Last Bandit: Book 1 in The Bandits Series

Valley of Lost Souls

Chapter 8: Valley of Lost Souls ~

This Greyhound bus's last stop is in Pasadena, California, as told by the driver. It's a beautiful place with snow capped mountains surrounding it. The city hall building is almost as high as the mountains.

That small lady I rescued back in Oklahoma City looks at me as she rises from her seat. Then she turns and steps off the bus. I suppose I should too, so I cap up my whiskey, throw it in my pillowcase and grab my things.

The air here is fresh and new. It's very different from Ohio, for there's a sea breeze that blows from the west and smells of salt water. I can still walk right into the Pacific Ocean and start to explore the bottom of it. But I realize that now that I'm here, maybe I do have a chance. Maybe since I've made it this far I'm suppose to stay and try and make it. But I just can't take another failed band again.

"In which direction is Sunset Boulevard?" I ask a passerby who stops in his tracks. I don't know where to go. I know the Strip is close, so I suppose I'll give it a shot there.

He looks me up and down and smiles. "That way," he says and points down the road.

I thank him and then go on my way. I walk until I'm in another town, so I ask another resident which way Hollywood is. And she tells me to keep traveling straight.

I hear Sunset Boulevard is one hell of a place. It's a big block party but a drug gathering at the same time. I wonder why that is. And why is everyone there supposedly either a musician or a stripper? I don't know exactly why I'm going there. Hopefully, some band will need a guitar player. I just need to play. I'm having withdrawal from playing.

By the position of the sun, it looks as though it's around seven in the evening. It's still fairly light and warm out. But the boulevard is nearly empty when I get to it. I stand in front of a red brick building and smoke a cigarette as I wait for something. I'm here, but nobody else is. And quite frankly, I don't know what to do with myself now. I could take a walk along the very bottom of the ocean, I suppose.

I smoke two more cigarettes and now I think it's around eight. I haven't moved, but people are just starting to gather and wonder who I am. They all look at me like I'm a foreigner, though I look slightly like them with long hair, eyeliner and odd clothes.

It's got to be nine now, and I realize there's a lot of people different from me too. So many of them wear very bright clothes or very dark clothes. The men wear more makeup than the woman and have their hair dressed more, I guess you can say, exotically for a male. At least I think they're males.

The only items of clothing we share are cowboy boots and leather pants. And very few are wearing wide, flat brimmed fedoras like the one I wear atop my head. Otherwise, I look like a lost, out of town cowboy when really I look like a member of The Dogs D'Amour.

Oh, I get it now. There's lots of boys who dress like they're the fifth member of Poison when Look What The Cat Dragged in came out two years ago. Or maybe even the New York Dolls or Hanoi Rocks. Most of these people are glam. What am I? Uncategorized in these parts, and I can't complain. Well, for now.

There's also very dark people, people who look like they worship the devil in their spare time. They hang in small clusters of four to five people and have absolutely bizarre hair and piercings. They're not glam people or punks or thrashers or anything I've ever seen across the street from me before.

I smoke a cigarette as I walk, but I've got to keep it in my mouth constantly because in one hand I have my guitar case and in the other is my pillowcase. There's a liquor store just up ahead and I wonder if I should stop in and buy a fifth of my remedy. But I've got no hands to hold it, and I don't think I'm stopping now.