Beautiful Things, Hunter Biden [good book recommendations .txt] 📗

doing it for the last time. I wasn’t clearing a path for reentry into the mainstream. I believed the story would expedite my fade-out—that after exposing myself for who I really was, without embarrassment or regret, I would no longer be welcome back in the world I’d left behind. It was my opportunity to tell everyone out there, “This is who I am, you motherfuckers, and I ain’t changing!”

I picked up where I left off during my last rampage through L.A., except now I was far less concerned with how I interacted with the “normal” world. By this point, that world was largely confined to the hotel management and staff at the Petit Ermitage. The usual parade of dealers and their hangers-on streamed in and out of my room at all hours, without any attempt by me or them to be the least bit prudent. We stuck out like sore thumbs; even in L.A., where everyone poses like a tough guy, I had guests visit at 4 a.m. who looked like they’d just stepped out of a Quentin Tarantino movie. Sometimes I stashed my drug paraphernalia when a housekeeper came by; sometimes I didn’t. My belongings were strewn everywhere, along with pipes and baggies and baking soda, which I used whenever I cooked my own.

My $300-a-night room looked like somebody set off a bomb in a crack house.

As I always did, I rented the room a day at a time, unwilling or incapable of planning any further ahead than that. I’d call the front desk each morning to ask for another night’s extension. The routine was disrupted about two weeks into my stay when Curtis came by the rooftop pool one night for drinks. He got loaded and almost wound up in a fight with a big, swaggering drunk who earlier had been acting like a complete asshole—he’d jumped a line to the hotel’s unisex bathroom.

Later that night, when Curtis and I stepped into the hotel’s elevator to leave the fourth-floor pool area, the jackass he’d almost scuffled with earlier got on board, too. Curtis practically bored a hole through the dude with his most menacing glare—which, believe me, is pretty damn menacing. We all left the elevator without incident, but the guy later told security Curtis had threatened him during the ride by giving him a peek at his gun.

A hotel manager called my room the next morning. He said someone had reported that a guest of mine had threatened to kill him. I explained that the whole thing was blown out of proportion and had been resolved. When I made my usual call to the front desk a little later to re-up for another night, however, I was told my room had been booked in advance for the next week and there was nothing else available.

I was used to this; it happened all the time. I was the guy by the pool who got up every ten minutes to duck into the bathroom and smoke crack. I was the guy who sat by himself at the bar and piled up a $400 tab without buying drinks for anyone else. The staff must’ve thought, How is that guy still standing?

As much as I thought I was in control, I wasn’t fooling anybody. Four or five days into a stay, I’d call the desk to reserve another night and be told there were no more rooms at the inn. Everyone was polite; they were always well-mannered. No one ever formally threw me out—though the Chateau eventually blacklisted me, putting me on their infamous unofficial rogue’s lineup that included the likes of Britney Spears, if that gives you an idea of how out of control I was.

Now, the Petit Ermitage asked me to vacate my room by 11 a.m.

There was no way I could pack up my wreckage by then, and I had no idea where to go next. I missed the morning deadline and had it extended to 1 p.m., then to 3. In the meantime, I settled into a shaded lounge chair by the rooftop pool and tried to pin down my next move. I slipped away every twenty minutes to hit the crack pipe in my room, on the same floor just down the hall. I finally got a bellman to help me round up my belongings and hold them for me in the lobby.

At one point, a young, trim, artsy guy in a chaise lounge next to mine struck up a conversation. He’d done the same thing the day before, even though I’d made it clear I didn’t really want to talk with anyone. It was a tight-knit, very L.A. scene up there that I wanted nothing to do with—I hadn’t made new friends in three years unless they were involved with drugs.

But here he was again, yakking away. This time he was with a tall, blond Daryl Hannah look-alike and a photographer friend. He’d obviously had too many drinks. “Here’s the most interesting person at the pool,” he greeted me as he sat down this time. “What’s your story?” He then proceeded to tell me his: all about his burgeoning career as a painter and sculptor. I nodded once in a while: I’d probably already drunk a quart of vodka that day, smoked crack continuously, and was operating on ten hours of sleep for the week.

I don’t know how long he went on. The only thing I remember is that all of a sudden one of the trio turned to another and said, “You know who Hunter should meet? He should meet your friend Melissa.”

They agreed right away and insisted I take Melissa’s number. I didn’t write it down; I told them I had a gift for memorizing phone numbers. Some friends of theirs came by after that and they left me alone. I continued to search my phone for another place to stay the night. When I finally got up to leave, the Daryl Hannah look-alike turned to me and asked me to repeat Melissa’s