by James Frey
She met a boy. He was really a man, but she called him a boy whatever the word she met him and fell in love with him deeply and immediately in love. It was in New York. At a party for a mutual friend a writer who was releasing a book he had grown up with the writer she knew the writer’s girlfriend. They were at the bar. She asked the bartender for a beer, the bartender asked what kind she said Budweiser. He looked at her she had blond hair blue eyes a deep scratchy voice he said you like Budweiser she said yes. He smiled and said I’ve always dreamed of marrying a woman who loved Budweiser she smiled and said here I am, motherfucker.
She had a big job at a big gallery that was famous for taking poor, unknown artists and turning them into rich, famous artists. She lived in New York had for ten years didn’t think of ever living anywhere else. He was a production manager on film shoots in Los Angeles had spent ten years working his way up he didn’t think of ever living anywhere else.
They hung out for the rest of the party talked about football, books, art, music, film, beer they liked most of the same things they left together and went out for late-night cheeseburgers kissed on the stoop of her apartment building when they went to sleep that night both alone he in a hotel she in her bed they both knew it was over except for the logistics, they both knew.
She didn’t want to leave New York, he couldn’t leave Los Angeles, logistics. For six months they alternated traveling eventually he said I want you to come here, I can’t live without you, it’s not gonna work if you won’t come. She had just gotten a promotion to become the director of her gallery it was the only job she had wanted and the job she had worked for for a decade. He said there was art in LA she said it wasn’t the same. He said she would have a better life the sun shining every day more free time less stress she said she would feel like she had wasted a decade trying to get to the major leagues only to demote herself once she got into them. He started sending her Internet links, magazines, museum schedules, gallery guides she said she knew there was cool shit happening in Los Angeles, she just preferred the cool shit happening in New York.
He kept trying talking sending he never begged but definitely pleaded she said there’s production work here, just come here, he kept trying talking sending definitely pleading.
Two things happened: one of her friends decided to leave New York and open a gallery in Los Angeles, the owner of the gallery where she worked made her put up a show of paintings she hated but he said would sell when she objected he told her the last three shows hadn’t sold her job was to make him enough money to keep the doors open. Doors open indeed she opened the doors and walked out and didn’t come back. She called her friend who was opening the gallery asked if he wanted some help he said fuck yeah. She called her boyfriend and said she had a change of heart she was willing to give it a try.
He was waiting for her at the airport. He had flowers and candy and a six-pack of beer and he was wearing a T-shirt that said LA ROCKS.
She laughed and hugged him and kissed him they went straight to his apartment, which was a two-bedroom in Silverlake in New York it would have cost five thousand a month, in LA it was fourteen hundred, they spent the next twenty-four hours in bed. When she came out the sun was shining she was wearing a T-shirt it was the middle of fucking February she was thrilled. She went down to her friend’s new gallery it was located in Chinatown, on a street lined with other galleries, it was one of three art districts in the city the others in Culver City and Santa Monica. She walked in the space was huge and open he smiled and he said welcome to the wild wild west she asked how in the fuck he could afford such a nice place he said LA’s still cheap, still a place where people without trust funds still have a chance.
She started working with him. She thought artists and gallerists and curators would be impressed with her résumé and they were but not as much as she imagined which she took as a good sign, a sign that they were confident that they were as good as New York. She made friends people here helped each other artists gallerists and curators they were a legitimate community instead of a group of jealous, competitive warring factions. The artists themselves freed of the demands of the art market were doing things newer, fresher more groundbreaking than many in New York, risks were easier to take if they failed the consequences were not as grave. She liked the work she did and the work they showed it felt more like what dealing art should be, more pure. And at night she went home to someone who loved her and whom she loved sometimes she missed New York and wondered what might have happened if she was still in the majors but she missed it less often, cared less about it, missed it less often.
Six months after she arrived she was settled in working and living she was walking across a street when she got hit by a bus. Unlike most people in Los Angeles she walked as much as she could she was in the middle of a crosswalk when it hit her she got knocked out of her shoes and flew thirty feet through the air. When the driver got out he said he wasn’t used to seeing people in the crosswalk and couldn’t stop in time she had a broken back and a broken jaw. She spent two months in the hospital he slept three or four nights in a chair next to her when she got out she spent two more months at home he spent all of his free time with her he bought her burgers and beer they watched football on Saturdays and Sundays. When she was able to walk again she went to the gallery her friend had replaced her with someone else from New York. She was crushed asked him why he said the world was moving quickly changing quickly he didn’t know if she was coming back and he needed to keep up. She asked if she could have her job back he said he’d have to talk to his new partner.
She went home cried he came home tried to help her she told him she wanted to go back to New York. He said they couldn’t go back there was no work for him. She said she couldn’t live in a city where bus drivers weren’t used to seeing pedestrians and ran them the fuck over she wanted to leave to fucking leave. He asked for six months she said for what he said most people who move to Los Angeles from New York hate it for a year or two then love it and never want to leave, she laughed said fine six months and we’re gone.
He kept working she tried to find curating work, thought about trying to be an art advisor, which is someone who helps other people buy and collect art. A month she still wanted to leave two the same in the third she got a phone call. It was the biggest art dealer in the world he had three galleries in New York two in London one in Rome he wanted to open another in Los Angeles would she be interested in doing it for him, running it for him. She asked where he said he had found a space in Beverly Hills she asked what he wanted to do he said the space would be a place to take risks to do shows he couldn’t do in his other galleries a place he would use to gain a foothold in LA’s growing market a place to show new artists. She smiled, wondered if they had buses in Beverly Hills, she was back in the big leagues.
More artists, writers, actors and musicians than in any other city in the history of the world. Every day more. Every day.
In 1985 there are 800 gang-related murders in the City of Los Angeles.
There are eleven Veterans Administration medical centers in Los Angeles County that provide inpatient, outpatient, physical rehabilitation and counseling services to 45,000 veterans.
US Army Staff Sergeant Andrew Jones, lost his eyes in the second Iraq War.
US Marine Corps Corporal Phillip Tamberlaine, treated for alcoholism, fought in Vietnam.
US Marine Corps Private First Class Juan Perez, lost an arm in the first Iraq War.
US Navy Seaman Harold Franks, post-traumatic stress disorder, Vietnam.
US Army Specialist Anthony Mattone, Gulf War syndrome, first Iraq War.
US Army Sergeant First Class Nikolai Egorov, lost both legs, second Iraq War.
US Air Force 2nd Lieutenant Terry Daniels, drug addiction, Vietnam.
US Marine Corps Master Gunnery Sergeant Charles Davis, lost both legs, one arm, second Iraq War.
US Army Captain Ted Bradley, gunshot wounds, second Iraq War.
US Army Command
Sergeant Major James Parma, brain damage, Afghanistan.
US Navy Lieutenant Eric McDonald, drug addiction and alcoholism, Vietnam.
US Army Major Brian Jones, lost one arm, one leg, one eye, Afghanistan.
US Marine Corps Major Sean Jefferson, Gulf War syndrome, first Iraq War.
US Marine Corps Private First Class Michael Craven, gunshot wounds, second Iraq War.
US Army Private Thomas Murphy, paralyzed neck down, second Iraq War.
US Army Private Michael Crisp, paralyzed neck down, Vietnam.
US Marine Corps Private Tonya Williams, brain damage, second Iraq War.
US Navy Chief Petty Officer Samuel Jeter, alcoholism, post-traumatic stress disorder, Vietnam.
US Army Sergeant Letrelle Jackson, lost both hands, second Iraq War.
US Army Private Joseph O’Reilly, facial reconstruction, second Iraq War.
US Army Specialist Lawrence Lee, Gulf War syndrome, first Iraq War.
US Marine Corps Private First Class Tom Chin, lost one leg, gunshot wounds, Afghanistan.
US Army Private Braylon Howard, knee reconstruction, lost one hand, second Iraq War.
US Air Force 2nd Lieutenant, William Hult, burns on 90 percent of body, second Iraq War.
US Navy Ensign Joshua Feldman, alcoholism, drug addiction, post-traumatic stress disorder, Vietnam.
US Marine Corps Chief Warrant Officer Edward Winslow, brain damage, burns, first Iraq War.
US Army Lieutenant Colonel John Fitzgerald, alcoholism, depression, Vietnam.
US Navy Commander David Andrews, alcoholism, depression, Vietnam.
US Marine Corps Private First Class Eric Turner, lost one foot, second Iraq War.
US Army Private David Chung, brain damage, loss of hearing, eyesight, Bosnia.
US Army Specialist Lee Tong, gunshot wounds, second Iraq War.
US Army Specialist Pedro Morales, Gulf War syndrome, first Iraq War.
US Army Specialist Jennifer Harris, burns on 85 percent of body, Afghanistan.
US Marine Corps Sergeant Major Jonathan Martinez, paralyzed waist-down, Vietnam.
US Army Private Calvin Hart, paralyzed neck down, second Iraq War.
US Army Sergeant First Class Timothy Gould, lost one arm, Nicaragua.
US Army Private Rachel Powers, facial reconstruction, hearing and sight loss, second Iraq War.
US Army Private Jason Nichols, alcoholism, drug addiction, post-traumatic stress disorder, Vietnam.
US Air Force Colonel Brian Kennedy, alcoholism, drug addiction, post-traumatic stress disorder, Vietnam.
US Marine Corps Master Gunnery Sergeant Joseph Baldelli, Gulf War syndrome, first Iraq War.
US Army Private First Class Scott Hall, both legs, both arms, second Iraq War.
US Air Force Airman Basic Felipe Chavez, both eyes, second Iraq War.
US Navy Seaman Apprentice Orlando Weeks, alcoholism, depression, Vietnam.
US Marine Corps Lance Corporal Melvin Barfield, one arm, first Iraq War.
US Army Private Adam Drew, drug addiction, post-traumatic stress disorder, Afghanistan.
US Army Private Franklin Hernandez, both arms, second Iraq War.
US Marine Corps Major Robert Willingham, burns 85 percent of body, Afghanistan.
US Marine Corps Private First Class Chris Barret, brain damage, Vietnam.
US Army Private Marcus Durham, gunshot wounds, second Iraq War.
US Army Private Craig Duffy, Gulf War syndrome, first Iraq War.
US Marine Corps Private Andrea Collins, paralyzed neck down, second Iraq War.
US Navy Chief Petty Officer Brad Johnson, alcoholism, drug addiction, post-traumatic stress disorder, Vietnam.
US Navy Seaman Moises Rivera, brain damage, second Iraq War.
US Air Force Airman David Chang, facial reconstruction, second Iraq War.
US Army Private Andrew Fedorov, drug addiction, post-traumatic stress disorder, Afghanistan.
US Army Private LaTonda Barry, Gulf War syndrome, first Iraq War.
US Marine Corps Private Ahmed Jarrahy, one leg, second Iraq War.
US Army Specialist Frederick Marquis, alcoholism, Vietnam.
US Army Specialist Derek Quinn, both eyes, hearing loss, Afghanistan.
US Navy Senior Chief Petty Officer Tony Andrews, one arm, alcoholism, drug addiction, Vietnam.
US Army Command Sergeant Major, Gary Burnett, alcoholism, drug addiction, Vietnam.
US Air Force Captain Michael Lowry, brain damage, second Iraq War.
US Marine Corps Captain John Lulenski, both legs, both arms, second Iraq War.
US Army Captain Matt Bell, paralyzed waist down, Vietnam.
US Army Private First Class Heath Andrews, Gulf War syndrome, first Iraq War.
US Air Force Airman Basic Heath Mulder, burns on 80 percent of body, Afghanistan.
US Navy Seaman Apprentice Darren Dixon, one arm, one eye, second Iraq War.
US Army Private Francisco Sanchez, brain damage, Vietnam.
US Army Private Jeremy Franklin, elbow reconstruction, second Iraq War.
US Marine Corps Lieutenant Colonel Paul Young, alcoholism, drug addiction, Vietnam.
US Army Staff Sergeant Chad Springer, paralyzed neck down, Afghanistan.
US Navy Warrant Officer Toby Wells, dental and facial reconstruction, second Iraq War.
US Army Corporal Leroy Washington, both arms, second Iraq War.
US Marine Corps Private Allison Gomez, both eyes, Afghanistan.
US Marine Corps Chief Warrant Officer David Suzuki, one arm, one leg, one eye, second Iraq War.
US Navy Seaman Brandon Jones, both eyes, hearing loss, Afghanistan.
US Army Private Carlos Perez, Gulf War syndrome, first Iraq War.
US Army Private Adam Stern alcoholism, drug addiction, post-traumatic stress disorder, Vietnam.
US Army Specialist Lance Konerko, burns 95 percent, second Iraq War.
US Army Specialist Sarah Bannister, Gulf War syndrome, first Iraq War.
US Air Force Airman Basic Luis Reyes, paralyzed neck down, second Iraq War.
US Navy Seaman Apprentice Steven Atkins, brain damage, dental and facial reconstruction, second Iraq War.
US Army Private Phillip Ito, paralyzed neck down, second Iraq War.
US Army Private LeCharles Jackson, paralyzed neck down, Afghanistan.
US Army Private Joe Rodriguez, both arms, both legs, dental and facial reconstruction, second Iraq War.
US Army Private Daryl Jones, both arms, both legs, Afghanistan.
In 1988, the Environmental Protection Agency determines the air in Los Angeles is the most polluted air in the nation, primarily due to fumes from the mammoth exhausts produced by its automobiles.
Scandal, motherfuckers, everybody loves a scandal. Even if you try to turn away, you can’t, when you try to ignore it, you find it impossible. You know why? Because it’s awesome, hilarious, awful, it’s a fucking mess, and it almost always makes you feel better about yourself. So admit it, you love and your friends love and your family loves everyone you know loves a scandal, the bigger the better, the uglier the more fun, the more devastation the better you feel.
He was born in Miami his parents are Cuban. He grew up wanting to become an actor the biggest Latin movie star in history. As a child he dressed up and put on shows for his mother, his sister, they both loved him and his shows and they fawned over him he was a precocious child, smart and funny and entertaining.
As he grew up he didn’t fit in with any of the other Cuban boys in his neighborhood they idolized boxers and baseball players he couldn’t have cared less. He would skip their afterschool games and come home and read magazines and watch soap operas and listen to his mother gossip with her friends, neighbors, there was always something to talk about, a new story, someone drinking or fighting or cheating, someone creating some sort of little scandal. When he was old enough ten or eleven he started gossiping with his mother. He’d collect stories at school bring them home he lo
ved it when they were good enough for his mother to pass them on, and he loved that he knew things other people didn’t know, but wanted to know, that secrets were currency, as valuable as anything else in the world, sometimes more valuable.
He did well in school. He was on the student council, he starred in most of his school’s shows and plays, he got good grades. He came out to his family in tenth grade, first to his sister, then to his mother, then to his father, none of them were surprised, all of them were supportive, they said they loved him regardless of who or how he loved, all they were interested in was his happiness. At school he was one of a very small number of gay students, and though most of the kids were cool to him, he got slurred and taunted enough so that he developed a very thick skin and very sharp tongue. And no one who disparaged him escaped without getting something back, something that was always smarter and more pointed, something that hurt significantly more. Rarely did someone come back for more, but if they did, he was always ready for them.
When he finished high school he went to New York for college. He had been accepted to one of the best theater schools in the country, and he wanted to be on Broadway. He made friends did shows went out dated lived the life of a college student, for whatever the reason people confided in him, told him stories, shared their secrets with him. When he was asked, he kept them secret. When he wasn’t asked, he didn’t. He started a column in the school paper, a gossip column that dealt with what was going on at school, who was dating who, who might want to date who, debunked or confirmed rumors, had funny blind items. It was lighthearted and genial, well written, showed off his wit. It became the most read column at the school, students who had never bothered with the paper started picking it up, talking about it. A professor encouraged him to take a journalism class he did, he enjoyed it, journalism became his minor, acting and theater was still his first love.
When he finished school he decided to stay in New York. He hadn’t made it to Broadway yet and still had the dream, he decided to look for a job in journalism as a way to pay his bills and support a life in New York. He got an internship turned it into a full-time position. He became a reporter became the editor of a small gay magazine. He went on auditions when he could did plays when he had time. The magazine he worked for folded he got a job at a huge, national, weekly gossip magazine. He was a reporter he was expected to find stories, report stories, break stories. In the world of professional gossip getting stories is all about having relationships with people who have them and protecting those people as sources. He started going out more, hitting parties, clubs, premieres, meeting more people some of whom were celebrities, developing friendships. He was easy to be around, funny friendly gracious, he listened well, people trusted him. He learned about the facade of fame, that the people who lived behind the facade were no different than other people, that some were good and decent and relatively normal, that others abused their privilege, abused the gifts society bestowed upon them, treated those they thought beneath them as if they were less than human. Stories started coming. He always made sure what he wrote was accurate, that his sources were valid. Many of the stories were harmless, sometimes he passed on stories about people he liked, with those he didn’t, as long as he knew it was true, he was merciless. Because he was young and new to the business, reporters more senior than him often took credit for his work. Sometimes he missed stories because he was working on his acting. Sometimes, because he was young and new, the stories went to other people first. He worked hard, though, and began to love his job.
