Books became a problem when Moron moved in. He hated when I read, especially when his chopper was busted or Mom had no money for him.

Little fuck with his fuckin' books, thinks he's smartern everyone.

After he moved in I had to sit in the kitchen while he and Mom took up my sleeper couch watching TV. One day he came in the trailer totally blasted while I was trying to do homework. I could tell because of his eyes and the way he just kept walking around in circles, making fists and opening them, making that growling noise. The homework was pre-algebra, easy stuff. Mrs. Annison didn't believe me the one time I told her I already knew it, and she kept assigning me the same work as the rest of the class. I was speeding through the problems, almost finished, when Moron got a container of bean dip out of the fridge, started eating it with his hands. I looked at him, but just for a second. He reached over and pulled my hair and slammed the math book on my fingers. Then he grabbed up a bunch of notebooks and other textbooks and ripped them in half, including the math book, Thinking with Numbers.

He said, “Fuck this shit!” and tossed it in the trash. “Get off your fuckin' ass, you little faggot, do something useful around here…”

My hair smelled of beans, and the next day my hand was so swollen I couldn't move the fingers and I kept it in my pocket when I told Mrs. Annison I'd lost the book. She was eating Corn Nuts at her desk and grading papers and didn't bother to look up, just said, “Well, Billy, I guess you'll have to buy another one.”

I couldn't ask Mom for money, so I never got another book, couldn't do homework anymore, and my math grades started going down. I kept thinking Mrs. Annison or someone would get curious, but no one did.

Another time Moron ripped up this magazine collection I'd put together from other people's trash and most of my personal books, including the presidents book. One of the first things I looked for when I finally located the library on Hillhurst Avenue was another presidents book. I found one, but it was different. Not as heavy paper, only black-and-white photographs. Still interesting, though. I learned that William Henry Harrison caught a cold right after his election and died.

Bad luck for the first William president.

This is working; my head's clear. But my heart and stomach feel like they're burning up. More: Taylor, Fillmore, Pierce… James Buchanan, the only president who never got married- must have been lonely for him in the White House, though I guess he was busy enough. Maybe he liked being alone. I can understand that.

Lincoln, Johnson, Grant, McKinley.

Another William president. Did anyone ever call him Billy? From his picture, bald and squinty and angry-looking, I don't think so.

No one ever called me William except teachers on the first day of school, and soon then they switched to Billy, too, because all the kids laughed at William.

Billy Goat, Billy the Goat.

William Bradley Straight.

It's a plain name, nothing special about it, but better than some of the other things I've been called.

Chuck chuck…

Oops- I stumble but don't fall. Place Five is still far. It's a warm night. I wish I could take off my piss-stink clothes and run through the trees naked, a wild, strong animal who knows where he's going… I'll breathe ten times to cool down my heart.

… better. More lists: tropical fish: platys, swordtails, neon tetras, guppies, angelfish, oscars, catfish, tinfoil barbs, arowanas. Never had an aquarium, but in my magazine collection were old copies of Tropical Fish Hobbyist and the pictures filled my head with color.

One point the fish articles kept making was you have to be careful setting up an aquarium, know who you're dealing with. Oscars and arowanas will eat all the others if they're big enough, and if the arowanas get really big, they'll try to eat the oscars. Goldfish are the most peaceful, but they're also the slowest and get eaten all the time.

My stomach still burns, like someone's in there, chewing at me… breathe… animals you see in the park: birds, lizards, squirrels, snakes once in a while. I ignore them.

Same for people.

At night you sometimes see homeless crazy guys with carts full of garbage, but they never stay long. Also, Mexicans in low cars, playing loud music. When they stop, it's over by the trains. Junkies, of course, because it's Hollywood. I've seen them drive up, sit at one of the picnic tables like they're ready to have a meal, tie up their arms, jab in needles, and stare out at nothing.

After the dope really gets into their blood, they sigh and nod and fall asleep and they just look like anyone napping.

Sometimes couples park at the edge of the lot, including gay guys. Talking, making out, smoking- you can see cigarettes in the distance like little orange stars.

Everyone having a good time.

That's what I thought they were going to do, tonight.

Someone's always cutting the chain, and the rangers take weeks to fix it. The cops don't patrol much, because it's park ranger territory. The park's huge. In the library I found a book that said it had 4,100 acres. It also said the park got started in a weird way: A crazy guy named Colonel Griffith tried to kill his wife, and he had to give the land to the city in return for not going to jail.

So maybe there's something about the place that's unlucky for women…

Six hundred forty acres is a square mile, so with 4,100 we're talking major humongous. I know, because I've walked most of it.

Sometimes the rangers stop and smoke and talk, too. A few weeks ago, a man and a woman ranger pulled over to the picnic area just after midnight, got out, sat down on their car's hood, and started talking and laughing. Then they were kissing. I could hear their breathing get faster, heard her go, “Mmm,” and figured they'd be getting it on pretty soon. Then the woman pulled her head away and said, “Come on, Burt. All we need is for someone to see us.”

Burt didn't say anything at first. Then: “Aw, spoilsport.” But he was laughing, and she started laughing, too; they kissed some more and felt each other up a little before they got back in their car and drove away. My guess is they didn't forget about having some sex, probably waited until work was over and then went somewhere else to do it. Maybe to one of their homes or one of those motels on the Boulevard where you pay for rooms by the hour and the prosties wait out in front.

Now I stay away from those motels, but when I first got here a prostie- a fat black one wearing bright shorts and a black lace top with nothing underneath- tried to sell herself to me.

She kept saying, “C'mere, boy-child.” It sounded like “Me bocha, me bocha, me bocha.” Then she pulled up her blouse and showed me a gigantic black tit. Her nipple was lumpy, big and purple like a fresh plum. I ran away, and her laughter followed me the way a dog follows a chicken.

In a strange way she made me feel good, that she thought I could do it. Even though I knew she was probably kidding. I remember that nipple, the way she stuck it out at me, like, Here, take it, suck on it. Her mouth was wide open and her teeth were huge and white.

She was probably joking on me or just needed money bad and was ready to do it with anybody. Most of the prosties are junkies or crackheads.

The way those two rangers laughed was a little like the way the prostie laughed.

Is there such a thing as a sex laugh?

Being treated like a kid can be good or bad. When you go into a store with money, even if you're in line ahead of adults, the adults get served first. A bigger problem is the Boulevard, and all the smaller streets full of weirdos and perverts out to rape kids. Once I found a magazine in an alley and it showed pictures of perverts doing it with kids- putting dicks up their butts or in their mouths. Some kids were crying; others looked sleepy. You don't see the perverts' faces, just their hairy legs and their dicks. For a long time, it gave me nightmares, those kids, the way their eyes looked. But it also made me careful.