The Summer People 
Kage Baker
 
Don't you call me a townie! I'm too big for this town. I'm too— what's that word? Too intense. 

You watch me at Harry's Bar on Karaoke Night, now; I burn up that place. I got the audience in the palm of my hand. Born with talent! That's why I didn't go into the family business. What? Firewood delivery and seasonal specialties. Not how you get rich. 

A loser like my cousin Verbal likes that kind of work. He's got no ambition at all. He'll just sit there in the flocking shed drinking beer through his face mask until somebody wants a Christmas tree flocked. Now and then he'll have to get up off his ass to go nail on a tree stand or something. Same thing with the pumpkin patches. He'll drive the tractor for the hayrides, he'll load pumpkins off the truck, or firewood. That's about all he's good for. 

Not like me. I like a challenge, and also I just am not made to spend my life around clowns like Verbal. 

Suellen didn't understand that, though. You'd think, with me bringing home meat for the table and the deck I built for the trailer, plus keeping her satisfied which I did and enough said, you'd think she'd see it was a fair division of labor. But every time she brought home a paycheck she'd start in on me about her brother at the fish packing plant and how he'd hire me. 

He'd hire me, sure; but I know how it would go after that. He wants somebody just smart enough to hold on to the right end of the gutting knife, not an idea man who can show him how to run the plant better. Somebody was telling me Einstein didn't do real good in school, and I'm the same way. Too original, you see? 

The meat for the table? Well, how do you think I get it? Same way as primeval Man, before there was any Department of Fish and Game. I have been up in front of the judge a few times for poaching but that's chickenshit stuff, and I'd a lot rather do County time for poaching deer than that poor 757 SOB who was up before me once, who got caught poaching mushrooms! Not even the psychedelic kind. 

Besides, poaching was how I got my big break. Almost. 

I'll tell you about that. 

Everybody knows about the big newspaper man who built the castle up there where all the movie stars came, the one that's a museum or something now, right? But back then lots of rich people did that. There's a lot of big fancy houses on this coast, sitting off private roads that ain't paved, cut with kelly ditches, and the gates and padlocks are all rusted because nobody ever comes up from Beverly Hills except in the summer for a couple of weeks. 

My other cousin has a caretaking service, he'll go and fill the propane tanks or get the powerhouses started up, WD-40 all the locks, make sure the water's turned on and the pools are filled—me and Verbal worked for him for a month once and you should see the palaces back up in those hills! Every one of them on a hundred acres easy, sometimes more. 

So the Forestry Service don't go there, Department of Fish and Game either, because it's all private property! And it's just over the county line too. See where I'm going with this? And why should anybody mind, if you don't try to break into the house or nothing? Go at night, with a night sight on your gun. Moonlight's the best time. That part of the coast's not patrolled after dark and with a good moon you don't run the risk of falling down a mountain. Take a buck, plenty of meat for the freezer. 

So I was going up to this one place one bright night in the middle of summer and got a flat tire on Highway 1, in about the worst part where you got the cliff at your back and a thousand-foot drop to the ocean on the other side. I had just room to get the F150 over so I could change the tire. I was crouched down working the jack when I heard them coming, and flattened myself against the truck, because you never know when somebody could swerve over the line and smack you right out of this world. 

Around the curve they came with the moonlight sliding off them, big new shiny cars, gleaming like every polished thing you ever saw. I was close enough so I could look into the windows, each one as they went by so quiet, so smooth the motors weren't even purring. Only the whoosh of air and some perfume. 

The people inside were just black silhouettes sharp as cut out of black paper, but elegant, you know? And in the last one, a lady had her window down and her white arm resting on the door. It shone in the moonlight like it was made of marble or something. I couldn't see her face but for a second or so, but that was enough to tell me she was from Hollywood. 

So I knew then they were summer people up from there, going to some big party probably on one of those estates. I stood up slow and watched after the last one had gone by, and for a few minutes I could see the red lights winding away up the coast road, the moon sparkling on the glossy cars the way it would on bubbles, and the long beams of the headlights winking in and out. 

And there I was haying to swap bald tires on a rusted-out 1972 F150. But I just told myself, one day that'd be me in one of those fine cars, I'd be one of those summer people, and it'd be my old lady—not Suellen either— with the night air washing in like silver water and floating her perfume out the window. Some people would feel mean and cheap watching all those shiny cars, but not me. If you don't see something like that now and then to tell you what you're missing, you'll be happy selling firewood all your life. 

I changed the tire and went on my way, up to this access road the Forestry Service don't maintain anymore, so you can't hardly see it for the brush, and you don't have to park far up the canyon to be hidden from the highway. There's a place where the oaks and the laurels are real thick and there's a leaning old wire fence, which is my favorite place to get in. I took my gun and snaked under and got to cover real fast, walking bent over through the black shadows and moonlight dapples under the bushes, and I fitted up my sight and got to hunting in earnest. 

Usually I get what I'm after in no time at all, I'm that good. This one time, though, the deer must have all been over on the Jolon side of the mountains, because I couldn't raise squat. So I went farther up this hill than I usually go, high enough so I could look down on the mist coming in from the sea, white on fire with that moon, and out in the open so I could practically see color like it was day. 

Then I heard music coming from somewhere and I turned around, thinking maybe somebody had driven up the Forestry Service road with their radio loud, but I saw the window lights and I thought, oh shit. 

All the times I been up there I never even seen the house, back in the trees like it must have been and dark and shut up, but there it was large as life now with every window blazing away and music inside. I picked a bad night to hunt, because obviously this was where the summer people had come to party. 

I stepped real quick back under the trees, planning on going away quiet, and I can move like one of those ninjas when I have to but this time it didn't do me jack good, because there was somebody standing right there in the woods with me. 

"Nice night, isn't it?" he says, and there's a little flare-up of light from a lighter or something and I look into his eyes as he puffs on this green cigarette. Then there was just the red dot in the darkness but I could still tell he was there. 

I thought it was that pissy-faced little boy actor with the fancy name, you know? That's who he'd looked like in that split second I saw him. So I said how I was sorry, I didn't mean to trespass, I must have got lost in the dark and all, and his voice was real friendly. He said it was okay. He said the garden had gone so wild it was easy to mistake it for the federal land, and I said, 

"There's a garden up here?" and he laughed and said, 

"See, you can't even tell," and I said, 

"Damn! I've lived here all my life and I never knew that," and he said, 

"You want to come see?" 

Which put me in a dilemma because I figured he was maybe coming on to me. But I was twice as big as him and had a gun and a knife besides. And I was beginning to get some ideas about getting myself discovered, see what I mean? Like he might know a talent scout or somebody. 

So I walked on with him, following the little red floating light, further back into the trees, closer to the lights of the house, and son of a bitch if somebody hadn't done some old fancy landscaping up there at one time. Big flowering rhododendron bushes grown up into trees practically and lots of cement statues and stepping stones and pools all choked with dead oak leaves, and one fountain where you couldn't see what it was supposed to be, there was so much moss, with just a little green slimy water trickling down. All the spots and blobs of moonlight were enough so we could find our way pretty good. 

I explained how I was an entertainer too—told him all about my Elvis routine. He just smoked his cigarette, so the red light brightened and dimmed, and I figured he thought he was too good for me, but then he got more friendly and kind of opened up. 

It turned out he wasn't that actor at all, even if the house was full of big celebrities. He was just somebody's friend, the good-looking kind they keep around to housesit for them and skim the leaves off their pools and all that! Like that Kato guy. I felt a lot better when I knew that and asked him if there was any way I could maybe meet some of those people in the house who might know if I could get one of those, you know, auditions. 

He sounded gloomy and said it wasn't much of a party right now, as the lady in charge and her husband had just had some kind of screaming hissy-fit at each other, which was why he'd ducked out to the garden. But then his cigarette got real bright, I could tell an idea was hitting him, and he said I should come in anyway—maybe I could sing for them and cheer everybody up. 

Well, that took my breath away, and I was wishing like hell I'd shaved that morning when he came real close, solid suddenly out of the shadows, and took me by the arm and said, 

"But we'd better give you a makeover first, okay?" 

I didn't know whether he meant something gay or what, but he was explaining as we went along about Henri-Luc probably having a suit my size, and I could use one of the guest bathrooms to shower and blow-dry my hair, and I caught on. I was kind of sweaty and I'd been changing a tire and all. I wished I'd had my powder blue Karaoke clothes, but he told me it'd be an Armani suit. You know what those are? Real nice. 

So anyway we went in the house, through a back entrance, and I could hear the music and smell the perfumes, and I never was nervous before but I was now. It was dark and big in there, kind of dusty but lots of arches and purple drapes and antiques. Bobby, that was my friend, was starting to giggle about what a good idea this would be after all. 

He took me to a big old bathroom where, I swear to Jesus, the sink and toilet were purple china and the hardware was all gold. It was even purple tile in the shower stall. When I came out I grabbed for a towel pretty fast but Bobby wasn't around anywhere. He'd left out a suit and everything I needed, though. I got the clothes on and then he came back in and, uh, fussed with my hair and I was starting to get uncomfortable until I saw he was fixing my hair to look like The King's. 

He did a real good job too, and did some of those tricks they call slight of hand, pretending to pull combs and hairspray out of nowhere. I guess boys like him have to learn all kinds of ways to make those celebrities laugh, so they can keep on living in their guest houses and don't have to go to work in hair salons. 

When he was done he yelled Presto and jumped back. I looked in the mirror at myself in that suit and it was like I saw the real Me, the way I was supposed to look, and God-damn I felt ten feet tall! No wonder I get all those girls coming up to me after I step down from the mike. I could even have understood if Bobby had patted me on the ass, the way I looked right then. Though he didn't; he just grinned and said, 

"Let's go introduce you." 

So we went out into the big room where the party was going on. 

And that was some room, there was a grand piano in one corner and lots of those big potted palms and more antiques and purple velvet drapes. Big mirrors on the walls, but so old they reflected things funny and cloudy. There was so many people in there I could tell right then nobody'd mind a crasher, and I was better-looking than half the men anyhow. 

But Bobby was right; it wasn't much of a party, what with the quarrel and all. People seemed sort of scared. A tiny little hunchbacked guy, bald as an egg, sat at the piano and played show tunes, but he was mostly ignored by the lady. Her, you couldn't ignore. 

She was the woman I'd seen in the shiny car. She was just as beautiful as she was in the movies, though I couldn't remember what movies she was in but I knew she was somebody She had on a white dress cut real low, but when I say white I mean that shimmery pearly color like... like pearls, I guess, or the moon. She was sitting under a lamp, sitting on a big white sofa which had draped over it a white tigerskin rug. She'd kicked off her shoes and curled her feet under her, had one arm stretched out along the back of the chair, and her head turned sharp to glare across at the man way across the room. 

He was standing way back in the shadows, leaning against a marble column, and he was real dark and wore a dark suit cut almost as nice as mine. He had his arms folded but with one hand up to hold a cigarette between his first two fingers, kind of in a way that looked gay to me, and it was one of those fancy colored cigarettes like Bobby was smoking. No wonder his old lady was mad! He just stared out through the shadows at her with cold black eves, and every so often he'd flick some ash from that green cigarette. 

Between them all the other show people sort of wandered back and forth trying to pretend they were having a good time. There were a lot of little cute boys like Bobby, and some really ugly old women and men, and a whole lot of pretty girls, though some of them seemed awfully young, and none of them were much to look at next to the lady. And everybody had those green cigarettes so the air was all full of swirls of smoke, and it had a sweet smell like perfume. I figured they must be those clove cigarettes, because it wasn't pot. Pot stinks like Rainier Ale, you ever notice? 

There were a couple of waiters in green jackets and, it was the damndest thing you ever saw, they were identical twins and must have been seven feet high! And they were bald too. I had to stare when one of them came up to us with a tray and offered me a drink without saying a word, and then I remembered that you don't talk to help, so I just took a glass and nodded. Bobby winked and nudged me. 

"See what I mean? Everybody's on edge. This was supposed to be her big birthday blowout, and it's tanked. Baravelli isn't helping any, either. Rodgers and Hammerstein, for God's sake! Could anything be duller? I knew this was a good idea. Why don't I go see if he knows your material?" 

"Okay," I said, and took a big slug of my drink and nearly choked, because instead of it being champagne like I figured it was some kind of God-awful salty bubbly water. I shook my head and Bobby stopped to look back at me. He said, 

"Oh, no, is there something wrong with the Perrier?" 

That was when I realized what it was and I remembered I'd seen it in markets and it comes from France and all, so I just shook my head and waved for him to go on. He winked again and said, 

"We're all very health-conscious since she got that guru." Then he went on to go whisper to the piano player and I tried my drink again, and I see why it costs so much if it's got minerals in it, but I couldn't help thinking the party would have livened right up if they'd iced a few twelve-packs of Miller High Life. And if they were so set on health, how come everybody was smoking? 

I could see Bobby talking to the little bald man, who was nodding and tipping ash from his cigarette into a big ashtray shaped like a skull. Then one of the ugly old ladies came up to me, and gave me the once over and liked what she saw, if you know what I mean. She was dressed real good, by the way, and I figured she must be one of those New York intellectuals, or may-be a gossip columnist. She said, 

"My goodness, I haven't seen you here before," and she had a smart voice, but I could tell she'd had a lot of whiskey in her time, she was kind of hoarse. She took a long suck on her cigarette holder and puffed smoke at me in a teasy way. 

"That's because I'm the latest thing, honey," I said, pouring on the charm, and I took her skinny old hand and kissed it and she sure had a lot of big rings. She said, 

"Oo! And he's got manners, too. Are you a friend of Bobby's?" 

I leaned real close and said, "Not that kind of friend, Ma'am—if you get my drift." And she laughed, husky, and waved her cigarette holder at them all and said, 

"What do you think of our little party?" And I said, 

"Well, if you ask me, sugar, it could use some excitement. But I hear there's been some quarrel, and that always pees on a parade." 

She chuckled and waved away smoke. "It's always something. This particular evening Madam Queen has got it through her beautiful head that she wants to adopt a Romanian orphan. Mister over there hit the ceiling. Children are not in the pre-nup, as I understand it. And, you know, the poor little things die on you anyway; they've all got health problems. But he had the very bad judgment to tell her she was too old for this kind of thing." 

I glared over at Mister where he stood in the gloomy corner. "He did? That's just sheer stupid mean. Too old! Why, she ain't a day over thirty." 

The old lady arched her penciled-in eyebrows at me. She didn't say anything for a minute and then she put her hand on my arm and said, "My dear, I see you have a bright future ahead of you ." 

Which made me feel so good I almost forgot to hate Mister for a second. We watched as he lifted his hand and beckoned to Bobby, who jumped away from the piano and hurried over to see what he wanted. They talked for a minute real quiet and I could see Mister pointing to the lady, and Bobby turning to look and saving something with a kind of half-assed grin. He nodded in my direction and I stood tall and looked hard at Mister, letting him know that I was just as good as him. 

Mister just sort of looked through me. I knew right then I'd settle with him, somehow. Bobby said something else and ducked out of the room, but a split second later he'd come back with whatever he'd fetched. He started across the room to us. 

"Bobby darling!" said the old lady, and she and he sort of kissed cheeks like those folks do, mwah-mwah dry-kissing, and she pulled back and said: 

"They're keeping you running tonight, I see," and he rolled his eyes and said, 

"Up and down." Then he turned to me and said, "So! I talked to Baravelli. He knows the King's standards. Like to give it a shot?" 

"You are damn right I would," I said, and handed my glass to the old lady and marched over to the piano. Bobby ran after me, laughing, and said: 

"Hold on, Handsome, I've got to fix your boutonniere." He held up this purple orchid, pulling it out of nowhere like the combs, and stuck it in my buttonhole. I don't wear those things but I could tell this was expensive, so I let him arrange it there, and then he turned up his little grinning face and said, "Let me do your intro, okay?" 

He jumped up and got everybody's attention, and made a real nice speech. I felt bad about thinking he was a snippy little you-know, because he told everybody what a fabulous artist I was and how I'd played Vegas, which wasn't true but only because I hadn't had the chance, and it was sure nice of him. I began to wonder if maybe he hadn't caught my act at Harry's, he described it so well. 

Then he stepped aside, everybody was applauding and smiling, and I looked around for a mike, because there wasn't one that I could see. Bobby pushed something into my hand and for a second I thought it was just a Perrier bottle, but then I saw it was one of those cordless mikes, only green instead of black for some reason. 

And it worked fine when I said, "Thankew, thankew ver'much," just the way the King always did. 

The minute I said that the lady turned her beautiful head, like she'd only right then noticed me, and stared. Her eyes were blue like jewels, and hard too but... but like she had character, you see what I'm trying to say? 

I started into "Heartbreak Hotel" and her eyes got real wide, and not once through that whole song did she ever turn her face away from me. 

I might have been nervous before, but I tell you —I had the magic, as usual. I had everybody spellbound! All the gloom went straight out of there, I had those people grinning and hugging themselves. I think a couple of those pretty boys came close to crying, in fact. Even the Mister, over in his corner where Bobby had joined him, looked delighted with me. The little bald guy at the piano was a lot better than the Karaoke tape, seemed to know ahead of time what I was going to do next and never played too loud. He had the biggest damn ears I ever saw in my life, I swear they stuck up above his scalp, and maybe they gave him natural perfect pitch or something. 

I could tell they wanted more so I gave them "Hound Dog" after that, and "Suspicious Minds," and "jailhouse Rock," and the whole time the lady watched me like I was the best thing that had ever come into her life. So then I did "Love Me Tender" just for her, if you get my drift, real soft and leaning to her the whole time. Her face was shining like the moonlight. 

And I thought to myself, boy, you have made an impression on these summer people! I thought sure I was going to get an audition now. 

I could have been up there all night, but it was starting to get late and folks were sneaking out in ones and twos, though I could tell they hated to leave, and then Bobby came up, really wiping tears out of his eyes, and said: 

"You'd better give me the mike now, Elvis, we don't want to wear out that voice. Everybody, a big hand for the King!" 

The crowd went wild. They applauded and shouted for more, but I smiled real nice and shook my head as I handed the mike back to Bobby, because I could see some other action getting ready to happen. And if you don't know what I mean, you ain't been listening, friend. 

The lady held on to me with that look of hers and patted the couch beside her. In the sweetest voice you ever heard, she asked me to come sit and talk with her. I looked quick over at the Mister but he was talking to Bobby, who was nodding and sipping from a bottle of Perrier. You don't have to ask me twice; I was on that couch in two seconds and, I tell you, she was all over me. 

Crazy in love with me! You'd have thought I really was Elvis, the way she went on about how beautiful I was. It was almost embarrassing. Nothing was too good for me; she asked if I wanted anything to drink and I told her a plain beer sure would be nice, and damned if she didn't send one of her little girls running off to the kitchen or somewhere to look for one. 

In the meantime she fed me all kinds of chips and crackers from this bowl, health food snacks I guess, and they tasted all right but some of them were pretty strange colors and there was no salt at all. Finally the little girl came back, real apologetic, because all she could find was a real old bottle of something imported, I guess from Japan or somewhere, I couldn't read what the hell was on the label and it tasted funny, like flowers sort of. 

I'm too smart to complain about a stupid bottle of beer in a situation like that, though. I just smiled and drank and after the first swallow it wasn't too bad anyhow. I got quite a buzz off of it, in fact. 

The lady kept talking about how good-looking I was, which was sweet, but I kind of wanted to get the conversation around to my career, and after a while she saw that and she put her arms around my neck and started talking about all the things she could do for me. Big record producers and club owners and all. She had another of her little girls pull off my shoes and give me a foot massage, if you can believe that, some oriental pressure therapy thing her guru taught her, and I was sure glad I'd had that shower and borrowed that fancy pair of socks. 

I looked around to see if the Mister was catching this act but I couldn't see him or Bobby anywhere, only some of the ugly old folks standing around here and there talking about Italian museums and some prince or other in the south of France, just as though there wasn't nearly an orgy going on right under their noses. But, you know, that's how morality is in Hollywood. 

If I'd been able to keep her talking about my singing, I'd probably be in Vegas right now, but that funny beer was making me, you know, susceptible to her charms and all and she leaned in close and began to whisper things in my ear, and where a lady like her learned to talk like that I do not know. She got me so all I wanted was one thing, and it wasn't a recording contract. 

We could have probably done it right there on the couch with the pretty- boys looking on, for all those people cared, but I got a little loud and that brought her out of it some, she put her hand over my mouth and whispered that we'd better go to her room. I thought that was a great idea, so we got up and she led me away into that dark old house, not turning on the lights so we wouldn't get caught I guess. Her little girls ran ahead with some kind of colored flashlights, winky bright spots flitting around the old rugs and drapes. 

We got to her bedroom and it had this huge antique bed with covers and drapes and hangings all in that Laura Ashby flower pattern, and the moon was pouring in through the arch windows so you could see every detail in the flowers. 

"Here," says the lady, and she opened a drawer and took out a baggie of powder and I thought, oh boy, cocaine! Because, you know, those Hollywood people have it all the time. She shook it out in her palms and turned to me and I put my face down and had a real good snort, and she squealed and laughed, and Jesus I thought my nose was on fire but then it felt great, and she threw the rest of the handful up in the air so it floated over us, glittering and sparkling in the moonlight, and I realized maybe it was cut with something unusual, to glow like that. 

I was so ready for action it didn't even faze me any when she had all her little giggling boys and girls peel off our clothes. If she'd wanted one of those kinky scenes like some of those Hollywood people you hear about, I'd have done everybody, that's how worked up I was. Well, not the boys, naturally. I'm all man, don't get me wrong. 

I was just sorry to see that fine suit come off—but, hell, there was no way she could have told that my underwear came from K-Mart. 

Then the rest of them flitted off somewhere and it was just her and me on that flowery bed. 

Am I going to tell you what it was like? What do you think it was like? Just sheer poetry, that's all. She was smooth and... and she was cold and hot all at the same time, and she seemed like she was made out of moonlight. And, oh, she wanted me. 

I must say I didn't think much of the Mister, because she clearly had never had as good a time as I was giving her. Whatever kind of cocaine that was, it gave a man staying power like that Spurious Spanish Fly in the magazines. We could have gone on all night. I'm not sure we didn't. 

I'm not sure what all happened, to tell you the truth, because what with the cocaine and that funny beer I'm a little hazy on the way the evening ended. The last clear thing I remember was making too much noise again, so she was stuffing something sweet and cool in my mouth. 

But it must have been like a movie, I know. 




(guess at some point Bobby must have come and warned us that the 

Mister was coming, and got me up and helped me get my own clothes on and got me out of the house. I don't exactly remember getting back down to my truck—if you want to know the truth, I don't remember it at all, but it must have happened, because the next thing I knew I was waking up in the back of the pickup bed, and the moon was long gone. 

So was everybody else. 

I sat up, looking around in the washed-out light , feeling stiff in my dirty clothes, and I spit out what was in my mouth—big fat white rosebuds, can you believe it? She must have grabbed them off of a bouquet or something by her bed when I started to yell. 

I figured out right then she had only rushed me out of the way so the Mister wouldn't shoot me, so I didn't mind as much as I might have, though I was kind of queasy to think of Bobby getting my pants on me. 

And I was real stiff and cold and had a funny hangover, so I had to pull over three or four times to puke on the way back into San Luis Obispo County. I didn't mind that so much, but when it hit me that I'd lost my big break—because I never got her phone number and, well, I'm not sure about how her name is spelled, and anyway movie people have all kinds of security guards and like that to keep people from contacting them, and most of all she might not recognize me not wearing an Armani suit—that's when I started pounding on the steering wheel and caking myself a sorry bastard. 

When I got home, Suellen had already left for work, which I would have been grateful for except she'd left one seriously bitchy note telling me to collect my stuff and get the hell out of there before she got back. The way I felt, I didn't care if I never saw her big old butt (she was five years older than me, by the way) again. I cleaned out everything that was mine and I almost took the deck off too, but I'd have had to take it apart to get all that wood in the truck bed and anyway I'm a bigger man than that. Let her be petty if she wants to. 

But I wasn't looking forward to telling my folks I was moving back in, because I knew my daddy had filled up my room with tools. When I got to their doublewide they weren't home anyway, and Verbal was sitting on the deck having himself a Coors Lite. I didn't feel like talking much, but he wanted to tell me all about this idea he had for big money, which was to raise pit bull puppies to sell to the folks that run meth labs out of their trailers back in the canyons. 

That's how dumb Verbal is, because everybody knows pit bulls don't really keep the federal agents away, and anyhow if you mess with the meth folks they'll kill you, and Verbal always tries to mess with somebody sooner or later. I told him that, being real short with him because I had a bad headache, and he just grinned and puked out his eight-inch knife and said nobody'd better try to kill him, and I said, 

"Those people got guns, you stupid son of a bitch," and he got huffy and left, and I went inside and lay down on my folks' couch. 

I could still smell her. I had been so close to getting out of this town. 

Well, I will get out. I have lived my dream and I will live it again. all I have to do is raise some cash, and I've got a plan for that. I'll get enough money for a bus ticket down to Hollywood, and if I can't find her, I'll bet I can track down that Bobby. Of course, I have to save up for one of those Armani suits first. How? The secret word is recycling. 

Did you know you can make good money at that? You can, if you're smart and you work out a system, which I did. 

No, listen: the trick is to go out before sunrise on Thursdays, before the recycling trucks come around. People set those open tubs out on the curb and if you're careful and quiet you can help yourself to their aluminum cans! And another good way is to go out Wednesdays, which is when the freebie advertising papers come out, and their delivery people just drop big bundles of them in front of liquor stores and laundromats. You just follow them at a distance, wait until they're gone and pull up fast, then pitch the bundles of papers into the back of your truck and take off. The recycling plants take them no questions asked, and you don't even get your hands dirty. 

No, I'm not lazy—that's a lot of work, getting up when it's still dark. Though I like it, kind of; it reminds me of those summer people and especially her, especially when there's some moonlight. And when I get down to Hollywood, you can bet I'll keep late hours! I like that night life. 

Well, of course it'd take forever to save up for an Armani suit that way, if that was all I did. But, now, this is the really good part: you take the money they give you at the recycling plant, and then you invest in lottery tickets. 

See? I am one smooth operator.