Free Boulevard by Bill Guttentag

But my first day in LA, I came to a movie here and the ticket taker was this super cute guy who might as well have had gay written in big gold letters across his forehead. We started talking. His name was Ted. He had been in college and dropped out to come here to be an actor. He was incredibly smart. I mean, I did pretty good in school, but Ted was a thousand times smarter than I ever was. One thing follows another, I hang out for one show, and then another one. We just connected. And he had this deal worked out with the projectionist, who was this fat, lazy fuck, who would start the movies and then go to a bar on Orange, and pay Ted ten bucks to hang out in the booth and page him if the film broke or something. The booth was small and hot, but it had this old yellow couch which would get covered with the reflection of the movies off the booth’s glass. Pretty cool. That first day me and Ted hit the yellow couch and completely went at it. And then we did it every day.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œMan, it was intense. I never knew anything like that before. He had an apartment up on Franklin which we sometimes went to even after doing it down here. But he shared it with a USC film student, who was this stone cold bitch who treated me like I was a piece of shit he stepped in. On top of that, Ted was always on the phone with his parents back in Connecticut who never stopped harassing him. And like a month after we hooked up, he just moves to Westwood, starts classes at UCLA, and biggest joke of all, decides he’s not really gay. Could’ve fooled me. I go out to Westwood to find him. Spent two whole days looking for him there. And when I finally found him, he’s got some girl hanging all over him. I run up to him. He introduces me to her—Stacy, like we’re old friends from back home—not the guy he spent the last three weeks fucking day and night. He says he and Stacy have a playwriting class, and gotta go. Part of me says follow him, follow him, you asshole … . But I just watched him go. I walked all the way home from Westwood. That night was the first time I fucked for money.”
    â€œSucks.”
    â€œYeah … Sorta. Everyone else walks by the Chinese and looks at the footprints. I think about having my heart broken. ’Course I also think about that yellow couch and even with all the shit, it was still the greatest time with the greatest guy.”
    He smiled, shrugged. Along with Tulip, they walked away from the Chinese, heading back to where they started. Casey understood that this was a big part of life on the street—up one side of the Boulevard to La Brea, cross over and walk the other side back to Western. And when you’re finished, do it all over again. There were places to stop and kids to see, but it was all an endless loop. Hurrying straight towards them was a tall boy Casey’s age with thick, long blonde hair. With him was a Hispanic girl, a little older.
    â€œTulip, Tulip, pretty, pretty Tulip,” the boy said, speaking a mile a minute.
    â€œNo way,” Tulip said.
    â€œSaint Paul, Saint Paul. Saint Paul!” the kid continued, never slowing. “Man, am I happy to see you!”
    â€œNo, man, I don’t have any money,” Paul said.
    â€œWhat do you do with it? I see you out there all the time.”
    â€œYeah. A bunch of millionaires for dates.”
    â€œSomething’s wrong then, buddy.”
    â€œNo shit, Rancher.”
    â€œNo, I mean it—look at it, if you’re out there sucking cock for all those jerks, and you’re still crashing at that fucked construction site, the numbers don’t add up, do they now? Do they—”
    â€œRanch’—”
    â€œThey don’t. No way! But listen, I got something. We got something. Something big! Mary—she’s got this modeling gig tomorrow and we need a few bucks so she can get some makeup and shit.”
    â€œThat true?” Paul