Heel, Boy

When I was younger, I was a paperboy in Hollywood, in charge of maybe twelve square blocks. Back then there were four daily papers, with the Times the cream of the crop. The paper I worked for was a few rungs down -- a thin, cheap rag whose right-wing rantings were dictated by its bored billionaire owner, like the New York Post today.

After school, around four, I'd head to a certain street corner in the heart of Hollywood and wait for my distributor to show up. The face changed almost daily, but I'm thinking the help-wanted ad that drew these men must have used the words "sweaty," "alcoholic" and "cauliflower nose." I cut open the bundles they tossed from the back of their van, then delivered the papers to all the individual doors.

I did this seven days a week for almost a year, and I'm still confused about the concept: barely-pubescent boys wandering the streets alone in the Degenerate Capital of the World. Roaming seedy apartment buildings, dropping off newspapers, knocking on doors and collecting money at the end of the month. Isn't this pretty much the definition of child endangerment? This was something like a Domino's Pizza for child molesters: they didn't even have to go out and scour playgrounds for their prey, since eight bucks a month delivered kids straight to their doors.

I was young and dumb and raised by wolves, so I brought the shady types crawling out of the woodwork. I still have mixed feelings about it. Being hit on by strangers who were three times my age: was it disgusting? Did it turn exciting if I recognized them from TV? If they had crushes on me, could it turn sweet? There was Michael, the rising young comedian who always seemed to be showering when I dropped his paper off. There was Roger, the married actor who thought a massage was an appropriate thank-you gift. And then there was Errol X.

Errol was an A-list Hollywood costume designer who worked on a long string of big-budget films. He'd be semi-famous today even if he hadn't used his connections to amass a world-class collection of movie star memorabilia. Cinematic Gays are still debating whether he rescued his prizes from trash heaps, as he claimed, or whether he pilfered them from unsuspecting studios. Now, searching on Google, I see he owned just about everything -- all the signature designs worn by legends like Liz and Bogie and Marilyn. He saved the best for himself and sold the rest to Debbie Reynolds since he didn't have the space to keep it all.

All I knew at the time, though, was that he was handsome, in his late twenties, and -- since I frequently laid by his apartment-house pool after I finished delivering all my papers -- he had a body to rival Tom Selleck's. One afternoon I took a catnap in the sun and when I awoke he was sitting beside me in abbreviated blue Speedos. "Hey," he said casually, "you want to come upstairs and get something to drink?"

"Sure," I said, without thinking. I was surprised he'd even talk to me, a stick insect with David Cassidy's hair. Five minutes later we were in his apartment -- no, I take that back: his museum. Arranged in groups around his darkened living room like tourists in Grand Central Station were lifesized mannequins displaying the highlights of his collection -- sequined gowns, lamé capes, fur coats. Over each was a pin spot providing dramatic lighting. I expected Gregorians to chant.

I couldn't have cared less about any of this crap, and didn't listen when he told me what it all was. I'm no movie fan, and I absolutely hate musicals. If I'm ever imprisoned at Abu Ghraib, all they have to do is play something from "The Pirates of Penzance" and I'll crack like a nut. When Errol paused to catch his breath I scurried for the refrigerator, and after I shoveled down everything edible we headed to another room of the house.

"I've never done this before," Errol said once the Speedos were off. They all said it, like it'd be their escape route if I was wearing a wire, but it was pretty clear that Errol had. He was warm and affectionate and amazingly skilled. I left maybe two hours later, happy and, for once, well fed.

Here's the main reason why kids that age shouldn't have sex: because after they do, they spend the next year scrawling their partner's name in swirly pink writing in their notebook. Me, I fell hard. My hand cramped. I went through stacks of paper. "Roman X" I wrote, over and over again.

Every day from that day forward I stopped by that pool, and every day he'd be waiting for me. We'd go upstairs and play around, then he'd blather on and on about his collection while I packed sandwiches to go. One day I decided to push things forward. "We should go out at night some time," I suggested, and to my surprise he said sure.

I told my uninterested parents I'd be sleeping somewhere else, and I showed up at Errol's promptly at eight. Our date was like a montage from a Julia Roberts movie: dinner at Musso & Frank's, a movie at the Cinerama Dome, and then back to his place for champagne. I didn't even mind when, entre acte, he serenaded me with Cole Porter songs. Around midnight he fell asleep with a smile on his face, and that's when I decided to explore.

I figured I'd start at the fridge, with the doggy bags we'd brought home. I padded towards the kitchen but froze when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. A small black object shot out from the cabinet skirting towards my path, pausing in the center of the floor.

Being poor, I'd had a long history with bugs. Years of practice made me something like the Barry Bonds of bug killers, though my record was untainted by chemical assists. I backed up slowly, being careful not to scare it, and grabbed the nearest thing handy. A shoe. I grasped it firmly, its sparkling surface cutting into my palm, and inched toward the clueless bug. The second I was within range I brought it down like a hammer. With a loud crack it smacked its target dead on, flattening the bug paper-thin.

I grabbed a paper towel and wiped the floor clean, then flipped the shoe over to wipe it off. My stomach churned at the sight: liquified cockroach, with disjointed bits of head and wing and leg embossed deep into the leather. Figuring he'd never notice, I set it back on its pedestal and scurried right back into bed.

The next morning I woke up to a tray of croissants and orange juice, and a sheepish talk from Errol about how this wasn't going to work. I was sad but I didn't really mind. I'd gotten what I'd come for: excitement, adventure, three square meals. I put on my clothes and said goodbye.

From that day on, Errol was just another door to me. I still laid by his pool occasionally, but I knew he'd never turn up. One day when my distributor dropped off the paper I found his picture on the front page. There'd been a Hollywood memorabilia auction, and he'd sold those shoes. For a hundred and ten thousand bucks.

I shoved the stack of papers under my arm and started for the first door. Hopefully he'd use some of the money to solve his bug problem, I thought. But whoever bought them -- I sure hope they don't get the wrong idea about Oz.