Outside the house, many students and hipster-art-kids hung out, drinking. Some had glasses with mixed drinks. Some had beers. All their faces estaban azotao. Their eyes were glazed. Riverbed entered, trying to mooch, but inside, it was humid and he couldn’t see. Young kids he’d never seen at any punk rock show hopped to the Ramones in a room with a blaring big-screen TV. The TV only snowed and Riverbed told them to call, “Uno-ochociento-R-A-M-O-N-E-S.” The kids hopped and bobbed some more and Riverbed left the room to find Cleaver. She was outside and did not know what was in the drink she was drinking. No one she asked knew either. She looked beautiful as she stood alone staring at people’s faces, looking scared. She’d always been scared, and in the future would destroy herself because of fear—fear of being alone. She would never realize she was alone. Even in the arms of Riverbed, or lying on his chest watching Bukowski videos, or being choke-fucked by a scumbag, she was alone.