Chapter 1-Getting Out of this Dump
I'm finally getting out of this place where they psychoanalyzed me. This one time I had to go to a psychoanalyst because I was so crazy about Allie's death. If you don't know who Allie is, he's my little brother that died when I was only thirteen. Finally I'll get to see DB soon. He wrote The Secret Goldfish. There were a lot of short stories. The only one that was pretty decent was "The Secret Goldfish." I heard that he was going to write another book. The people in Hollywood are all phonies (especially the actors). Soon I'm going to be sitting in the passenger's seat in his new Jaguar. It's supposed to have leather seats and be comfortable as hell. One thing I don't understand is how can people in Hollywood get so much damn money if they're all phonies? That question has been making me become crazier every day. To be quite honest, I don't think that phonies should get so much money. They only use it up on themselves with drugs and all. DB has entered the building and now I get to sit in the most comfortable car in the world. Shit! DB is outside and he's smoking his cigarette, cool as hell. He has on an expensive leather jacket with jeans that makes him look like he's cool and all. His black hair is pulled back with tons of gel in the style of Elvis. The more I hear about Presley the more I figure out that everyone wants to be his damn clone or something like that. If you want to know the truth, that's stupid as hell. DB had to come up to the office to sign me off of this jailed up place. Then I hitched a ride with him. When I saw his Jaguar, I stopped in my tracks and stared at it. I must of looked stupid as hell, but I stood there anyway. DB's black Jaguar was the most comfortable car in the world. We started up the road. This ride up to Hollywood was a hellava long trip. Once we got up there you could tell that everyone there was a phony. They all put on so much make-up. They looked like they were long lost movie stars or something like that trying to get a job somewhere, anywhere. Finally we parked the car to go to DB's apartment. It was filled with a tv, several transistor radios, and some things he collected from baseball games and from Broadway shows. And DB's apartment was huge as hell. DB also had all of these girls around touching him and everything. It would be stupid as hell to use up all your money on prostitutes, but that's what DB did. I decided right then and there to get out of his apartment. I was going to take the train all the way to New York to see old Phoebe again. But the thing is, I didn't have any dough. So I asked DB for some.
"Hell no! You're not going to get any," screamed aloud DB.
"And why can't I have some of your damn dough?" I demanded. I was getting pist as hell. I felt like horsing around, but then I decided not to do that. It might make DB in a hellava worser mood.
"You're not going to pay me back. That's why!" It sounded like DB was yelling at the top of his lungs. He was pist. That's for sure. I decided I needed to become a little more persuasive so that I could get out of here.
"If I don't hand back the money in several days, you know who to call."
DB sighed then replied, "I'll call mom and dad. They'll definitely get you if you don't give me back the damn money alright."
I stayed there until I couldn't handle it any longer with the damn women around DB. I left with a hundred dollars in my pocket the next morning around four o'clock.