We wandered around some more and drank some wine. I had some money on me. We ran into Kermit, too, Crazy Kermit from the bridge. He was sitting on a bus bench babbling, making intricate gestures with his hands as if he were conducting an invisible orchestra. I went up to him and gave him a dollar. He didn’t recognize me, but that was okay because Crazy Kermit doesn’t recognize anybody.

          Jack told me about the place where he was staying in Boyle Heights, a condemned building. I’d been camping out with the Lump, and then when that fell apart I moved in with Kenji, but I was scared with the drugs and all. We’d leave Uncle Barney’s and Kenji would be higher than a hawk and leaning out the window talking a blue streak to people in other cars and he’d have the crank on him and his works, too. Supposing we got pulled over for a brake light or something and… Well, I don’t even want to think about the rest of it.

          The Lump was a funny duck. A big guy, six feet four, but he lived in a perpetual twilight. Valium, Seconal, Prozac, I’m not sure what they gave him at the nuthouse, but he was heavily sedated. Then too he was constantly pounding the wine, and the hard stuff too, Crown Royal and Absolut Vodka, mostly. The Lump had a studio apartment in Hollywood. You could see the famous Hollywood sign from the window. I’d walk in and he’d smile. No greeting, but his mild blue eyes would twinkle faintly, like distant stars. He’d sit there on his mattress, packing his bong, humming to himself. Once in a while he’d send out for a pizza. He didn’t seem to care about eating. Money wasn’t a problem. His parents lived in Rancho Santa Fe. They were paying him to stay away, the apartment and a monthly stipend.

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