Read Online Boulevard by Bill Guttentag - Free Book Online Page B

bedroom window throwing my all stuff out the window and screaming ‘Get off my lawn, you faggot! You’re not my son, you’re a goddamn faggot!’ And that was that. Nobody cared what I had done before that—I was just a goddamn faggot. Two days later, I was here.”
    He leaned over and ran his hand down Casey’s hair. She shuddered a little.
    â€œI like that.”
    He did it again. And again.
    She didn’t know where to go, or what to do, but she loved the feel of his hand on her hair.
    Walking the Boulevard with Paul, Casey knew like she never knew anything else, that if she was going to survive here, she had to be strong. As strong as Paul.
    â€œOne way or another, you gotta make money,” Paul said. “There’s really only three things you can do. You can sit on the street begging tourist jerks for loose change—which is shit. I can tell you that from personal experience. But if you don’t look too much like you got the scabies, it works pretty good. Or—”
    â€œWhat’s the scabies?”
    â€œDisgusting little bugs. You don’t wanna know, trust me. Another thing is doing bump-and-runs.”
    â€œWhich is?”
    â€œFind a tourist, run up, grab their pocketbooks, cameras, whatever you can, and bust away as fast as you can. It used to be pretty easy, but now they got these undercover cops all over the place, and even worse than that, lots of regular-looking tourists got guns on them now. So, way I see it, that’s not the greatest choice either. Or last thing, you can play the dating game, like I do.”
    No way, Casey thought. Not now. Not ever .
    â€œHey, Saint Paul!” someone yelled down the Boulevard.
    Casey turned around to see a girl in a miniskirt and fishnet stockings coming towards them. When she reached Paul, she planted a wet, sloppy kiss on his lips.
    â€œHey, Tulip. This is Casey—first girl in history you didn’t find first.”
    â€œWho did?”
    â€œDennis,” Paul said.
    â€œPervert,” Tulip said. “You’re not still—”
    â€œNo. Thanks to Paul.”
    â€œThe Saint.”
    â€œShe ran away from him,” Paul said.
    â€œMan, that’s great!” Tulip said. “I hope that asshole gets shot. Deserves it.”
    â€œTulip’s the best,” Paul told Casey. “You’re hungry, she’ll get you something to eat. You wanna call someone back home—she’s got a way to score you a calling card. You’re sick of sleeping under some freeway overpass, she’ll get you a squat. The best.” He leaned over and kissed the top of her head.
    Casey liked her. Casey had to pretend to be tough. But Tulip, even though she was pretty and not big at all—she was tough. Casey thought if she could just be like Tulip, that was all she would ever want.
    They reached the end of the Boulevard and were surrounded by tourists at a huge, wild-looking theater. It might not mean anything to Paul and Tulip, but to Casey, this was the Chinese Theater! Footprint and handprints of the biggest stars in the world—Bruce Willis, Sean Connery, Tom Cruise, Whoopi Goldberg. She snaked through mobs of tourists, where in two minutes, she heard ten different languages, and slipped her red high-tops in the same cement where Marilyn Monroe and Sofia Loren had carved out their tiny footprints in high heels.
    Casey found Paul by the ticket booth, watching a line of people file through the doorway, handing their tickets to the ushers. “This is great,” she said.
    â€œI guess.”
    â€œYou don’t like it?”
    â€œSure. When I first got here is was my favorite place in Hollywood. I came here every day for three weeks.”
    â€œEvery day?” Casey said.
    â€œYeah. But it wasn’t for the movies, believe me.”
    â€œWhat was it?”
    â€œSomething better—where I was from, being queer was the biggest secret you could ever have.