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In the turn of events—it was by that process that I happened on the cardboard sign on the porch of Mrs. Logan's boarding house on the afternoon of the Sunday before Christmas, me and a suitcase in the W. Hollywood sun. There was something about that sun, the slant on the pale stucco, the rainbow in the sprinklers, the outline of a dozen poinsettias. It built a shadow I had never been inside—cool, the walk paved and well-kept. I knocked on the screen door to walk inside.

Mrs. Logan was on the porch with a fan and a glass of lemonade. It was 84 that day. She mentioned the heat as I started in the door. And before I had caught the conversation she told me to sit down and loosen my tie, how silly I was to be dressed for a wedding; did I know someone down the hall? I accepted her offer of lemonade and sat down to regain my sense of circumstance.

She never mentioned the rates. The house rules were understood. I would have opened all the buttons on my shirt if my chest hadn't been blushing and bare. But I was playing the angles straight. I was too young to be another veteran of loneliness. This was something I was willing to take on.