Jack impaled several pork chops and steaks on a sharpened stick. We cracked open a jug of wine. After he got a few drinks under his belt, Jack was all for going back to Hollywood Boulevard.

          “You wanna go over there by the yoga studio and scope out the cuties?”

          “Fuck no. Why read the menu when you can’t order the dinner?”

          Besides, I had to think about making some money. I had a line on a gig as a sign spinner for a pizza dive. Not much of a job, but it was better than nothing. Or was it? The sun was beating down. The pork chops smelled great. I watched some ants scurrying up and down a tree trunk. So orderly, the ants, and so polite, always touching feelers every time they meet. “Hi Joe! How’s by you?” Why can’t people be more like that?

          Then Angela happened along. “Trade you a blowjob for some food,” she said. “Forget it,” Jack said sharply. “You’re just a kid. But you can eat with us if you want. We got plenty.”

          Angela really put it away. She must have been half starved. A john had dumped her in the desert, she said. She’d been walking for two days. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen. I didn’t ask for her back story. They’re all the same, the life histories of the street girls. Almost before she’s out of diapers she becomes a fucking block for the stepfather, the uncle or the father, and when she gets big enough she hits the road. It’s a modern fairytale. The archetypal elements are all there: the dark forest, the humble cottage, the evil stepfather and the fair maiden, except that in today’s version the maiden, instead of turning into a swan, dies in some nightmare alley with a needle in her arm.

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