But she kept thinking,
I'm a whore
. No one forced her to do it. Just her. She hated herself.

The bathroom door opened, and Paul came out, just showered, and wearing a towel around his waist.

“Man, that felt good,” he said.

She couldn't say anything back. She pulled tighter into a ball, like a baby in the fetal position. Paul sat down on the bed beside her.

“Everything is shit,” he said. “But some things aren't. Right? This isn't … It's warm. And it's a bed …”

“And sheets,” Casey said.

“A great blanket.”

“Pillows.”

“TV.”

“And no Dennis,” Casey said.

“And no Dennis.”

“And you,” she said. She meant it. He was the only person in the world she wanted to sleep next to.

Paul lay on the covers beside her. His hand glided slowly down her hair. Over and over, and over again. It felt
so good
… And as he stroked her hair, she floated to sleep.

25

A
t the 7-11 on Santa Monica, Casey sat on the ground with her back against the low cinderblock wall, flipping through a week-old
People
tossed by the clerks inside. Two of the triplets were with her. The third was doing a date. Smoke from a Marlboro filled her lungs. The cement was cold—the miniskirt didn't help—but it was a thousand times better sitting on the ground here, than standing on Sunset. She knew she should be up there, but it wasn't like anyone was going to be pissed if she showed up late. Some kind of classical music floated from speakers mounted above the 7-11's sliding door. One of the Indian guys at the counter told her the company did this study that said playing classical music was a surefire way of getting kids to stop hanging out. Right. Casey wasn't crazy about the screechy violins, but once they started cranking along with the trumpets, drums and everything else, it was actually sort of cool. It sure wasn't chasing her away, or Paul, who was sitting shirtless on an
LA Times
box, his flannel shirt tied around his waist. Casey flipped through the magazine. One girl after another leading the good life. TV stars, models, movie stars. They were thin as spaghetti, but so was she. All through junior high, she tried to look like them—starving herself. It never worked, but on the streets, she pulled it off. Now she was every bit as skinny as America's hottest girls. But so what? One of the girls in the
People
, who played an alien on some TV show Casey had never seen, was shown her sitting inside a shiny white Porsche convertible in her driveway in Pacific Palisades. She wasn't even old enough to drive, but the car would be waiting for her as soon as she was.

“You know how to drive?” Casey called over to Paul.

“Sure.”

“Was it hard to learn?”

“Not really,” Paul said. “I started when I was around thirteen. My dad would take me out in our pickup and give me lessons.”

“Breaking the law.”

“I was the sports star, baby—remember? Other people's rules didn't apply to me.”

“You think I'd be able to do it?”

“You'd suck.”

“Hey!”

“You'd be great!” He jogged over and kissed the top of her head. On the Boulevard a Porsche had pulled to a stop. The guy was talking on a cell and lighting a cigar. He gunned the motor. Paul went to him and they drove off. And when she finished her smoke, she headed off too.

Sunset. Same tiny skirt and fucked-up high heels. She was a couple of blocks from where Dennis found her the last time. She scanned the street for him and the other two pimps. Behind Casey was at a Moroccan restaurant with two huge wooden doors with Arabic writing on them. Guys in funny pants worked the doors for nicely dressed couples, and when the doors opened she could hear Middle-Eastern music. Casey stared out into the street. Nobody was stopping. Fine. Then she heard a car door slam, and the pimp in the Clippers jacket was coming towards her. She thought about finding another spot—but where? He came closer. The street lights reflected off his gold-rimmed sunglasses. She couldn't see his eyes, but just knew they were evil. She looked down the street at the never-ending line of cars. Now things were a lot different—Casey desperately wanted someone to stop.
Come on. Come on. Stop for me
… But no one did. The pimp was right in front of her.

“Now what's a sweet thing like you doing out here all by yourself?”

“Doing just fine.”
Don't show him fear
, Casey thought.
Don't show it
.

“Yeah—now you're doing fine. But you look like you might need some protection. There be some real motherfuckers out here.”

“Like you?”
Shit
! She shouldn't have said it. Stupid.

He was glaring at her. Cold … but then, he smiled.

“Not like me. I be your protection. Long as I'm around, ain't nobody gonna fuck with you. And you
know
that's somethin' you need.”

He stepped closer to her. “Now what you say, girl? This somethin' we can work out?”

“I'm by myself.”

He reached for Casey's arm. She jerked back.

“Get away.”

“You know you need me—”

“Get away from me!” Casey screamed.

“No one talk to Roger like that.”

He was so close she could see fire in his eyes through the sunglasses.

“You hear me—ain't nobody talk like that to me!”

“Get away!! I don't need anybody!” She yelled it with everything her lungs would deliver. He was a killer pimp—but she could yell loud enough for them to hear her at Venice Beach. The door to the Moroccan restaurant pushed open, and the maitre d', a tall Arab-looking guy in a brown suit, came outside to look around. Casey grabbed her chance, and bolted away from the pimp. But he wasn't bothered by the restaurant guy and followed after her.

She turned and screamed again, “Get away from me!!”

The maitre d' waved his hand, and along with two doormen in the funny pants, he came out to the sidewalk.

“Everything okay, miss?” he asked with an accent. He seemed decent.

The pimp glared at the maitre d', then flashed a gold-tooth grin at Casey and went across the street. The maitre d' and his doormen slipped back inside. Into the music and their paradise.

Casey had beaten the jerk. For now. She leaned against a newspaper box. A Ford pick-up stopped. A guy in a jeans jacket, asking how much. Man, was she glad to see him.

Something was in the air tonight. She'd get dropped off and five minutes later get picked up again. This many guys needed blow jobs at one in the morning? A sixteen-year-old who looked like half the boys in her ninth-grade; a seventy-year-old geezer with clacking false teeth; the Good Humor man who she did in the back of his freezing truck; three USC kids in their daddy's Beemer, who she did one at a time, while the others waited outside watching through the car window, and cheering like it was a stage show; a nervous paramedic in a starched white shirt; two cousins, smelling of beer, going home to Malibu after striking out at the X Club; a fat obnoxious rapper with music blasting so loud it rang in her ears for an hour; a dude good-looking enough to be a model—what was he doing here? Tall guys, short guys. Fat jerks. Nice looking. Creeps. Fast comers, never comers. Hard dicks, dicks trying to get hard, ugly dicks, uglier dicks, dicks springing up in her face. White dicks, black dicks, Mexican dicks, a Japanese tourist dick. How many dicks can you suck? Fuck this. Fuck Dennis. Fuck Roger the pimp. Fuck it all. Just keep sucking and you'll stay warm. What do you care? Fuck them! Fuck them all!

Things finally slowed down. Who knew what time? Late. The Moroccan place had closed hours ago. Casey was ready to go and find Paul. A shadow came over her. Roger. After what she did tonight—no fucking way!

“Get away from me!” she yelled, “you got your girls. Leave me alone!”

“Hey, girl,” Roger said, “I just wanna—”

“I'm by myself. I don't
want
anyone. I don't
need
anyone!” she screamed.

“Girl!—”

Casey's heart was pounding.

“Girl … peace.”

“What?”

“Peace.” He nodded coolly and went away, back to his car.

Casey exhaled. Escape. But her heart was still going a mile a minute. She looked down the Strip and saw the Marlboro man. High above it all. He protected her. She needed him—and he came through. She heard someone clapping. Down the street, she saw a bunch of kids sitting on a low wall, a couple of them smoking. One of them, a tall kid, yelled over “Way to go!” He thrust his fist into the air and gave her a smile. She always liked that smile—it was Jumper. She didn't know his name then, but she had seen him a bunch doing the Boulevard. Beside him was a tough-looking kid and two girls, one white and one black, whom she had also seen before.

Casey smiled back. But when she turned around, the Lexus muscle man pimp was coming towards her. Another nightmare. They had all the girls in the world and they still needed her? But she didn't give in to the first jerk, so she sure wasn't going to give in to the next one. If he gave her any shit, she'd yell till every person in Hollywood could hear her. She'd yell
help!
, she'd yell
rape!
—she'd yell whatever it took. What gave these assholes the right to think that they could own her? It wasn't gonna happen anymore. No one owned her.

Before the pimp could say a single word, she screamed at him, “You didn't hear me before?—I don't need no one! I don't want no one!”

The creep stopped, stretched up tall in his coolest I'm-in-control pimp stance, and started formulating his clever response. But he didn't have time—a minivan pulled up right in front of her. Thank God. Casey swung the door open and hopped in.

Later, there was almost no traffic. The pimps were leaving her alone—she wasn't worth the hassle, she guessed. She sat down on a bus bench, exhausted. She lowered her face in her palms. Then she felt someone over her shoulder. They were back! Shit! She whipped around. And saw the tall kid. Beside him was the black girl.

“Hey,” Casey said softly. They looked nice.

“Hey,” the boy said, “you wanna come to Mickey D.'s for breakfast with us?”

26

T
he McDonalds coffee slid down her throat, washing away the disgusting cum. The place was nearly empty: a homeless woman in the corner with two little kids, a city worker in a bright orange jumpsuit, and a couple of paramedics in white shirts, with squawking walkie-talkies on their belts—probably buddies of the john from earlier. Casey sat in a booth with the boy—Jumper—and the others. She looked into her coffee cup as she swirled a Half and Half into it. Jumper was putting one sugar pack after another into his coffee, seven or eight in all. Dog-Face was dragging fries through a sea of catsup. June Bug, her head on Dream's shoulder was half-asleep. A weird silence hung over the table.

“You—” Casey said.

“You—” Jumper said at the same time.

They smiled.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“Nothing …” she said.

She took a sip of the coffee. What she wished she had said was—You're so lucky running with a bunch of friends … Is it so great? Is it easier? How do you survive without having sex with jerks? But instead, she just said “Nothing.”

A pack of skinheads came in and headed for the counter. They were pushing, laughing, yelling. Probably tripping. After them came two girls who were also doing dates on Sunset. They were followed by a huge shaved-head Mexican guy with prison tatts all over his log-sized neck, and his girlfriend who was half his size but also with the tatts. Suddenly the place was buzzing.

Jumper checked out the crowd and turned to Casey. “Welcome to Mr. Rogers' neighborhood.”

She smiled, still looking into her coffee.

“What? You don't think so?” Jumper said.

“No, it's exactly like it,” Casey said.

“Actually, I think it's more like Sesame Street,” June Bug said, waking up.

“Why, 'cause of the fags?” Jumper said.

“Wait,” Dream said, “there's no fags on Sesame Street.”

“Right,” Jumper said.

“Who?”

“Who? Bert and Ernie. Who else?”

“Bert and Ernie are homos?” Dream said.

“Shut up!” June Bug said, giving Jumper a shove.