Barefoot in the City of Broken Dreams.

Brent Hartinger.

For Michael Jensen.

And for all those people crazy enough to chase some stupid, impractical dream.

CHAPTER ONE.

I was floating facedown in a swimming pool, completely motionless, dead to the world.

Down below me, along the bottom of the pool, something brown and frond-like hung in the water. Old leaves, probably. They were absolutely still, just like I was. It was like they were suspended in plastic acrylic. The water in the pool around me was completely still too. We were all frozen in time.

My name is Russel Middlebrook, I was twenty-four years old, and my life was over. I'd just moved from Seattle to Los Angeles. This was the pool in the courtyard of my new apartment building, but I was dead now, so I'd never get a chance to enjoy it.

The water moved around me. Down on the bottom of the pool, the dead leaves jerked and swirled.

Someone had climbed into the water with me, someone with hairy, muscular legs that lead up to a pair of well-packed navy trunks.

My boyfriend Kevin.

I lifted my head.

"Hey there," he said, with a grin that gave me a reason to live again.

Okay, okay, so I wasn't literally "dead." But I really had felt that way. Moving from Seattle to Los Angeles had been exhausting. First, we'd flown down to Los Angeles to rent the apartment, then back to Seattle again to pack our whole lives into boxes. Then we loaded those boxes into the moving truck and drove our car a thousand miles down to California to meet the truck. And then we did the whole d.a.m.n thing in reverse, unloading and unpacking, destroying my back with all the lifting and somehow cutting my fingers to shreds on the cardboard. We'd spent the last two days unpacking, and it seemed like we'd barely started, like all we'd really done is move the boxes into the right rooms.

But being with Kevin, the guy I loved, none of that mattered. Now, for the first time in our relationship, we finally had the chance to live together. So as bad as it had been getting here, it hadn't been that bad. And in spite of being completely exhausted, I couldn't have been happier.

Here's where I'm also supposed to say: "It's not like our relationship was perfect." And, "We had our problems just like anyone else. It drove me crazy the way he squeezed the toothpaste, and I could already tell we were going to fight over how to load the dishwasher." That way, those of you who are in bad or so-so relationships will still be able to relate. And those of you who aren't in relationships at all won't be jealous.

Problem is, our relationship was perfect, or pretty darn near. Basically, Kevin was my hot best friend who I also got to have s.e.x with.

In our defense, we'd had our share of problems in the past. Basically, we'd been on-again, off-again for seven years, ever since we first started dating in high school. But we'd gotten together for good the November of the previous year, and it was early September now, and things had been incredible ever since. Maybe the stress of this move to Los Angeles, or the high expectations of our finally living together after all these years, would be our undoing. Or maybe this was all just some sort of honeymoon period that would inevitably end in a flurry of broken dishes and violently squeezed toothpaste tubes.

I doubted it. Kevin was the Ennis Del Mar to my Jack Twist, but without all the self-hatred, and fewer canned beans. (These are Brokeback Mountain references. If you've never seen the movie, you should. Oh, and you're dead to me.) Even so, I did feel a certain amount of guilt. I was the reason why Kevin and I decided to move to Los Angeles in the first place. He'd been happy in Seattle (more or less). But the year before, I'd met this really great old lady named Vernie Rose who had once been sort of a famous screenwriter. She'd inspired me to become a screenwriter myself. At one point, Vernie had told me that if I was really serious about it, I needed to move to Los Angeles. Kevin and I had talked it over, and we'd decided: Why not go now when we were young, before we had commitments and obligations? Besides, we were ready for a change.

Kevin sank deeper into the pool. "Why is this so d.a.m.n refreshing? Back home, swimming pools are never this refreshing."

"Oh!" I said. "I just read something about that. It's the interaction between the temperature of the air and the temperature of the water. Or, wait, maybe it has to do with the lack of humidity. The heat is drier, so the water feels different."

Kevin smiled. "So basically, it feels better here. Thanks, I didn't know that."

I splashed him. Being in a perfect relationship didn't preclude our teasing each other. A lot. In fact, it was part of what made the relationship so perfect.

A woman walked into the courtyard of our new building - the Escala Apartments. The courtyard was actually pretty dumpy: leaves in the pool, cracks in the concrete, and, yes, faded plastic plants and Astroturf in place of most of the landscaping (oy!).

"Hey, there," Kevin said to the woman.

She looked over at us, perplexed, taken aback a bit. I guess she wasn't used to people being friendly in this building, or maybe even in this city.

She was tall and bony with lots of angles - a praying mantis of a woman, except that makes her sound dangerous, and I actually liked the way she looked, that she had a bit of an edge. She had dark red hair, definitely dyed, in sort of a tight s.h.a.g haircut. Her clothes had a crunchy vibe - some embroidery, a ta.s.sel or two - but I had a feeling it was misleading, like whiskers on a mountain lion. This was a woman who was clearly ready to rumble.

"We're new," Kevin said. "From Seattle? I'm Kevin." He nodded at me. "This is my boyfriend Russel."

She smiled a knowing little smile. "Gina," she said. She drifted closer to the pool. "You guys actors?"

"Editor," Kevin said, meaning himself. He was more an editor/journalist - non-fiction only. "Russel's a screenwriter."

She gave me another knowing nod, but secretly I was sort of flattered she thought I was handsome enough to be an actor. Then again, maybe she was mostly looking at Kevin who, incidentally, really is handsome enough to be an actor. Or maybe it was as simple as the fact that so many people in Los Angeles are actors, or trying to be. I'd lived in Los Angeles for less than three days, but even I knew that.

"What are you?" I asked Gina, meaning, what do you do?

"Stand-up comedian," she said.

She didn't say anything else, and Kevin and I just stared at her.

"You're waiting for me to say something funny, aren't you?" she said drolly.

Busted. Kevin and I smiled.

"We're in 2-B," I said.

"Yeah?" Gina said, raising an eyebrow.

"Why 'yeah?'" I said. "Did someone kill themselves in our unit or something?"

"Actually, yeah," Gina said. "There's even supposed to be a ghost."

"Shut up!" Kevin said, in a way that was sort of a cross between "Yikes!" and "Cool!"

I looked at Kevin. "The manager didn't say anything about anyone killing themselves."

"Well, it was, like, fifty years ago," Gina said.

"So is it like that season of American Horror Story where they don't need to tell anyone about a death in the house if it happened more than three years before?" I said.

"It's more like he's a s.h.i.tty Los Angeles landlord who doesn't give a c.r.a.p what he tells you," Gina said, "because he knows there'll always be someone else to come along and rent it if you don't."

"Why'd he kill himself?" Kevin asked. "'He'?"

She nodded. "Think so. And why does anyone ever kill themselves in Hollywood? Failed actor or failed writer - can't remember which. Which is funny. You never hear about the ghost of someone who moves to Hollywood to become a key grip, but doesn't get the job and ends up killing himself."

Kevin and I laughed.

"You did say something funny," I said. "Just not right away."

"Performance anxiety."

"So about this ghost..." Kevin said, in a tone that was only half-serious. "Is that why the previous tenant left?"

"Sort of. The ghost murdered her. That actually was like that season of American Horror Story." But Gina was smiling when she said this, so I knew she was joking. "The truth is, I don't think there's a single hotel or apartment in all of Los Angeles that isn't supposedly haunted by the ghost of someone who killed themselves after their dreams were crushed. Trust me on this, I've lived in a lot of old buildings."

I smiled again. At the same time, I looked at Gina, trying to guess her age. Mid-forties, maybe?

"Anyway," she said, turning to go. "Nice to meet you guys."

Once we'd showered and dressed, it was late afternoon, so we decided to walk some place for dinner. We'd been in town two full days, but we'd been inside almost the whole time. We'd barely even seen our own neighborhood.

We stepped out onto the sidewalk, into the city, all fresh-faced and naive.

Our apartment was halfway up a hill. Behind us, a half block away, was the Hollywood Freeway, which I would soon learn is also called the 101, but never on the same sign. In other words, the freeway has two different names, but the city doesn't bother to tell you - you're somehow just expected to know. Likewise, I'd eventually learn that the Arroyo Seco Parkway is also called the 110, and sometimes the Pasadena Freeway, but no one ever tells you that either.

Meanwhile, in front of us, Los Angeles stretched out forever. That's the way it looked anyway: this endless expanse of city that rolled on and on, eventually disappearing into the smoggy brown smear of eternity. Closer in, down below us, you could make out the buildings and streets and palm trees, but farther on, all the concrete started to sort of blur together, making the city look like this vast plane of jagged gravel. Los Angeles actually has a pretty impressive downtown to the southeast of where we were, with skysc.r.a.pers and everything, and there are these other cl.u.s.ters of skysc.r.a.pers on the horizon too, but none of them looked all that impressive from here, because everything was so spread out, and even the tall buildings got lost in the expanse and the smog.

We headed down the hill, toward the main drag. We pa.s.sed more apartment buildings like our own, some nicer than ours, but most even dumpier. Los Angeles smelled totally different from Seattle: a weird mix of rubber, asphalt, and car exhaust that would be completely unbearable without the hint of salt from the sea, and the honeysuckle and jasmine from the Hollywood Hills behind us.

One street over, a tall, cylindrical building rose up over the rooftops.

"Oh!" I said. "The Capitol Records Tower! You know, from the opening scene in Hanc.o.c.k, when Will Smith impales the robbers' car on the spire on top?"

Kevin smiled, totally humoring me.

I should get this out of the way right now: I love movies. I've loved them for as long as I can remember. (Full disclosure: I'm done with the superhero thing. It was fun for a while, but now they all seem the same. And besides, sequels, reboots, and remakes are basically the death of originality, as any writer will tell you.) Anyway, I know my insane love for movies pretty much makes me a Big Gay Cliche, but sometimes the stereotypes are right, and there's something to be said for just owning it. In fact, as stressful as our move to Los Angeles had been, I'd been really excited to become part of the filmmaking capital of the world, and also to see the locations of all my favorite movies. (Which isn't to say that Hanc.o.c.k is one of them. Let's just say I may have boned up on trivia about all the movie locations in our neighborhood on the roadtrip down.) Right before we reached Hollywood Avenue, we pa.s.sed one of the buildings for the Church of Scientology - that screwed up Hollywood religion that Tom Cruise is a member of? Supposedly, it's like a cult, and they lure you in and prey on your insecurities, brainwashing you into giving them all your money, and they blackmail you with details about your private life if you don't pay up.

There was a big red banner on the wall of the building that said, "All are welcome!"

"What do you think?" I said to Kevin. "Should we go in?"

"Um, yeah," Kevin said. "No, thanks."

"Seriously, though, don't you want to know how they do it? Don't you feel like, whatever they do, it couldn't possibly work on you? That you're too smart to be brainwashed?"

"Okay," Kevin said, starting toward the door. "Let's go in."

I laughed, stopping him. "I don't want to know that much! It's like how they claim if you say 'b.l.o.o.d.y Mary' three times in a row into a mirror, the ghost of b.l.o.o.d.y Mary will appear. No one really thinks that, but no one ever wants to test it either."

Finally, we came to Hollywood Boulevard.

"I can't believe it!" I said. "Our apartment is six blocks from Hollywood and Vine."

"What?" Kevin said.

I pointed. "One block down. That's Hollywood and Vine."

"Okay," Kevin said, humoring me again. "What do you have to tell me about Hollywood and Vine?"

"Nothing," I said, but I was almost quivering I was so excited. "Nothing at all."

"Really?"

"No, not really!" I said, bursting open like the dam in Dante's Peak. "Hollywood and Vine was the very first intersection in Hollywood, before Hollywood even existed, when the first orchard owner subdivided her land! A couple of decades later, it had become the center of the whole industry, with all the farms and orchards turned into movie lots, and all the movie studios having their headquarters right along this road!"

Kevin glanced around the block we were on. I had to admit it wasn't much to look at now: a tattoo parlor, a payday loan place, a couple of boarded up storefronts, and an actual strip club.

"The movie studios aren't here anymore," I said. "They're spread out all over the city. Now this is the tourist-y part of the town. Look, here's the Hollywood Walk of Fame." I pointed to the sidewalk along Hollywood Boulevard where pink marble stars had been set into black marble squares, each one with a name and little symbol indicating whether the "star" was a star of movies or TV or whatever. There was dried gum and bird c.r.a.p all over the place, but still.

"The Chinese Theatre is only a few blocks that way," I went on, pointing away from Hollywood and Vine, "along with the Egyptian, and the El Capitan, and Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum, and that weird sculpture of the four silver women. What's that called anyway? Does it even have a name?"

"The Gateway to Hollywood," Kevin said.

I frowned. Kevin liked movies too (including - groan - superhero movies), but only as a casual fan. Earlier that year, he hadn't known who Jimmy Stewart was (how is that even possible?). So how in the world did he know something I didn't?

"I'm not a complete idiot," he said.

"Name three celebrities who have left some kind of imprint in the concrete in front of the Chinese Theatre."

He looked at me blankly.

And the cosmic scales are righted! I thought.

Feeling way too smug, I led Kevin down Hollywood Boulevard, in the direction of the Chinese Theatre. Technically, we were looking for a place to eat, but I was mostly taking in all the sights. From the street, I could see the famous white "Hollywood" sign up in the hills to our right. I was also reading the names on the different stars in the sidewalk. (Fun fact: there are actually two Harrison Fords on the Walk of Fame. There's the guy everyone knows, and also a silent film star who everyone's now forgotten.) Kevin and I hadn't intended to get an apartment so close to Old Hollywood - not even me, lover of all things Hollywood. In fact, we'd originally tried to find a place in West Hollywood (and not just because it's so gay, also because it's really nice).

Incidentally, if you don't already know this, West Hollywood is an entirely different town from Hollywood, which actually isn't a "town" at all (it merged with the city of Los Angeles in 1910). So to clarify: West Hollywood is an actual incorporated city, but Hollywood is just one vague geographic part of Los Angeles, and also sort of a catch-all term for the movie industry in general.

Unlike the crazy business with the different freeway names, I actually think the difference between Hollywood and West Hollywood is pretty interesting, but let me know if I'm boring you.

So anyway, there Kevin and I were, exhausted from moving and starving because we'd been too lazy to even pop something into the microwave.

I looked down at the names on the stars on the Walk of Fame again.

Anne Bancroft!

Richard Pryor!

Graham McNamee!

Who the h.e.l.l is Graham McNamee? I thought. But I wasn't about to ask Kevin for fear that he might possibly know something else I didn't know.