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He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, an upside-down visor, and his hair in a dread-spray that shot straight above his head. Jessica and Rohini had spent an entire night last year hanging out with Coolio at a PlayStation party where Outkast played. But Rohini stayed in the L.
Dating a valley girl
She learned to turn her natural shyness into bitchiness like all the girls around her. She began dating the actors and producers she ran into at night, sometimes two or three different dates a week. She met and then for months dated an Indiana Pacer. The apartment sat on a street of apartment buildings. There were broken families and single people stacked five stories high around Rohini.
For days she wood sit, bored, scanning the new view for others like her. There was a boy who appeared some days on a nearby balcony. Rohini believed she had never seen anyone that beautiful in her life.
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They were amazed at this girl who wore no makeup, who could smoke massive amounts of pot and still beat them on Super Mario or Zelda, and who had somehow landed Scott. These were the children of apartments, kids who wanted to blow up big in rock, kids who wanted to blow up on TV, kids who wanted to blow up in heroin. One kid overdosed and died. Rohini was still in high school. Mornings, she packed a lunch and walked to school; nights, she came home to Scott and smoked pot and played Zelda. It was Romeo and Juliet rewritten by two Valley teenagers. Rohini loved Scott so much it hurt, and she began finding ways to lessen the pain.
Her shyness fell away and her jealousy grew. She picked fights, seeing potential rivals everywhere. He was wild when he drank. She suffered from weird feelings that he would die before her. She began crossing Mulholland late at night in her purple Mustang. Maybe there she could blow up big. In Sherman Oaks, Scott took on a roommate and grew morose around his friends.
Rohini had a crazy thought after the funeral that she was supposed to wait for Scott to come back from Forest Lawn. She started crossing Mulholland even more, looking for a place she could transform herself. A week after the Moomba party I was walking my dog through a Westside park and ran into Rohini and Jessica.
On the sandlot, 25 or so tattooed and ponytailed men and women sat cross-legged, waiting to be picked by team captains. To Rohini, this was the L.
Scene, but it looked like New Hollywood. Leonardo DiCaprio, who arrived late with his model girlfriend Gisele, was greeted like some kind of warrior king recently gone missing. DiCaprio is beginning to look these days like our own Ernest Hemingway—with a ballooning chest and stomach and sweeping Mephisto chin beard. In discrete groups, men snuck off the sandlot mimicking hypernonchalant saunters to hug the bearish boy figure who waited by the fence.
Next, all the women walked off the sandlot; as in Old Hollywood, only men were picked to play today. A pale woman in maroon jeans flopped down next to me and began haranguing her cell phone: I even have a Yankee tattoo on my arm!
Dating a valley girl
I probably would have made it to base two-thirds of the time. Is that more than three-quarters? It was so high school. The more I learned from Rohini about the L. Scene—that they were stuck meeting in the same few rooms every week, that they all dated the same people, that they had reenacted a caste system as cruel as anything found on the quad—the more I thought of it as a group of twenty-somethings who had figured out a way to extend senior year through the first half of their third decades.
Scene-speak was tough sometimes. A girl could hook up with a guy to go hook up with him, only to find herself unexpectedly hooking up with him, which could lead to a month of hooking up.