The Boy Who Never Grew Up by David Handler

him.
    “And your fans? Don’t they care?”
    “Fuck them,” he snapped petulantly. He looked down Main. The sound of the Harley was very faint now. “Do you ride?” he asked me.
    “Occasionally.”
    “A few friends and me, we all ride up into Topanga Canyon. Do some beers and smokes and shooting.”
    “Shooting?”
    “Semiautomatics, man. I got this AK47 assault rifle that’s major. Totally. I got all kinds of shit—a Colt Sporter, a Tec-9. … They’re like this real power trip, y’know? Watermelons make the best targets.” He imitated the sound of an exploding melon. It wasn’t pretty. “Gore, man. Totally.”
    “Keeping semiautomatics is somewhat frowned upon by the law, isn’t it?” Certainly they would frown in the case of this particular puppy.
    “Name one fun thing that isn’t,” he dared me, defiantly.
    I let him have that one. “I’d like to interview you for Matthew’s book, Johnny. Where do I get in touch with you?”
    I got the vacant stare. “He wants me to talk to you?” he finally asked.
    “He does.”
    “It’s okay then. If Matthew says so.”
    I could hear the motorcycle again. Matthew was on his way back.
    “Where do I get in touch with you, Johnny?” I repeated.
    He tossed his cigarette aside. “I really don’t like being tied down to any schedule or place, man.”
    “I see.” He was starting to get on my nerves. Bright, he wasn’t. He made Matt Dillon look like John Kenneth Galbraith. Not that he wasn’t trying. He was trying real hard—to be tough and nasty and bad. But it was all pose. He was a rebel without a clue, a child star, and if there’s a more fucked-up brand of creature on earth, I’ve yet to come across it. True, he had played Badger convincingly as a wide-eyed kid. But now Matthew was expecting him to play him as an adult—as a famous director who’s going through a serious life crisis, no less. Was Johnny capable of this? I wondered. “How do I contact you, Johnny?” I said, trying it a little louder and a lot slower.
    He went bratty on me. “Through my agency, man,” he sneered. “How do you think?”
    “Not as well as I once did,” I confessed. “But I try not to let it get me down.”
    He tossed his hair and stared at me. “Huh?”
    “Forget it.”
    Matthew came roaring back up Main Street. Pulled up in front of us, revved the Fat Boy a couple of times, and shut it off. “I want one,” he declared, patting it.
    “Take it,” Johnny offered. “It’s yours.”
    “I don’t want yours, doofus.” Matthew laughed. “I’ll get my own.”
    Johnny swiped at his nose with the back of his hand. “Could I maybe talk to you a second, Matthew?”
    “Sure, Johnny.” Matthew climbed off of the bike. “What’s up?”
    Johnny glanced over at me uneasily.
    “I’ll disappear,” I suggested.
    “No, don’t,” Matthew said quickly. “C’mon, Johnny. We’ll take a walk. Just the two of us.” He put his arm around him, and they started off together down the sidewalk. “Something bothering you?”
    “I’m going through some weird shit,” Johnny said, “and I’m not sure what my attitude’s supposed to be …”
    They were out of earshot after that. I sat back down on the steps and looked at Lulu and patted the step next to me. It was time for our own little heart-to-heart. Sullenly, she ambled over to me and sat with a grunt.
    “Now look,” I said firmly. “Just because Matthew said you have star potential doesn’t mean you do. That’s just the way people talk out here. Movie babble. Acting happens to be a horrible life. You’ll spend most of your time dragging your tired bones from one audition to the next, getting rejection after rejection. There’s thousands of other dogs out there, all of them trying to paw their way to the top. And even if you do make it, it doesn’t last. Where is Mike the Dog now, huh? Where is Benji?”
    She wasn’t listening to me. She had the bug. There’s no getting through to them when they