Once there was a way to get back home. (The Beatles)

Next I drove from Sunset to Santa Monica Boulevard and followed it out to Rider's apartment. He was in Washington. This time it wasn’t for drugs. It was a different sort of business trip. He had become a rocket scientist after finally passing the drug test. The official title was aerospace engineer and he pretended he didn't like it when people called him a rocket scientist but he actually loved it.

I collected the rent that had been dropped into his drop box and placed “friendly reminders” in the mailboxes of the lagging residents.

I got stuck in traffic. I studied as I moved at a snail-like pace on Santa Monica Boulevard, the same street that I soared down not an hour earlier. I couldn't wait for my flying lesson the next day. I was getting excited as I studied. Read, nudge forward, read, nudge forward. Everyone else was angry, beeping, swearing and impatient.

I got downtown an hour and forty-five minutes late for my appointment to view planes. I wasn't ready to purchase one yet but it would be my first really big purchase so I wanted to pick the perfect one. I also loved looking at planes. You needed an appointment to get into the showroom, which irritated me but I enjoyed browsing there. It was retail therapy on steroids. If a new pair of stilettos could make me smile imagine a plane, now that could do wonders.

After that appointment I continued on to east LA and met with the manager of a housekeeping company. My ladies were not pulling their weight.

I stopped for Thai food. I was in a Thai sort of mood.

I picked up some apples and returned to the apartment.

“Did you pick up the hose extension?”

“Nope.”

“Honey, I told you a week ago.”

“We need to get a better system,” I said thoughtfully. “We should just be able to order these things as we need them.”

“Have them delivered here, I suppose?”

“You're right,” I sighed. “We need a runner. I don't have time to run a building, study, and worry about all the little stuff here.”

We had that conversation a lot. I wanted to employ Nicky or one of the other desperate actors, even some kid would work. Tommy hated the idea. He didn't see the value. All he knew was the two of us and a pile of money. We were overextended and we were in a position to screw up if we didn't staff up. We were moving more in a week than my whole family used to move in a year. Just the two of us, imagine. I bet my family would be proud if I told them but I didn't even consider it. I was living my own life now. I missed them when I thought of them but I thought of them rarely. I didn't have time for pondering nostalgic nonsense.

My apartment reflected this lack of nostalgia. It was a cold and emotionless place. I had some paintings and a couple pieces of retro art, but that was as far as my decorating went. There were no pictures or family mementos. It was interesting how my life had changed. They were my life then, one bad day in April, and they were strangers.

I went out to pick up my dry-cleaning; I knew I should have someone running these menial tasks for me. By the time I got back to the apartment I had lost an hour. I went to the balcony to study. I wasn't thirty pages in when Nicky knocked on my door with his “Hey Baby” and bull shit charm. I lost another hour.

I returned to the balcony and another knock. An actress needed an extension on her rent.

“Get a roommate,” I suggested.

I returned to the balcony and pretended I wasn't home for the rest of the night, even for Tommy. I pulled on someone else’s t-shirt, put on side two of Get Back, got high, brushed, flossed, rinsed with mouthwash, laid in bed and fell asleep. I woke up and I did it all again. My life was pretty routine.