San Francisco Town. Tenderloin Town. Jones Street Town. “Rome never really burned. It smoldered for centuries.”

It’s still there. Like New Jersey. I have never been to New Jersey.

I could do Boca Raton Town but they would cancel my passport.

New York Times Town. Enough.

Dirt Bike Town and Appalachia Town are the same Town in a sea of towns and frowns downtowns drown with climate change the range of what does upscale really mean. I sleep on the floor. Any floor. I live cheap. I am lucky to have a floor and not a dumpster. I am not a tutor. I would charge so much more than ordinary tutors charge. How much is your son’s life worth, bitch, and if I work with him, he’s going to change.

Parents never, ever, ever want to put that in their pretty little heads.

You might not like the new him.

Parents can pay me in Scotch, but it’s gonna cost you. I might have been a cheap junkie whore slut but I could read. I only feed him Scotch to shut him the fuck up for three minutes. Give the kid a comic book.

Tonight, I am with this annoying child on the top of the roof at 729. Blunts. Scotch. You can roar up here all you want.

Rent A Drama Coach.

Do your duty or I will release this kid to romper room through television and you will have to watch it. 

“I don’t know any other teachers who would do drugs with me up here on the roof.”

“That’s nice.” I said. “Your parents might not love the new you.”

“I don’t want to hurt them.”

“With what. Your Superman powers.”

“With the truth.”

“Keep your underpants on you don’t know the truth.”

“Are we in this movie.”

“Yes.”

“My parents will always love me. Maybe not always. But they are always there to support me.”

“I gather you’re quite rich.”

“I make a lot of money.”

“I don’t make jack shit from any of your parents but I’m still up here on the roof smoking blunts with…”

“Call me by another name.”

“What other name.”

“Name me.”

“Name you.”

“Please. I want you to be the one who names me.”

Name’em and Nail’em.

“How long do you get to play the little suburban boy cutiepie and get down to some real work that is going to sit in your spoiled teenage gut like a part you never got. What the fuck.”

“I want you to name me and then we could both get the same tattoo.”

A twitch of a shadow of a smile may have flashed on my BeStill face.

“This is why they are paying you. To be mean to me. Poor me.”

“Are you fucking kidding me. I can be mean to you all on my own. Do I appear to you to be Mr. Chips.”

“More like Mary Poppins blunts are good.”

“Yes.”

“Where do you get blunts.”

My eyes to the sky. Shrugs.

“Why would I get some little snot from Studio B blunts.”

“Because he’s cute and usually gets what he wants whatever he wants.”

“You have just stated the obvious which is the problem, not the solution.”

“When is he coming back.”

“Soon, I think. Do you know him.”

“I know everyone and did I tell you I’m cute.”

“No, I’m still waiting for Godot.”

“Up here on the roof. You could actually do drugs up here. I would never do that. Blunts are not drugs.” He smirked.

Virgins from Hollywood.

“Blunts are drugs and so are drugs.”

“Yes, but when do we have sex.” His eyes go wide. Stop it.

“When Rome burns, you idiot. When Rome burns. Be patient. The whole pink tween thing has got to go to the dump. It’s not Valentine’s Day. Maybe Santa Barbara Drama School but Santa Barbara is on fire.”

I stand.

I stretch. I look down. “Are you playing with yourself again.”

I yawn. I try not to look at him.

I act.

“You could always do porn.”

“I already do cute porn.”

I drink Scotch from the bottle. I spit some out – it’s a part and I am the tough guy from the Bronx – over the ledge onto passers by down on the sidewalk who even writes passers by. Marlon Brando, STELLLLLLAAAAAAA!

I peer casually indifferent over the side of the roof six stories above the Jones Street sidewalk.

There it is just turning the corner from Post.

I wave my arms about.

“Hey! Up here! Hey! Up here! Godot, up here!”

The kid’s in shock, but it’ll wear off. It always does.