John Belushi Is Dead by Kathy Charles Read Free Book Online Page B

feel like a good kid. I knew we had done the right thing, but something was niggling inside, a worm burrowing its way through my core. I hated to admit how exciting it had been to stand outside that Dumpster, breathing the fetid stench of the cat’s remains. The smell was familiar, comforting. After my parents died, Aunt Lynette had tried to get my life back to normal as quickly as possible, and for a while everything
did
seem normal. I went to school, did my homework, watched TV. But something inside me had changed. In quiet moments I could feel it, a creeping anxiety that would overtake me—the realization that everything was temporary, fleeting, and no one was safe. In the shadow of my parents I had felt protected, but once they were gone I was horribly exposed, and as much as Lynette tried to make me feel safe, she couldn’t erase what I knew to be terrifyingly, irrevocably true: that any one of us could be taken at any moment, and I sometimes couldn’t help thinking that in escaping the fate of my parents, I had somehow cheated death, and that death would now always be with me.
    It could have been my imagination, but I was sure Benji had lingered awhile in the darkness of that Dumpster, taking his time before returning to the fading sunlight of the afternoon. I watchedhim as we walked together. He was immersed in thought, staring at his sneakers as they hit the pavement. Like archaeologists excavating a tomb, Benji and I had crossed over an unspoken boundary and emerged forever changed by the experience. He looked at me, eyes ablaze, and somewhere in the distance a dog howled.
    â€œSo why did you name your cat Freddie Prinze?” I asked.
    Benji shrugged. “Don’t know. I’m just really interested in that stuff, I guess. You know, dead movie stars and all that.”
    â€œMe too! I’m reading a book about Marlon Brando right now.”
    â€œOh man, Marlon Brando had such a shit life.”
    â€œI know. His son shot his daughter’s boyfriend, then his daughter committed suicide. It’s horrible.”
    Benji gave me a wry look. “You ever seen the house where it happened?”
    â€œYou mean the house on Mulholland Drive? I think I drove past it once. The numbers are confusing.”
    â€œI know exactly which one it is,” Benji said, sounding excited for the first time since we met. “We should go check it out.”
    â€œTotally,” I said. “That would be so cool.”
    We walked along in silence, hands in our pockets, and even though I felt that familiar darkness starting to swirl around me, for once I didn’t feel so alone. I knew I had found a kindred spirit.

5
    I LEFT B ENJI TO THE video of the girl getting screwed by the horse and started to walk the few blocks to my house. The warm air, coupled with the start of summer vacation, had brought people out of their homes. Across the road a couple walked a teacup poodle on a thin leash. A group of kids skateboarded past me, the wheels of their boards making a long, rolling sound like an incoming wave, building to a crescendo and then disappearing as they sped away into the dark.
    My mind wandered. I looked into the windows of houses, some in shadow, others illuminated by the light of television sets. I thought about the Manson Family. On nights like this they would go out and do what they called a “creepy crawly.” A group of four or five Family members would target a house entirely at random, break in, and proceed to “creep” around the place. The idea was to move around the house unnoticed, making sure not to wake the occupants. Occasionally they would take something, like cash, if itwas left lying around, or food to feed the Family back at the ranch. But it was more about moving around undetected—the excitement and power that came with infiltrating someone’s house as he slept in his bed.
    Richard Ramirez—the Night Stalker—was one of Los Angeles’