a long time ago, i worked on a movie in houston. i met a few actors on location and hung out with them. the red hot chili peppers were on that shoot too, they were cool, but i knew those guys from l.a. brett was no actor, he was art department.
i never talk about brett, because it always seems so weird to tell it. when we got back to l.a., we met up and had a crazy love affair. the kind that could get you killed. we met at sloan's, at least that's what it used to be called. and drank. brett was a heroin addict, but i didn't know that. so we made dinner plans and he didn't show. something happened to me, that i can't explain, except that i wanted to know where he was and why i was being blown off. i went to see where he was, after waiting like a freak, i climbed over his fence, this is in a bad section of hollywood, i was very young and didn't even think about it. he was passed out and sorry. two weeks later we moved in together. i can't tell you what happened. i'm not even sure myself. but, brett was beautiful, pock marked and taught me all about jim jarmusch, wim wenders films, art, literature, cool music. almost everything i know came from him. he also ran me off the 101 freeway, tried to choke me, not sexually, but for reals. when i tried to get away from him, he found me, wherever i went he found me. he'd burn cigarette holes in my front door, vandalize my car and scream he loved me from someone else's roof. i couldn't stay away from him. i loved him. i went to jail once over brett. i've tried writing about it, but it always sounds fake. i ran away and hid in a pink mansion in the middle of santa barbara doing drugs with trust funders all weekend and he STILL found me. he banged his head on a magazine rack until he was bleeding and then told me he was killing himself by walking into the pacific ocean. he was wearing an old shiny vintage suit. i watched him walk into the middle of the ocean, but what could i do? i loved him as much as he hated me. convinced i was fucking around on him. he would keep me up until four in the morning asking me who else i was fucking. he would ask me who i was all dressed up for when i went to my soul-sucking job at hewlett-packard. then, i'd come home to a trashed apartment, where he was looking for something, but i'll never know what. later, i guess because of me, he got his jaw broken in four places. he kept screaming, look what you did to me. i didn't do it, but i was driving in venice, drunk and hit a car full of some gang that didn't like that. they took it out on brett and when we got home, he stomped up and down on my guitar, smashed it into a million pieces. the cops came. they took me in. i didn't do it, but in the city of los angeles, whoever is bloody, the other person goes in. brett told them i did it with the guitar or the chair leg or whatever. they took my glasses. i couldn't see or eat for 5 days. i fought a black girl for bread and told her i'd kill her or have her killed if she didn't give it to me. they believed it too, because my bail was $50,000. they thought i was dangerous. it was a long weekend. when i got out, i got exonerated or whatever it's called because he took it back, said he was drunk and i didn't do it. the other thing is when i got out, i was two blocks from my apartment on argyle. very close to capitol records, where i was soon to get a job. it was right after kurt cobain died. that was something. walking home from jail and realizing i was right there. i moved out after that, but he still found me. it was two years of running away and that was years ago, but i thought i saw him once and i had the same old adrenaline rush from back then. nothing before or since has changed my life like that. i don't know what else so say about it. except that in one of the apartments we lived in, a random cat came and stayed with us every weekend. we called him snowball.
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