Boulevard (22 page)

“I think it's weird going down there,” Dog-Face said.

“Let it go, Dog,” Dream said.

“Yeah?” Dragon said, “then check this out—”

Dragon dug into her pocket and came up with a killer haul.

“Not fucking bad!” Jumper said. “Someone gave you a twenty?”

“They didn't even speak English.”

“Shit, nice going.”

“Mickey D.'s?” Dragon said.

“Abso-fucking-lutely!” Jumper yelled.

Everyone was off the wall ready to go. Casey too, even though she hated the place. But it was better than sitting alone. Then Dragon turned to her. “You wanna get a salad or something while they go to Mickey's?”

It was the best offer she had in days.

As he headed away, Jumper said, “Where's Paul been?”

“With this rich dude—like one giant date,” Casey said.

“The dude have any friends?” Jumper opened his hands wide, but then turned, hearing someone running—and saw Rancher, looking even crazier than usual.

“Lookin' ratty, dude. Gotta go slow on that shit,” Jumper said.

“Got a problem, man,” Rancher said, out of breath.

“What?”

“Mary. She's in the hospital. Something inside her's all fucked up.”

“What, Ranch?” June Bug said.

“It's fucked, man.”

“What is?” June Bug said.

“Mary, she was gonna have a baby—”

“Mary?” Dream said.

“Yeah. She was way into it at first. She loves kids. But then she started freaking about it. She says, ‘I can't do it. No way.' So, there's the bitch that works at that tattoo place by Vine, and she tells Mary she can take care of it for twenty-five bucks. We go to the shop. She puts Mary up on the table, uses these nasty looking doctor things and … She don't know shit! Oh man, there was blood everywhere. Mary looked like … like, I never seen her looking before. Like blue almost. I go to call 911. The tattoo bitch says don't call them, we're all gonna get in trouble. I say, fuck you, and call them anyway. She grabs her shit and takes the fuck off. They come, and take Mary to the hospital.”

“How's she doing?” Casey said.

“I dunno.”

“You've been there already, right?” Jumper said.

“No, man.”

“You know which hospital?”

“Cedars or something?”

“Cedars-Sinai—down by La Cienega,” Casey said, “Ranch, you gotta go.”

“I want to … . But you know, I figure, I go there, they're gonna give me some kinda dope test or something, and I end up in jail, and what the fuck good does that—”

“Ranch!” Jumper said, “Listen to me. Casey's right. You gotta be with Mary. Forget that other stupid shit. They ain't gonna put you in jail.”

“She needs you—go!,” Dragon said. “You gotta help her.”

Rancher stood immobile, biting his nails.

“Go, Ranch,” Casey said.

“Yeah …” And then he took off running.

45

T
he Denny's waitress came over with two salads. Dragon's was piled high with chicken pieces and Casey's veggie-only was overflowing with extra dressing. Casey started putting it down fast, but then, forced herself to slow down. What good was it to go so fast? Where was she in such a rush to go? Everything sucked. There had to be a way out—but the
hows
of it all were nowhere to be found. She missed Paul. You can be surrounded by people—even people you really like, and still be lonely as shit.

“Where are you?” Dragon said.

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno, it just seems like you're someplace else in your head.”

She got that right. She was far away, and wanted to be farther. “I was just thinking about a friend.”

“Yeah?” Dragon said.

“Paul. The best. I can't stop thinking about him. Couple of weeks ago he taught me to drive.”

“Cool.”

“The greatest. And for a while, it was the greatest day.”

“What happened?”

Casey didn't want to say. But also, she did. A lot. She told Dragon about waiting in the Beemer while the jerk took pictures of Paul with his date, and how afterwards they went down to Santa Monica …

Coming back that day, they picked up Sunset where it began at the beach. When they hit Beverly Hills, Paul turned to Casey and with a wicked smile said, “Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Why do you need to know why?” Paul said.

“Because—”

“Because you don't trust me?”

“C'mon.”

“Then do it …” He reached over, gently laid his fingers on Casey's eyelids, and lowered them. “You won't regret it.”

The Beemer suddenly whipped ahead. They sped around curves, over hills, and weaved in and out of traffic. Paul hadn't made any sharp turns, so they had to still be on Sunset, heading towards the Strip. With her eyes closed it felt like a fantastic dream—the speed, being with Paul, the light smell of the beach still in his hair. She felt safe with him, and every time the car slowed down, she hoped the trip wasn't over. He could drive to San Francisco, Chicago, Boston—just keep moving. She heard the turn flasher go on, and a moment later the car took a left, moving slowly up a steep hill.

When the Beemer came to a stop, they were still on the hill. Paul told her he'd be five minutes, max, and to still keep her eyes shut. Casey was dying to open them, but did what he said. It seemed like he was gone an hour. She felt for a switch and lowered her window a bit. She could hear people talking the distance, in English and Spanish, and also something else—German maybe. She could smell trees and flowers—strong, sweet scents, like they were beside a huge garden.

Paul came right back, and with her eyes still shut, he led Casey into a building. She gripped his arm, wondering what was ahead. She could feel big stone tiles under her feet. They climbed a flight of stairs, also with tiles on them, and she could hear their steps echo around the hallway.

“What is this?” she whispered.

“Shhh … you'll see.”

Casey held his arm tighter. She could smell more flowers and in the distance, bacon and eggs. Paul stopped. She could hear a key going into a door, and the door opening.

“Okay,” Paul said. “Open them, now.”

Casey did, and saw a room at the Chateau Marmont. A big beautiful room, with a huge bed with a thick, white comforter; a boomerang-shaped desk with a silver vase holding a purple and white orchid; and a high-tech desk chair with only three legs. Tall French doors led to a small balcony which overlooked the Strip. And just below the hotel, holding his lasso and overlooking the city was the huge Marlboro man—her god and protector.

“What do you think?” Paul said.

She started smiling and couldn't stop.

46

C
asey stood tall in the shower, steam rising all around her. The water was so hot it almost hurt—God, did it feel good. The heat seeped into every pore. She lifted her head, letting the water cascade over her face, then turned around to let it coat her back. Through the thick glass shower door, she could see a polished brass sink and above it an enormous, fogged mirror with two ultra-thin vases mounted on it, each holding a yellow orchid stem. It was all so beautiful. Casey raised her arms and spun around and around as the steam and water flowed. The Boulevard was gone, and she was clean and warm.

She stepped out of the bathroom wearing a thick white bathrobe she found on the back of the bathroom door. Her skin glowed from the shower and the bathrobe was so soft and comfortable she never wanted to wear anything else. Paul was lying on the bed, and he offered her an apple slice from a bowl of fruit on a room service tray.

The slice was crisp and juicy. They even had the apples right here. The tray had more plates, all covered with metal lids. Paul lifted one, showing her a fat steak.

Casey groaned.

“C'mon,” he said, “I'm from Minnesota, remember?
This
is real food.”

She sat beside him on the bed, and as he cut into the steak, she piled whipped cream onto apples, strawberries, raspberries and huge blackberries. Paul may have thought his steak was great, but every piece of fruit—coated with the world's sweetest whipped cream—no way could anything be better than this.

Casey kissed Paul's cheek and said, “You're the greatest.”

“Shitty way to pay for it. But what the fuck.”

He lifted another lid. A plate of cookies.

“Oatmeal-raisin. I love these,” Casey said.

“Me too.”

“When I get my preschool, me and the kids are going to make these cookies all the time.”

“All the time? That doesn't sound so healthy.”

“Alright. Once a week, then.” She stuck her tongue out at him. “As a special treat. And we'll also make healthy stuff. Banana bread, or whole wheat pizza. And you know what else? I want to have a little vegetable garden, too. The kids and me will plant tomatoes, corn, cucumbers—everything, and then, we'll take care of them. Watch them grow. And later on we'll all get to eat what we grow. Like a farm. What do you think?”

“I think they'll love it. I think I'd love it.”

“Then come with me. We could get jobs together someplace.”

He shrugged.

“Life here is so great? C'mon—” Casey said.

“Life sucks. But I'm not going to be dating forever. I'm going to go to college. Don't ask me how, but somehow. I saw a sign on a bus saying LA City College is like fourteen dollars a unit. That doesn't sound so expensive, right?”

“You could probably pay for a year on what you've made the last couple of nights.”

“Fuck yeah. And when I get there, I'm gonna kick ass. I was good in school before all this shit. And when I finish, I'm going to go to law school.”

“Really?”

“Definitely. Way I see it, everyone always gets fucked here 'cause they don't have any power. But the more power you got, the less people are going to take advantage of you. I'm going to be a lawyer for, you know, people who really need help.”

Sunlight streamed through the window. Casey slept most of the day under the great comforter cuddled tight against Paul. A few times she woke up for a minute, and hearing the traffic below on the Sunset Strip, she felt her stomach tighten. This was all going to end. Now she was warm in a fluffy white bathrobe, tomorrow morning it was back to the Boulevard …

When she woke again, steam was slipping out from the crack at the bottom of the bathroom door. Casey pushed the door open and saw Paul at the mirror shaving, surrounded by a warm mist. He had a towel around his waist, his hair was wet, and droplets of clear water glistened all over his body. She slipped behind his back, put her arms around him, stood on her toes, and rested her chin on his shoulder. Casey liked the feeling—the bathrobe surrounding her like a heavy white cocoon, her breasts tight against Paul's back. She looked at the two of them barely visible in the steamed-up mirror. She smiled at the picture. She pulled away to take another shower—and stopped. As good as she felt a second ago—now she felt ten thousand times worse. “Oh my God.”

“What?” Paul said.

“Oh my God.”

Paul saw Casey staring at his back. He spun around, twisting his shoulders towards the mirror, and saw it—a small purple bruise between his shoulder blades. He rubbed it, trying to make it go away. It didn't. He rubbed some more. Still it wouldn't disappear.

He backed away from the mirror, and as though his knees could barely hold him, dropped to the edge of the bathtub.

“This is it,” he said weakly.

“We don't know. It could be other stuff.”

“Other stuff?”

“Yeah. You and me—we're not doctors.”

“You don't have to be a doctor to know what AIDS is. Hanging out for fifteen minutes on Santa Monica is all you need.”

“It could be anything,” Casey said.

“What?”

“I don't know. Maybe you banged up your back or something.”

“I didn't.”

“Or you don't remember. Or it could be like a cut that got infected and didn't heal right.”

“It's not.”

“It could be!”

For a second, he calmed down—the tiniest bit hopeful.

“I dunno … maybe …” Paul said, turning his back towards to the mirror again, “maybe it could be—”

He stopped cold. A couple of inches below the bruise there was another one. A little smaller. Casey felt it like an electric shock.

“Fuck!” Paul screamed. He swirled around and smashed his fist into the mirror. The glass shattered. Casey screamed. The mirror went red—and blood ran down his arm. Casey lunged for a washcloth.

“What are you doing?” she yelled. She wrapped his hand.

“What's it matter what I'm doing? I'm going to fucking die!”

“You won't! You can't! We'll go for a test. There's that place on Cahuenga. Please, we don't really know.”

“No. We do. We both know.”

“Don't say that.”

“It's the truth. I'm dead. It's just a matter of time.”

“You die, I die.”

“Hey, this isn't some poem. Your heart's breaking, and it feels like you're dying too—this is the real fucking deal for me.”

Casey looked right into Paul's eyes. They were wet. She took his cut hand, pulled it to her lips to it and swallowed a mouthful of his blood. It was salty. But also sweet—it was Paul. She couldn't make it without him. If he was going to die, she would too. His blood was in her.

“Casey,” he said, “… I'm so sorry.”

47

A
t the free clinic, there was a young Asian doctor—Dr. Lee. He was in his late twenties, good-looking and kind of cool. Casey and Paul sat together on the padded table in his tiny and clean examination room, waiting for him to come back with the test. She gripped Paul's hand. Casey couldn't remember praying for something since elementary school. But this was different. If Paul's test came back negative, she promised God she would change completely. She'd make up with her parents, move back to Seattle. Paul could come too. She'd go back to school. She would never sleep with a boy, or drink, or do drugs. Or anything else bad.
Just let the test be good, just give Paul this one break …