Lankershim Boulevard was better when Grammy took me to the Jewish Council Thrift Store to buy me an out-of-date Writer’s Market, and I looked up at her against the naked fluorescent tube lights, and wanted to write a story that would make her rich and me famous so that we wouldn’t have to shop at the Jewish Council Thrift Store again.
There was once a time — you’ll have to trust me — when Dad would write notes for cigarettes and liquor, and off I’d go to Dales Jr. And then if I was fast, he'd give me a sip. It burned all the way down. Probably how I got so good at track.
“I want you to stay away from that guy upstairs.” Old Shirley’s hair was frizzier than usual. She held a glass. “Something’s not right there.” “Okay, I will,” as I walked past her window down the driveway out onto Oxnard remembering how he held me to his chest and showed me I was happiness.
Roam around the stories here. They’re pretty good.