CHAPTER TEN
He gets out at the Boulevard Hotel. It always reminds him of the James Dean poster, Boulevard of Broken Dreams. He crosses always-busy William Street, zigging and zagging
through the cars, enjoying it stupidly. He turns into Bourke Street; there it is about ten houses along. Small chaotic front-yard full of weeds, an old rusted bike, the front porch is rotted wood. The windows above the porch boarded up. He tries the wooden front door, doesn’t budge. Goes to the first window hoping his foot doesn’t go through the porch. The board in the window swings open like it’s on hinges. He sticks his head through. Dark, a bitter smell, like bad BO or piss or something. There are three mattresses on the floor. One occupied by someone in a sleeping bag, snoring. Not the Aboriginal boy, to
