We sailed down to Malibu, listening to Steely Dan, and somehow found ourselves at the breakfast table of a roadside cafe near Pepperdine campus, seated next to Rod Steiger, who looked like he weighed in at least three-hundred pounds and who resonated a palpably heavier vibe. The actor was eating oatmeal and pitted prunes, talking about investment strategies with a pony-tailed freak whose hair was as long and gray and scraggly as his own.

Scott kept his sunglasses on for the duration of breakfast, fruitlessly trying to avoid eye contact with Steiger's breakfast companion, who had caught wind of our conspiracy and was smiling and nodding at us in an animated sort of way. At one point, Steiger became irritated by his friend's sudden inattention, and turned around stiffly and bellowed, "Well, why don't you just fucking ask them to eat with us?!"

It was then that Scott fled, walking out to his convertible Alfa Romeo Spider, on which he still owed over ten grand, leaving me behind to pick up the check. We said nothing to each other on the drive home.

I worked the swing shift that evening, riding the rail of chemical insomnia for over fifty hours before the switchmaster sought mercy on my soul. After that, I saw Scott less and less. But one night, he came thundering downstairs to tell me never to adjust the thermostat again; that he "felt like a baked turkey," and that he would control it for the household from then on.

Sometime the next week, he left a bitter note on the breakfast table, telling me to clean up the crumbs around the sink the next time I decided to make toast.

I saw him only once more -- after discovering his airbrush and canvasses carelessly packed in a box in the rafters of the carport -- and I remember the day well, because it was also the last time I ever walked through Dogshit Park. On a tip-off from Preston, I headed over to the storage sheds, then watched a sacred ritual turn sour: Scott shaking hands with Johnny.