Hollywood Boulevard Read Online Free Page B

the observatory, trees, birds, coyotes, squirrels, cats, snakes, and everyone's dreams off the hills into the yawning abyss.
    Â Â Â Â Another day has passed— faded meaninglessly into evening. I went outside for the sunset. The wind and chill were sharp up at the benched pavilion. Someone had taken a rake to the grounds; the condom was gone, and the narrative seemed lost without it. Over my shoulder a stream of distant planes flowed silently from the east, into LAX. To the west a slip of the Pacific Ocean shone like a piece of broken plate under a limpid sky. When the earth finally does shake the hills loose, the ocean will flood the coast and slimy sea monsters will roam the earth, lapping at the fallen city's face.
    Â Â Â Â That's what I was imagining when I saw that the old gray man and his dog were back. He's been there every evening I've come up. He stood below the condom pavilion, at the top of the restaurant parking lot. His dog, an ugly black- and- brown pit bull, stared up at me. The grizzled man never turned my way, if he knew I was there. I made a friendly little click toward the dog, who continued to stare. I thought the old man had libation with him, a jar with purple remnants, communion with the setting sun. He was not a guest but arrived by a narrow path through the undergrowth outside the chain- link fence, past the pool. I'd thought of disguising scotch in a coffee mug to carry with me as I bade the day adieu but had decided I'd reward myself when I returned to the rooms, chilled from my own sunset homage.
    Â Â Â Â Walking back toward the pool I heard voices, customers from the restaurant, the cocktail hour officially on. Asian tourists held cameras, peered toward the west, murmuring their pleasure; a night out on the town, living it up, spending plenty of yen. I wanted to slip out of sight (tricky since they were above me with a clear advantage), feeling like the old man, pretending I was alone to keep the moment to myself. I had a friend once— no, he was a writer pal of Joe's, a lanky poetic type who said I was a hoarder of moments. Maybe that's true. As I turned at the waterfall at the top of the stairs, heading down to my rooms, the kitty ran out in front of me.
    Â Â Â Â " Where did you come from?" I said, bending to pet him. His purr was a minor roar. He sidled along my legs, rubbing around and back again. "Want to come home with me?" I asked, kneading my fingers through his thick fur. He followed as I veered back to the pool, then ran up a squat tree with perpetually shedding purple flowers, showing off. I watched for a few minutes, but he didn't follow when I turned to go.
    Â Â Â Â Back at the rooms I poured myself a proper scotch— two ice cubes— into one of the glasses I'd purchased for the purpose. I went out to the balcony, the cashmere shawl Andre had given me the previous Christmas over my shoulders, Mexican- serape style. The last orange traces of sun were leaving the tops of the hills, the houses below already deep in shadow. The observatory held the golden glow longest, and then it too dimmed to a colorless form. I saw, across the hill, that the man was there in his garden.
    Â Â Â Â I have been watching the man. I call him White Shirt because white seems to be his preference. His house is perched on the hill pretty much dead opposite my balcony, on the other side of a steep arroyo. It's French country style with a blue front door. I'd trade a toe for my binoculars back in New York. I could buy a pair here but that seems as if it would be cheating. My method of hotel discovery is slow, hints here and there, bits of life: an outdoor umbrella shifted, soft illumination from a nighttime window, the glow of a television or computer screen flickering in the middle of the night. I tried to drive up White Shirt's hill yesterday but got lost winding my way, ending up on Mulholland, at the top of Runyon Canyon. I parked the car in the