To cheer myself up about not owning a dog, I went to Will Wright's and got a pistachio, chocolate, and strawberry ice-cream-cone – my own Neapolitan mix.

We had gnocchi and ravioli, Indian curries and samosas, pork buns and chow mein.

[...] the cassette he played, a woman's raspy voice singing over raucous chords. She was whispering something about horses again and again. I'd never heard anything like it. Finally, I asked who she was. "Patti Smith. Isn't she cool?" He handed me the cassette. It had a picture of a gaunt, androgynous person in a white shirt, a string of black tie hanging loose around her neck. [...]"

My mom looked like she hadn't gotten out of bed all day. I brought her Brazil nuts and ginger ale and red licorice. I would have tried to cook but I always burned the grilled cheese sandwiches or let the rice bubble over. The only thing I could make was instant mac and cheese but she didn't want that and neither did I. I wished she had taught me to cook when I was littler and she was happy and loved to make dinner but now it was probably too late.

I would show them Monroe and make hot chocolate with whipped cream and mini mashmallows for us to share.

He smelled like sand and tar and wind, gasoline and sawdust and oranges. He smelled like Los Angeles.

When I checked on my mom she was asleep, breathing normally in the bed with the blue satin quilted headbord, so I got myself a bowl of Lucky Charms. The pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, and green clovers ached my molars as the milk turned rainbow colors. I made my lunch, brushed my teeth, and put on my roller skates. The pavement rumbled, rough under my feet and up through to my heart, as I skated to school past the palm trees that my dad said looked like stupid birds, under i smog-filled Los Angeles.

Butterfield's was a sunken garden at the bottom of the stair, like someone's run-down mansion where you could have elegant brunches with quiche, fresh fruit, and champagne among lacy trees.

Going out to eat was one of our favorite things to do together. When I was a little he liked to take me to Norms Coffee Shop for hamburgers and vanilla shakes that we ate in the vinyl booths, or we went to Ships where you could make your own toast in the toasters at your table. We had ice-cream cones at Wil Wright's ice-cream parlor in Hollywood, with the striped awning and the parquet floor. We drove all the way out to the Valley to Farrell's where they made a huge ice-cream birthday concoction called the Zoo that was covered with little plastic animals. The waiters, dressed in boater hats, striped shirts, and suspenders, ran around the restaurant honking horns until they arrived at your table to sing "Happy Birthday." There was also something called a Through that was so big you became an honorary pig for the night if you ate it all by yourself.

Charlie escorted me inside and we sat down under the wooden birds and ate the ornage sticky buns the rastaurant was famous for, as well as turkey dinners with pressed turkey and cranberry jelly and mashed potatoes.