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He stood in front of me, in his tight blue shirt and dickies, looking at me with his innocent eyes. Crystal green. I could see right through them.

"We should go out," he said to me with a frustrated look on his face. "The rain smells so fresh."

I knew what he meant.

We got into his car and listened to Jawbreaker loudly. He told me about books he read, ones written by Kerouac. He suggested I read them, and I did.

I noticed a red notebook in between the seats. I think he noticed me staring at it, because he told me I could go ahead and read it. Poems and stories about places he had been and simple things in life.

"I have some new photos with me. Ones from Idaho and the tour I went on over summer. Took forever to get them developed. I think I'm just lazy." He smiled and let out a little laugh.

"Idaho?"

"Yea. I lived there all my life. I just moved here. I thought I told you. I've always dreamt of Hollywood and its lights."

I laughed. Hollywood isnt such a place to dream about, well, not to someone whose lived there, seen it. Dirty streets and old clubs. But, I did love it.

We parked at the coffee shop. He grabbed his photo album and we went inside. I bought us both some coffee. Three twenty-seven. The more expensive, the better. We sat in the back on this little, yellow couch and looked at LA Weekly. Talked about shows that were coming up.

He opened his photo album and started showing me his pictures. All were black and white. Most had faces in them.

"I love these ones," he said as he flipped a few pages. They were pictures of his old home and where he used to skate over the summer. Lots of smiling memories.

I asked him why he moved here in the first place. He seemed to have loved his home town.

All he replied with was, "I want to be famous."