Traffic leaving the park was heavy, but once Jared passed the Greek Theatre, the number of cars thinned. Most were day hikers up to enjoy the trails or families who had visited the observatory. Jared stayed well off the road to avoid the cars, and braced himself in case someone threw a bottle or can. He tried not to think about being hit by a bottle （which had happened, twice）。 Instead, Jared walked faster. The sooner he reached home, the sooner he would be safe, and the sooner he could enjoy the treasures in his pack.
Earlier that day, Jared had found two discarded paperback novels, an unopened bottle of Diet Coke, a small pocket mirror, and a bright blue spiral notebook. With money earned collecting recyclables, he had bought toothpaste, a disposable razor, two rolls of toilet paper, and a machaca burrito. But most exciting of all, near the end of his day, Jared had stopped at a small Italian restaurant near the park and offered to sweep their parking area. The sous-chef, a burly woman with enormous tattooed forearms, sent Jared away with a white paper bag containing takeout containers of bread and food. Jared’s mouth had been watering ever since. He was anxious to get home, where, in the safety that came with quiet solitude, he could enjoy the chef’s generosity.
Jared preferred quiet, which was why he chose the park as his residence. Quiet brought calm, calm brought peace, and peace softened the whispers he heard. Loser, freak, failure. Sometimes, when the world was kind, the whispers were so faint, they vanished. Jared might not hear them for days, but he knew they were only sleeping. You’re disgusting, you’re worthless, you’re garbage. Then they’d grow louder, more damning, and hateful. You’re sick, schizophrenic, defective. Spinning faster into a maelstrom around him. Kill yourself, kill yourself, die! But quiet brought calm, and calm brought peace, which was why Jared was so careful to guard his secret sanctuary in the park.
Residing in the park was illegal, of course, which was why his little home was his most carefully guarded secret, and why Jared raced the night. Once the sun went down, park rangers and police were more likely to ask why he was in the park and where he was going. So Jared raced the sun each day, hurrying to avoid their scrutiny.
The road grew steeper, but the day’s last light was fading fast. The old art deco streetlamps along the road floated in a dim ochre glow. Jared walked so fast he was almost hopping as he rounded a curve and saw the black maw of the Mount Hollywood Tunnel ahead. A road to the observatory branched to his left, but Jared took neither.
Two cars passed from behind him and disappeared into the tunnel. A single car emerged as they passed, its lights washing over Jared as it headed downhill. Jared quickly hustled across the road and scrambled up an erosion cut around a tall steep shoulder rising above the road. He followed the cut between two scrub oaks, around a slender pine, and behind a stunted oak shaped like an igloo. The little trail abruptly widened into a flat depression, and Jared was home. The remains of the sun disappeared in a bright orange wink as Jared lowered his pack.
Jared stood for a time, motionless, staring at the ground. The clean scents of wild rosemary, pinesap, and garlic were comforting. A flock of doves, roosting on a water tank farther up the slope, cooed softly as they bedded for the evening. Jared’s secret home was only ten yards above the road, but behind his little scrub oak igloo, the tension he carried down in the world grew lighter, and less, and floated away like a rising mist.
Jared drew a deep breath. He sighed.
The world felt peaceful and safe.
Jared rubbed his face, and grinned.
“Well. All right then. Yum, yum, yum, let’s boogie.”
Jared dragged a tattered green sleeping bag and faded blue duffel from beneath the oak’s prickly branches. He sat on the sleeping bag, took his eating utensils from the duffel, and opened his daypack. The wonderful smell of Italian food enveloped him. Jared rolled his eyes with heavenly pleasure and licked his lips.
“Good golly Miss Molly, what has she done?”
Working without a flashlight or lamp, Jared lifted the takeout containers from their bag and carefully opened them. The rising three-quarter moon and the city provided his light.
Jared made a soft whistle.
“Thank you, Chef. May God bless you for your kindness.”
Dinner was capellini with meatballs, sautéed spinach, a lemon tart, and three large pieces of garlic toast.
Jared set aside one meatball and two pieces of bread for breakfast, and feasted on the rest. The occasional car passed as he ate, emerging from or disappearing into the tunnel. A ranger passed, her headlights sweeping the road below, and then she was gone.