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unattractive people can play rock music! It was a revelation, but until then, I was firmly committed to noise rock. We managed to book a few gigs at Al’s Bar, a small space on the ground floor of the American Hotel, a transient flophouse, that became known for hosting a lot of up-and-coming punk bands.
    Despite the fun and the excitement of playing in a group, I had one primary mission: to keep the cash coming in. And the way to do that was to stay in school. Any school. It didn’t really matter. Unlike Chris, who had real academic goals, I only cared about that monthly check, so I drank, did crystal meth, and used cocaine, all to the detriment of my studies. I loved the rock-and-roll party lifestyle and felt at home there. Drugs and alcohol were central to it. The Beatles, Dylan, and the Stones all endorsed drugs either outright or through their music, and it seemed to me that I was following some grand rock tradition. As a bonus, when I was high, I felt really good. I had fun. I was only at LACC for two semesters before I flunked out. The Social Security people contacted me.
    “Mr. Forrest, we see you’re not currently enrolled in classes at Los Angeles City College.”
    “No, no,” I said with practiced nonchalance. “I’ve been accepted at Cornell University. You know, the Cornell University. That’s why I’m not in those classes.”
    In the days before computers and the Internet, this kind of scam was incredibly easy to pull off. Records got lost all the time. The mail was slow. Any number of things before the advent of the Digital Age could slow things up or cause delays. And all you really needed was a little time to work the system. I had some family near Watkins Glen, New York, so I decided a short break from L.A. might be fun. An academic vacation of sorts. I took off for the East Coast with Sheree. I admit that I liked the prestige of being a Cornell undergraduate, even though, technically, I wasn’t. In fact, I hadn’t even bothered to apply. When I got to Watkins Glen, I went to the financial aid office on campus and put on a little show to keep the money coming in.
    “I’m not even registered here? How can that be? I’ve come all the way here from Los Angeles, and now I’m stranded here? You have all my paperwork. I sent it in months ago!”
    The poor clerk in the office looked stunned. “Well, this does happen from time to time. Here, let me get you started,” she said, and handed me some forms to fill out.
    I worked my hustle. I ran my hands through my hair in a pantomime of false despair. “This is so bad … so bad. What am I going to do? I just did this whole life-changing thing to move here. I left my home all the way across the country. My financial aid’s been transferred here!” I looked upset. I looked like I was about to cry. I thought maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea if I enrolled in some drama courses. That stuff could come in handy down the line given my increasing reliance on putting on these kinds of shows.
    I convinced her. She sighed and peered over the rims of her glasses. “Okay, okay,” she said. “Now that we’ve started the paperwork, everything will be fine. You can register.”
    I signed up for classes. I skipped drama, but I took on a full load of art and history courses at one of the most prestigious colleges in the country. That alone felt like a huge accomplishment. Of course, my hustle didn’t always work. This particular one only lasted for about a month. I had thought that once I had my foot in the door as a registered student, I’d just slip through the cracks and nobody would ever notice that I’d never even bothered to apply. They did notice.
    In an art history class one day, the tweedy professor cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Forrest, may I speak to you?”
    I gulped. “Sure.” It didn’t feel right.
    “You can’t attend this class. You need to go to the registrar’s office.”
    I trudged over and went inside, my typical morning